Cube 19

The End of Cube 19

2006-01-31T21:22:00.000-08:00

The coattails of free lunches, pressed flesh and good-byes ended late this afternoon. All through the office my co-workers sent me off with mounds of encouragement and confidence.

Today was my last day in Cube 19

Last week I signed an internal job offer for an outside position in San Diego and my first day is tomorrow.

The promotion means an end to wardrobe malfunctions, cube Nerf football, cone shuttle drills, putting contests and olive discussions. Spaghetti pot luck dramas and desk thefts have no impact on me.

The first promotion yields a raise, a cell phone, an expense card and a laptop. I’ve graduated from casual to formal business attire. Every day I must wear a coat, tie and shoes that hurt. I’m no longer a desk jockey that reports eight hours a day.

This is big time.

I always wanted to get out of Cube 19. Earlier this month I turned down a Texas transfer for monetary reasons. For 30 months I hacked through the branch, the man, the quotas and the computer systems. The experience would not be shortchanged and I gambled for the next open slot.

The promotion is welcomed but bittersweet. I signed a lease and am set to move next week. My co-workers loved my antics and some of them are renegade readers. Cube 19 was my first job out of school and was a harsh reality slap. Together we have lot of fond memories but I must move on.

This blog was meant as a humor release for me. It took a couple cracks at tracking down its identity because it was never to be a glorified diary. The readers could take pleasure in seeing the hardships of a struggling young professional fighting the corporate world metamorphosis.

But there is no time for frivolous rants, games or blogs. I am now one step closer to the man on the ladder.

Tomorrow marks the new segment of my life. I amnever going back to college or to frat boy mischief. My life now is my job. I am a slave to the paycheck and a sellout with no soul.

And I’m fine with all of that.

Cube 19, out.

The Unlisted Boss

2006-01-03T18:15:00.000-08:00

The boss oversees my daily activities. She is the next rung on the corporate ladder that separates me and the new man.

The company organization chart is our Bible and is easily accessible to all employees who want to check out the pecking order.

But there is a major flaw.

The building elevator is not listed above me.

The cube is on the top floor, the eighth one, of a large building that houses over 500 employees. In the first month of the new digs I’ve been introduced to the unlisted boss.

Four elevators roam throughout the floors, meaning there is always a wait between one to two minutes. At least once a day I miss one due to timing issues or it is filled to maximum capacity.

Every morning I must wait a least a minute for one of the four elevators to make it down. Then I cram into the box with a few other co-workers, shuffle towards the back of it and wait for everyone to clear out.

My commute time on each trip averages between one to three minutes depending on traffic behavior. I comb the top and bottom of the building and am subject to inter-floor travels (I visit at least three others before I reach mine).

During the trip the elevator turns into a greenhouse as body heat bakes the aromas of take-out food, heavy perfume, putrid hair gel and poor hygiene. I nearly faint and stumble onto my floor.

“Benders” annoy me the most. These are people who require extra assistance or care to bend around their needs at others’ cost. We are all headed to work; there’s no need to bring an armload of stuff that needs someone else to punch your floor. The desk with a landline will be reached in two minutes so the cell phone conversation can resume later.

Then there are the “loafers”, who have business on an adjacent floor but refuse to use the stairs. These people pick up the ride in the middle of the building and take their spot directly in front of the doors clutching a dollar bill and ready to pounce on the different vending machine (The fifth floor has diet coke and Dasani bottled water, unlike the sixth floor which has diet Pepsi and Arrowhead bottled water).

Somehow a separate culture embedded itself among these elevators. If a co-worker is at least 10 steps from the entrance the “open door” button must be held as a sign of common courtesy. Even if I’ve waited three minutes for the arrival, I must hang for an additional 15 seconds to prevent becoming a labeled jackass.

Small talk usually ensues with pointless comments. People seem compelled to say something since we’re forced to share 48 square feet. Anything (jackets, food, clothing, rain droplets, coffee, me pressing the 8th floor button) is eligible for comment and the recipient must volley a return.

To prevent these chats I wear my sunglasses through the building. No one wants to call out Joe Cool in the back.

During our trip, those not engaged in conversation must stare at the floor lineup monitoring the crawl. I guess there’s nothing else to entertain us because eye contact generally sparks conversation.

All because the new boss directly imposes these regulations.

Outside the Office

2005-12-20T17:42:00.000-08:00

Time spent away from the office is good. It is extremely rare during an outside event to wish I was in the Cube. Therefore all activities (like teeth cleanings or training classes) are better than work.

So goes the personal coined saying, “Any day out of the office is a good one.”

But what happens on those off days that include weekend, vacation or sick days?

The main goal is to strip any remembrance of the weekday job. I go out of the way to do so by these self imposed rules.

Time does not exist during outside life. I refuse to don a watch and I keep track of the day based on sunlight. My apartment is devoid of clocks that pushes guests on the brink of insanity. There is no alarm on the weekend to allow a possible but welcomed oversleep. (Slept through the first quarter of Cowboys/Giants; wish I kept on through that one.)

Personal hygiene takes a nosedive because there is no routine on idle days. The morning shower, the oral brush, the hair product and the deodorant are all scrapped in favor of 20 more minutes of television, sleep or anything else.

Bed-head is strongly encouraged and sported at 24 Hour Fitness (to much female reaction) for weekend workouts. If there a semi-important activity, a hat and Listerine are a quick fix. Unfortunately this rule is broken for all dates with the lady.

Boxers are not worn because undergarment signifies work attire. This cuts down laundry.

The bed is made every off day. This isn’t a daily chore for time-saving measures. Out of spite I tuck in the sheets and fluff the pillows. Take that, angry new director man.

A massive breakfast is consumed. Omelets, breakfast burritos, pancakes, Belgian waffles or hash browns fuel me for the day’s events. These are consumed on the coffee table in front of the morning slate of sports.

Sandwiches are banned. I eat four of them a week while watching firefighter amateur hockey league games.

Laundry or grocery store runs are prohibited. These two combine to over three hours of work and I can’t devout precious time to them. Weekends with out boxers and sandwiches sponsor this rule.

“It’s 5 p.m. somewhere” meaning cocktail hour reigns. Alcohol encourages rebellious behavior plus it multiplies the fun factor.

Sunday evening fun is a must to combat the weekend blues. When 2 p.m. rolls around I used get depressed about starting the new week. Now I look forward to the evening because I renamed it “Movie and Gin Night.”

Haggard

2005-12-16T13:35:00.000-08:00

My head hurts. The computer monitor sways a little. The Jack In the Box breakfast burrito isn’t sitting well and I have a severe case of cotton mouth.

I ditched the branch PC party in favor of my lady’s company gathering at the Ritz Carlton hotel last night. It had a free open wet bar, something much needed after this treacherous week.

Today’s wardrobe malfunction: no company badge, no lunch, a splitting headache, dehydration, dragon breath, remnants of last night’s hair product, nausea and leg cramps.

And I'm rolling commando.

Office Scrooge

2005-12-15T14:28:00.000-08:00

My office bitterness peaks around the holiday season. I don’t have anything against the holidays; I absolutely refuse to embrace the imported office culture.

All forms of holiday cheer (seasonal cell phone ringers, audio emails, red or green candy, posted cube cards or winter outfits) annoy me. These people drag in the spirit to workforce that yields dire consequences for failure to embrace it.

I hate this time of year.

My reluctance to participate is a lightning rod for peer criticism. Unfortunately it melds with my bitterness and I become the office Scrooge all month. It’s a tough job to be the hate man but I have a big problem with imposed office activities.

I’m here to earn money, not shed it. (This is why I hope the Anaheim City council dies from monoxide poisoning.) So when our team hosts a secret Santa drawing, I remove my name and head to the bathroom. No one disturbs me there.

As the days pass, small gifts pop up on my desk in the mornings. A few co-workers hand out office-wide presents and buzz around the cubes for praise:

“Thank you. This $5 Starbucks card is completely worth my time to stand in the five minute line for a small latte that adds 10 more minutes to my commute.”

“How kind of you to think of me with this $10 Blockbuster card that doesn’t apply to the newly released rental category.”

“Your so thoughtful for this mug of candy. It must have taken a lot of time to scoop out a handful from the Costco supply on your desk.”

No, I don’t have any reciprocating presents. Yes, I am the Grinch.

(Today’s wardrobe malfunction: forgot the packed lunch. Wish I had some Clorox and a pint glass.)

Our team has a small two-foot tree setup outside my cube due to space needs. It’s my job to turn off the lights every day when I leave. Now I can’t covertly sneak out.

It’s an innocent tree but I can’t resist an opportunity to spread around my crummy mood. “It’s a PC tree,” I inform the admirers. “We don’t know what everyone does on the 25th so we have to be politically correct.”

Tonight is our office “PC” party and I won’t be in attendance. I have big problems with doling out $30 to eat a re-heated burger and to wash it down with two Miller Lites. My failure to RSVP the day after Thanksgiving warrants month-long undercuts.

Last year I gutted out the cash but refused to drag along a date for an additional $30. I didn’t want her to endure the small talk and inside jokes. The party ended with a YMCA performance by the mangers in assigned costumes.

Never again.

The verdict is in

2005-12-13T12:48:00.000-08:00

Inbound call 15 minutes before release time yesterday and it’s the boss in need of a diet Coke from the machine three floors below.

The verdict is in. This is bad.

Calls from the boss at the end of the are never good. Especially when she wants to talk on a different floor.

We meet at the elevator and small talk follows during the wait. If it was good news she would have informed me at my cube in public. But since it’s the two of us in a non-office or conference room setting, here comes the tidal wave.

“At least you’re still on my team,” she says, trailing off with a forced smile. I grimace and brace the support bar while the elevator slides down three floors. It might as well continue down to Hades.

The box stops and we shuffle towards the Plexiglas vending machine.

“All the managers met with the director and we sifted through the applicants and positions. Even though everyone had great things to say about you and your accomplishments, your age was discussed.”

The Diet Coke thuds in the tray, just like my heart in my shoes.

“And the director said that you’re just too green to for the outside position. The others had at least some other outside sales experience.”

“Too green,” I said. “How was I supposed to get that when I’m confined to my desk all day? This is my first job out of college. I asked you several times throughout the last 18 months to go out of the office but I was denied every time.”

“I know,” she said. “He just wanted to go with those with the experience. He said he liked you and thought you have a lot of potential.”

She popped the can and took a nervous sip.

“I told him that you were denied by paperwork four months ago; that you could do the job; that you constantly led the team and that I had a big problem with this decision. I also said that you would be crushed. Just…don’t get down on yourself. If there’s another opening I’m sure you’ll get it."

She paused to drain some more cola.

“I wanted to tell you privately so that when the other filled positions are reveled tomorrow, you will know why you weren’t picked even though you’re better than some of those people.”

Oh yea? Better than some of those people? How could one-dimensional sucks-ups who barely scrape by every month and shield off all possible upper management conformation have an edge over me?

I turned back to the vending machine and sighed.

I licked my lips.

My jaw clenched.

Suddenly, I power kicked the center of the Plexiglas and broke through it. My ankle was buried in the machine and I pulled it out with both hands as six cans rattled out of the tray.

My boss dropped the coke and her eyes widened.

“Too young, huh,” I said as I scooped up the cold bullets.

“Oh my god, you’ve gone postal,” she screamed as she ran towards the emergency exit.

I tried to sprint after her but didn’t get any traction due to the shatter plastic pieces that littered the carpet.

“Do you know what the best part of youth is,” I yelled at her while she neared the door.

My shoes finally gripped and I made two long strides after her.

“No arthritis,” I exclaimed. Then I winged a 12 oz. coke at her that clanged off the metal door frame.

She frantically pawed at the doorknob as I reloaded.

Another can missed wide left. She got the door open as another can whistled over her head. A third one embeded itself in the plaster wall as the door closed behind her.

I dropped the cans, flew open the door and bounded up the stairwell after her. My dress shirt snagged and ripped on the corner of a rail. I fell down face-first and rolled down a few steps.

A deep gash on my right temple streamed blood down my face as I tore off the rest of my dress and under shirt.

“I know your angry but you've got to calm down,” the boss shrieked as she fumbled up another flight in her heels.

She was two flights ahead of me but I leapt up the stairs four at a time. She slipped through our top floor entrance as I rounded the final corner towards the final six steps.

“Someone call security,” she yelled as I yanked the door open onto our floor. She ran around the corner and disappeared through the cubes.

I marched straight through the hall with thick blood rivers over my right eye and cheek that dripped off my chin.

My co-workers stared at me. I passed by a filing cabinet, picked up the large glass vase with a thick bouquet of flowers and smashed it against the wall.

“It was too green,” I explained. I continued along the filing cabinet and shoved a fax machine off it. The fax machine crashed on the floor as the ink cartridge bounded out from it.

“What’s gotten into you?” a female co-worker said

“Shut the hell up, Marie Callender,” I answered. “Be glad your crows feet yielded you an outside position.”

I reached my cube and tossed my chair over a row of cubes. Then I ripped the Nortel phone from the jack and slammed it two-handed into the trash can. The phone split into several pieces.
“Security, floor nine!” yelled a breathless male co-worker into his cell phone.

“Can’t do my desk job without my computer,” I said as I hurled my monitor through the eighth floor window.

Several male co-workers surrounded the cube to contain me but I kicked my shoes at them, jumped on my desk and hopped over the wall onto a woman’s desk. She screamed and fell over as I landed next to her. I dashed down the row towards the exit.

I motored down the stairs with a few-co-workers chasing me. My temple throbbed and blood crusted over my right eye. As I rounded another stair segment I noticed I had several gashes on my arm and chest. My lungs burned as I hopped down the final flight and pushed through the exit on the ground floor.

Two surprised security guards dropped their walkie-talkies and ran towards me.

“Stop right there, chief,” one yelled.

I panicked as I scanned around for a weapon. I reached for a nearby iron velvet rope post and hurled it at their knees. The post skipped off the marble floor and into their shins. They fell to the ground in pain as I headed towards the main entrance.

As I passed by the security desk, I pulled down a large Christmas bowl full of candy off the marble shelf. It broke and the candy scattered on the floor behind me.

“I HATE THIS PLACE,” I yelled as I ran through the main exit, down the street in my socks and business slacks.

Hail Mary

2005-12-06T21:51:00.000-08:00

The new man, my boss and another manager will interview me for a few open positions Thursday.

I’m up against seven other people for multiple slots which means a finish in the top tier means a new job.

Oh please, let me out of here.

I strolled over to the boss’ new digs and started some small talk today. However she knew I was in need of a scouting report before the big day.

The new man has a pretty cool rep and won’t keep us tied to the stake 40 hours a week. He is an amiable guy, extremely professional but maintains a low-key environment.

I can do this.

We slowly waded towards the meat of the interview. She briefed me on duties, future adaptation and presentation. She also said to relax because her presence would ease any tension.

Anything else?

“If I were you I would not mention throwing footballs in the office,” she said. “Also, putting golf balls the length of the floor into my sandaled feet probably wouldn’t be a smart topic of conversation for you.”

Uh, o.k.

“And mentioning your clutch office free-throw shooting ability wouldn’t be smart.”

“Be sure to leave out those lengthy over the desk sports debates with a few male members of my team,” said the other ex-office manger over the shared cube wall.

Well it was more like a fireside chat.

“Except for the part it was more like 20 minutes, twice a day, for the last year,” she said.

Hmmm, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Also, don’t mention that you’re a team player,” the boss continued. “Because you aren’t attending the office Christmas party next week.”

“Oh, don’t mention olives either,” said the other manger over the wall again, referring to my code word for boobs.

“If you steer clear of those topics, I’m sure our new director will like you and the job is yours,” said the boss with an evil smile.

I have no shot.

Silent alarm pandemonium

2005-12-05T13:26:00.000-08:00

At the top of the personal fear list ranks the boogeyman, spiders, a plane crash and the Oxygen channel.

However they all fall to the ultimate: oversleeping the work alarm.

Throughout the day I never encounter the other fears. It’s a little unlikely a spider will cross my path or I might wind up on Oh! during my television surf.

But each night before I go to bed I set the alarm and pray I wake up in time. When the impromptu catastrophe of missing the waking time hits I am completely unprepared and liable for poor decisions or lame excuses.

Setting the cell phone alarm is extremely tough for me to grasp. Sometimes I'll mistkenly set an evening time. Other times I left the ringer on silent or forget to hit “enable” to finalize the setting.

These are culminate in an ugly 50 minutes before work that induce three awful phases.

(For instance today I overslept an hour because “enable” wasn’t pressed. You want fear? I was riding a ski lift backwards in Colorado chatting with an instructor from Canberra about cigars and eyeglasses when I asked her about the alaram whereabouts. I then awoke with a pulse to the likes of a Hitchcock movie.)

Phase one, shower and dress- Errors are committed with horrific blunders like a dress shirt water marks as the result of a shortchanged towel dry or a black shoes/brown pants parity. It’s a miracle if the lunch or workout bag make it to the car.

Phase two, the freeway commute. I'm late and at the mercy of spontaneous Southern California traffic. Rapid lane changes and speeding breed accident dangers. Meanwhile I eye the clock every 30 seconds and debate the cube sneak sucess probablity or if it's surrender time to the boss via cell phone.

Today’s wardrobe malfunction: Two separate Listerine sessions were no match for dragon breath. Wait until the post-lunch batch.

Phase three, no acceptable excuse- These never work for a bachelor in his mid-20’s becausehave no additional responsibilities (no spouse, no kids and no carpool) so nothing works. I’ve run out friends that need a ride to the airport and I’ve had three dentist and two doctor visits in the past six months.

Women seem to squirm out of tardies with personal issues in a crying meltdown. For me, I’m toast. (Plus an unshaven faces doesn’t help my cause.) Getting myself to work is a daily miracle

My plane going down in a gigantic mushroom cloud? Sorry, it's no match for daily silent alarm.

Nice Cones

2005-12-01T22:56:00.000-08:00

The second and final phase of the office move is set for tomorrow at 5 p.m. I found a group of cones left by the packing crew from Tuesday night and setup a traffic diversion in front of the Cube 19 entrance before I left for the day on Wednesday.

2005-12-01T22:35:00.000-08:00

The cones greeted me inside Cube 19 when I arrived to work. The reroute was removed from the entrance in obvious haste earlier this morning

I reconstructed the diversion in front of the cube to give me some breathing room. However throughout the next few hours other co-workers gleefully kicked the cones into the cube and ran off cackling.

These are people who spend time on the E! channel.

Boredom broke through this afternoon and the cones were removed for starting lineup announcements. In front of Cube 19, I was armed with a mega-phone to introduce my co-workers as they passed by:

(my boss) - "At five-foot-two with the defensive presence of a scorpion who hails from Buffalo, New York...... Rachee-l Rom-el-stein!"

(jerk who kicked over my cones) -"At five-foot-eleven who enjoys selling poisonous candy to elementary girls from La Habra, California,...........Ray-ford Helllll-ah-men!"

(Border borther) - "Es es de Oxaca, Mexico......... el diablo con un cuchillo......Ce-sar Mon-te-negrooooo!"

2005-12-01T22:26:00.000-08:00

After the lineup, it was time for an impromtu office combine.

A six pack of cubes were removed two weeks ago in phase one of the office move and left me more than enough room to setup a diagnoal, backwards agility drill (is this the shuttle drill?)

A cubemate agreed (who named himself Border Brother) to compete against me (Smokefeather) in three time trials. We selected an offical who recorded the times with an Ironman.

The results:

Border Brother
First Heat - 6.86 Second Heat - 6.96 Third Heat - 6.43

Smokefeather
First Heat - 6.94 Second Heat - 7.04 Third heat 6.82

BIG NEWS

2005-12-01T09:17:00.000-08:00

The man announced his retirement today effective January 3, 2006.

DO THE KENNY GANT SHARK!!

Cube 29 sucks already

2005-11-30T15:42:00.000-08:00

Three days left in Cube 19 and I dread the move because Cube 29 made the bad list today.

There is no free parking.

The new building likens to the University of Southern California campus: a nice area surrounded by rough city life. Although free parking is only a few blocks away, the walk through some dark alleys to the island is not worth it.

Meanwhile the city of Anaheim capitalizes on the hardship and charges $47.51 a month per space.

I hope the bird flu ravages the city council.

Pay to park my car?! To go to work? The paycheck can’t take any more hits; California state income tax pillages enough from this Texan. (I grew up without state income tax.)

The monthly fee is a partial tax deduction but the city will suck $300 out of me. It could be worse, if I paid for the fee without the deduction I would be out $540.

Or there could be free parking (like right now) and I wouldn’t have this problem.

Even with the savings plan I will pay $1.25 a day for my space. Combine that with a gallon of gas for transit at $2.50, I now have a $3.75 daily office cover charge.

Cube 19 is now an official hater of the city of Anaheim. I’m glad Arizona alumnus and Angel owner Arte Moreno changed the team name to Los Angeles. I’m glad Clippers owner Donald Sterling spurned Arrowhead Pond and re-termed the Staples Center lease. I’m glad Disneyland refuses to include the city in advertisements. “Of Anaheim” will never escape these lips.

Today’s wardrobe malfunction: still on Maui time and overslept the alarm. The mistake cost me breakfast.

Additionally the parking garage causes slew of problems. Entrance and exit lines add 10 additional commute minutes. Space availability stripes me of a daily independent choice. Tight spaces and careless outside drivers presents extra cautionary measures.

Lunches must change. It’s creepy to see one dining in a garage car. Midday naps will cease because tight floors magnify all sounds and rumble with traffic.

A new frustration tactic is under construction. The walks will expire at the end of the week because all eight glass floors view the co-workers’ office shuttle. Quick afternoon errands and Jamba juice runs are dead. The new parking pass adds more responsibility.

Cube 19 is on the clock but Cube 29 will bring more problems.

This time last week I was (fill in blank) game

2005-11-29T11:56:00.000-08:00

Day two in the cube and I’m fully caught up after a week absence. The Maui vacation was exactly what I needed to recharge my work drive but the emotional crash upon return hurts.

It hurts bad.

In an effort to curb the reality slam I follow a 15 minute “Cube Sweep” in the waning moments before the vacation. The daily calendar is updated to the date of my return, the side clock is turned off and set to the original morning start time and the desk is completely purged of old trip paper documents.

When I arrive on Monday morning, I want the desk stale, lifeless and devoid of vacation residue.

During the nine day Maui trip I refused to think about Cube 19. With sunsets like the above, I purposely refuse to entertain my other office haunts:

- the progress of the personal career
- women’s capris – they aren’t pants, shorts or skirts, is it necessary to install a separate category for this senseless clothing item? Ranger second baseman Alfonso Soriano technically wears pants on his knees with high socks, but he is still wearing pants.
- CBS sports presentations
- The man
- Overwhelming Nick and Jessica coverage – They both are worthless, I don’t need daily updates on their marital status
- The Rangers’ scouting bastards who reported A’s pitcher and future Cy Young winner Barry Zito did not have a lively fastball and therefore passed on drafting him

Yes, time away is good. In fact, time away in Maui is always good. Instead of four carpet walls I enjoy other other great views.

Today’s wardrobe malfunction: still on Maui time, overslept the alarm and in a mad scramble to the car, forgot the packed lunch. More salt is in the wound because I made a special trip to the grocery store last night.

Meanwhile, the cube piles up dated emails and voicemails that need attention upon arrival. Each of these have a time stamp from last week and despite my efforts to eliminate the, “this time last week I was (fill in blank)” game I still play it.

Examples –

Email from boss on Monday that the team isn’t performing well at 11 a.m. – Enjoying a big breakfast buffet and headed to Michigan State/Chaminade 10 minutes later.

Voicemail about some urgent matter on Tuesday at 4 p.m. – In line at Lahaina Civic Center with doctored Coke and getting pictures with surfer Santa moments before Kansas/Arkansas.

Voicemail outlined next week’s office move on Wednesday at 5 p.m. – kicking it with Dad and a few locals in the parking lot with beers after Arizona’s loss to MSU in overtime

Automated office news email on Friday at 1:30 p.m. – approximately 30 feet underwater chilling with a few turtles in my first scuba dive

If only I could go back.

The Funeral

2005-11-17T21:14:00.000-08:00

Cube 19 Stress Bracelet
2004-2005

Two O’clock Thursday, November Seventeen, Two Thousand Five.
Somewhere in a parking lot near Cube 19

Introductory seating music.
Eveanescence – My Immortal

Congregational musical mourn:
Hymnal page 57 – Amazing Grace

Circle of life reading - Actress Penelope Cruz
Life is a passage through time. At each individual stage we are thought lessons that will aid us during our soul exploration. We have no idea what lies beyond us but our time spent on Earth is meant for preparation.

Laugh, cry, joy and hurt. These are the few of the unlisted emotions we independently experience on a daily level. Those we encounter, we choose to either love or hate. Those we love nurture our spirit. Those we hate model our survival.
The un-known does not reveal itself but plucks us. We do not fear it but embrace the opportunity. Moments like these are nothing short of a galaxy blink. With heavy hearts we rebuild each other. We will move on.
We will rebuild.

Congregational silence for personal reflection.

Musical interlude
Outkast – Hold On, Be Strong

Haiku reading – Former Texas Ranger third baseman Steve Buechele
Stars dot blackness and cold
Earth crawls towards redemption cleansing of souls.
Sun pierces land to fetilize
Grow, learn, live, mate , prosper, linger, die
Sun leaves as darkness smotheress Earth again.

Congregational silence for personal reflection.

Congregational redemption
Weezer – My Name is Jonas

Closing passage dedicated to the deceased– Cube 19 co-habitat
Together we fought through deep anguish. We toiled every day and we bonded. We used each other for strength and together we accomplished more than we believed.
You prepared me for this final test. I am now able to report completely on my own. When times arise I will think of those lessons and burn for success.
And now may you rest in peace.

Closing departure music
Pixes – Where is My Mind

Bracelet Obituary

2005-11-17T19:40:00.000-08:00

A seasoned member of Cube 19 died of natural causes today.

The right-hand stress bracelet ran out of juice and removed itself from me.

The Q-Ray was 13 months old.

The first year of Cube 19 was a difficult one. I suffered deep depression and stress. During the work hours the work screws severally hampered my off-field activities due to low energy and a beaten spirit.

Despite the full year in the work force, I hadn’t adequately adjusted between corporate and pleasure life. Cube 19 tormented me at home. Throughout the first employment year I averaged about five hours sleep due to high stress.

No one in the office knew about me slipping into this well. Everyday I made sure to mask a bleak attitude. However these emotions erupted at 5:30 p.m. and infected everyone outside of the office.

After college I moved into a house with two other guys who were in their 30s. It was a tough adjustment to hang with these guys because everyone had construed interests. In the glory days I’d return from class, grab a case a beer and head over to a pal’s house to watch that night’s sports lineup. Instead at this place the television was regulated for other uses and my dish, laundry and bathroom habits were groomed to the landlord’s preference.

Meanwhile at work the noose tightened. The first few weeks the man stopped by the cube to exclusively ask about the personal inbound sales accomplishments. A mumbled lie habitually escaped me to his displeasure. Then I raced out to the car to buy me 20 minutes of solitude.

My doctor told me I suffered from high stress. (Well, duh!) I joined a gym, shoved away the work and bought the supposed bracelet healer. When I encountered problems, the bracelet would handle it.

Together the bracelet and I endure comedy sizzles. Yes, the bracelet was actually to reduce stress. Yes, I’m proud enough to wear it. No, I’m not sure if it works. No, I don’t think it is gay. No, I’m not gay.

A shakeup to the after-hours routine included a workout, a steam room and two showers. Vanilla candle aroma spread itself through my wing of the house after dinner. At least once a month I vacationed outside the state to allow additional recovery time.

Now I’ve matured a little. The work intensity is no longer a problem. I live by myself and keep my sanity with uncensored television hours.

The bracelet is not needed. The bracelet is dead.

Note to readers: The author is on bereavement leave. He is mourning the loss of the cheap jewelry in a tropical climate for ten days.

Perfect Parking Spot

2005-11-15T23:11:00.000-08:00

The office building is one of five others. Each building is surrounded by a large parking lot with spaces that outnumber the employees four to one.

Except for this employee.

Throughout my young corporate career I refuse to park in my building’s lot. The self-assigned space is crucial towards my daily mental capacity. As I cross onto company property lot everyday I envision entering a three-dimensional laser cube with two guards trolling on top of the building wielding Texas-sized shot guns.

My job may dictate my pay scale, my work or vacation time and my lunch hour, but I control my parking space. I win this round in the power struggle.

My original parking space was a four minute stroll because of a prime shade spot. However this presented a problem for three months on tardy days.

The man works at least two days a week in this office. He always approaches the door on time but scans the lot before en enters the front door. Two minutes later he passes my cube en route to his office.

The hunt was on those tardy days. As I pulled into my space 10 minutes late I saw 20 yards out from the door. I sprinted across three lots and ducked behind a car to miss his lot scan. Then as he disappeared through the building door, I fled up the stairwell, through the office back door and dove into the cube.

A quick computer login and a breath hold to conceal the pants followed while upon his approached.

“Morning,” he said over his shoulder.

“Morning sir,” I meekly leaked from my oxygen starved lungs after my 100 yard dash while I brushed off forehead perspiration.

This wouldn’t work. I found another shade spot in an adjacent with half walk time. Today’s wardrobe malfunction: laundry caught up with me and I’m out of solid white undershirts. I’m wearing a SMU Mustang shirt inside out to conceal the blue script.

Besides shade, my self choice spce serves me decompression from high octane work moments. One time I fell into a heated 10 minute phone discussion and later punctuated the end with a receiver slam accompanied by a loud expletive. A week later I kicked my chair onto the desk and chewed out my computer.

To control these outbursts I evacuated Cube 19. A small trip off site from the trollmen dissipates my anger. If desperate times arise, I lock myself in the car, roll up the windows and punch out the steering wheel. It’s always the wheel’s fault.

These tantrums lasted only six months. Today I’m a little more mature and little more seasoned to handle the pressures. Even though it’s rare I leave in a huff, the car still resides in the shade with my peace.

I hate Philly: Part Deux

2005-11-13T22:32:00.000-08:00

http://phillysucks.com

It's an actual Phiiladelphia fan but I give him props for the website name. This is an exmaple how Philly fans are the only ones allowed to both love and hate thier teams.

Least we forget these pussies allowed the damn British to burn down our capital and move to D.C.

GO COWBOYS!!

Cube 19 is now on the clock

2005-11-12T22:58:00.000-08:00

Cube 19 is on the clock. I mean it. The office is moving to a new location. The comapny wants to consolidate all locations under owned property and currently our office rents the space.

Cube 19 will die by the end of the month.

I deeply regret the move. I'm assigned to space 29 at a different location but it's not the same. I'll be positioned next to the winodw buried deep within the cubes and unable to socialize.

In contrast Cube 19 was a prime real estate spot near a high traffic zone which allowed me to befriend the entire office.

Remember that INDV credit in school? Those with dorm rooms near the stairs and bathroom as opposed to those housed in the middle were the pimps of the floor. The rule applies to Cube 19.

The move was announcd in the summer but I falied to relay the change. Cube 19 is my baby. We endure daily hardships. Even though I post rants and daily protests, I am unable to fully caputre everything.

Cube 19 has been right there with me.

Cube 29 could be a promotion. It is a 10 spaces greater and this may mean an upward trend within Corporate America. But will Cube 29 fully understand my pain? Will it mourn with me the loss of college life? Could Cube 29 ever coddle my spinlessness?

Cube 29 will never undrestand me. It is another platform I've been shoved onto without a personal request. Cube 19 extended me a little latitude, listened to my complaints, allowed me to kick around my chair during frustration times and received my expression punches on the man-made walls. The space embraced my transition from kid to adult.

I doubt Cube 29 will ever be able to provide for me.

Cube 19 has been there for me every day for the past two plus years. This is why I am pleased to announce that there will be a full funeral program and ceremony documantation on the day of final occupancy.

I've been entirely greatful for the opportunity given to me by Cube 19. Together we saved a little dough, visited the country and built a career. We constructed this satire.

Me and Cube 19, we have ESP. The following is a special message sent especially to Cube 19:

(utter slince follows with me staring at the screen for 20 seconds)

..........................................................

(Sponsored by the Dennis Hopper Nike Commercial.)

Cube 19 is dying and throughout the next few weeks I will be sure to share our unpublished memories. Together we built life on the West Coast and sent me into a bacherlorhood.

A tear for Cube 19.

Gen Y's Battle

2005-11-07T22:09:00.000-08:00

Props to the Sis. Click on the title.

In charge for a week

2005-11-07T21:57:00.000-08:00

The Boss is on vacation this week but I unfortunately I have to be on good behavior.

Usually when she’s out of the office I play out my repertoire of cube Nerf football followed by a 90 minute lunch intermission. In the afternoon I enjoy an off-site ice cream run and end with a back door 4:30 p.m. sneak-out.

No fun for me this week, the boss left me in charge.

Everyone else on the team has scheduled time off this week except me. Therefore I won the job by default with muffled snickers.

I can’t do any real damage this week due to the small time constraint. It’s like she shifted the job into neutral and trusted me not to drive off the road.

The morning kicks off and we’re a man down. A gal needs the day to fight flu. Plausible, but I’ve played the Monday morning sickness card to my favor too (hmm, not since last year…….interesting)

Things are rolling smoothly through the morning until I’m forced to jump on a large financial dispute. After I haggle with the accountant, I then dial up a northern manager we exchanged heated words over the application of fault. Division was the compromise.

Inbound call from a side boss (who monitors branch numbers) notes our team’s lack of participation on a foolish report. I email the bad news and receive a few drive-by gripes.

Then it’s noon, the real piss time of this shoddy job.

Everyday each manager leaves a voicemail with the team’s morning numbers. We register zero; I have metal rod shoved in my ass during a lightning storm.

I scramble and toss in a small deal. Hopefully this will pacify Cerberus until I figure how we can get something bigger for the afternoon update.

But Satan’s bride impales me through the phone because she’s unable to argue her way out of a contract. It’s a simple case of refusing to accept responsibility but the she takes pleasure is draining me for an hour.

She then calls back because her service is down. Karma rules.

Voicemail check reveilles a callous response by the man: what’s up over there? Why aren’t we working? It’s now my job to remind these people that the fate of our company is in our hands and we’ve been horsing around all day. He’ll be monitoring our performance and improvement must follow.

Man I’d love to super glue his office door handel.

Now it’s 4 p.m. and I must finish my pointless report. A few people have some hours off tomorrow and we’ve cleared way for there absence with work shifts.

Stress is high but it’s five. A long workout on the Elliptical machine and some football is my aroma therapy.

Then tomorrow is day two.

Halloween Drama

2005-10-31T12:21:00.000-08:00

The office social chair coordinates an annual Halloween holiday pot-luck lunch. The co-workers sign up for various items and we dine in the conference room under some orange and black crape-paper with spider napkins.

Pot-luck is a problem for me; I can’t cook in a large mass due to inexperience. Most of the nights I throw something on the barbeque or whip up a large bowel chili. But providing a large dish for six to ten people is too complicated. Last year I bought three large boxes of chocolate chip cookies. The black-bat cupcakes were the rage and my cookies were trashed.

To prevent a repeat t he social chair assigned me chips and dips.

Easy.

This morning I swung by the store, threw some Tostitos, salsa and queso into the car and was the toast of roster. Other shameless office males ducked out for food runs throughout the morning while I basked in my accomplishment.

A few co-workers wore some Halloween colored shirts. The two women who sit across from each other who make hourly “potty” runs together wore converse outfits. (One with a black top and orange capris, the other with an orange top and black capris).

But the event wouldn’t be complete with some drama.

It seems person A (for kicks, lets assume it’s a female) signed up for some baked pasta dish. Meanwhile person B (oh I don’t know, how about another female) mixed some other pasta and meat sauce on a whim to prevent a shortage.

Both arrived in crock-pots.

Not good.

Person A drove by the renegade pasta dish cube and noted the similarity in a sharp tone over her shoulder. She then accelerated to the nearest exit and pouted through the morning session.

Meanwhile Person B stewed about the panged comment and after much deliberation, removed her item from the spread, hightailed it home and preserved the meal for a future family dinner.

As a bachelor who has zero tolerance for drama, I fail to see the injustice. More pasta equals more food that translates into more happy people. A guy just returned from Costco with some Seven-layer dip. Great, more of a selection and I don't care.

But now a heavy fog rolled in here and our luncheon is delayed by some moronic Food Network malfunction. I didn’t pack my lunch, I’m hungry and I want some freaking pasta. I brought the chips and queso dammit, but now the estrogen hammer completely wrecked the lunch and my glory.

THANK YOU ATTENTION PRICENSS. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED NAPLAMING MY LUNCH. HAPPY *%#@&*% HALLOWEEN.

Southpaw Returns

2005-10-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

The absence from the wardrobe was crucial. The rotation was flawed.

All ended today.

My black slacks were back in action after a two-month stint on the disabled list. This pair is a warrior and is the rock in the office outfit rotation. It was my first business attire purchase before my third internship in college four years ago.

Very few items have been with me in my short corporate career. My glasses and watch all were present for opening day of the full-time position. However the black slacks, black shoes and black belt combination have been together for four years. The two have never missed a week until two large holes sidelined the pants.

The slacks fell to the bottom of the laundry pile and I refused to address them, ashamed they had failed me and crushed that they couldn’t continue onto the next work week. Over that remarkable period we had been through interviews, rejections and funerals. These pants are my horse.

(Hate to barge in like this, but my legs are cramped from standing in line at Costco for 68 minutes to receive a flu shot. In March I spent four days on the deathbed due to the virus so this year I’m armed for the season. Unfortunately my company won’t honor this commendable action or reimburse me the $18 for it. So if I don’t get ill, which means I won't need recuperation time, who benefits from the flu vaccine, me or the company? A cheesy printed paper certificate of recognition would be sufficient for this Boy Scout.)

The repairs would be two simple stitches but I had no time to make a special trip to the dry cleaners. For six weeks I habitually forgot them on purpose because I didn’t want to waste the five minutes reviewing the problem areas with the tailor.

Moronically I hypothesized the rotation (the slated and approved daily work outfits) would continue uninterrupted. The slacks went to a four pant rotation but the problem was that all of them were kakis. The move automatically benched three dress shirts because they could only be worn with the blacks. Also the black belt was only worn once every two weeks with it’s assigned black shirt, kaki and black shoe combo.

With the shirts falling to an eight count and the kakis down to four, I constantly ran into problems around day nine because outfits tend to have the same look. (example: white shirt 1A is worn on Monday, but must be pushed back until day 10 to allow the co-workers downtime to forget about the outfit)

The black slacks are the rotation’s fifth starter and most importantly, the southpaw. These pants give everyone a different look which allows me to wear a shirt in consecutive weeks but with different pants, shoes and belt.

Carefully planned and balanced, the black slacks are back from the 60-day disabled list and have relieved my office dress rotation headache.

Monday Eve

2005-10-23T22:00:00.000-07:00

I'd still tag that.

2005-10-23T15:17:00.000-07:00

My space is a simple number and my corporate identification is whittled to six assigned characters. The small hallway to the right is a prime Friday afternoon football route that ends by the man's office. I'm flanked by to empties leaving me alone on Cube 19 island.

2005-10-23T15:02:00.000-07:00

"Poetry in Motion," my quarterback chair. From here I navigate throughout my day in trying to make an honest buck, contribute to society, rise above the worthlessness of my youth and somehow build a career.......screw it all, I'm just here for the money.

Deja Tour

2005-10-23T15:00:00.000-07:00

Previously deleted for fear of firing, the tour is now open and free to roam.

2005-10-23T14:55:00.000-07:00

The ticket stubs are a running collection of games that I've attended during my 2+ yesar stint in the cube. It's tough to decide if I'm pathetic either by; 1. working this long in the cube or 2. attending all of these games. A few magnets, nametags, training class rosters are a few of the trinkets tha adorne the walls. "Too lowely to mounted in the pad but not trash yet" is the rule for Cube wall life.

2005-10-23T14:44:00.000-07:00

Tony Gwynn Babooshka keep me in line

Birthday Foxhole

2005-10-21T22:27:00.000-07:00

Besides hacking through the day of a nice pile of work I have the un-daunting task of hiding out in the Cube.

Tomorrow is my birthday and I’m trying to avoid a visit from the birthday brigade.
Office birthdays are an excuse to serenade the person of the day in the conference room and dole out small slabs of frosting. This became an impromptu party because co-workers have family responsibilities that govern their non-existent social lives.

At the beginning of my tenure birthdays were a regular occurrence, like an every Friday occurrence. With approximately 50 people on the floor it seemed like I was downing a pound of cake every quarter.

Birthday luncheons dramatically became standard before the 3 p.m. party. During my green stage I attend these sessions and found myself out $15 for a hamburger, an ice tea and a share of the extra birthday lunch.

(As of now I hope I’ve clearly made the point that I absolutely hate paying for anything in the office. Gifts, lunches, cards or kids’ fundraisers, none of these benefit me so what’s the point?)

Then I drag myself to the conference room, mumbled through the song and clap while I wait for a piece of cake.

This lasted two months.

The birthday protest began when an office roster circulated through the floor and I refused to give out my born on date. As a Jehovah’s Witness I don’t participate.

Two years ago I did not have a birthday lunch or cake. Six months later my boss noted absence and last year she hosted the conference room cake. (very thoughtful) Some of my office buds took me out to lunch.
But this year, my third office birthday, most of my office crew has moved onto other opportunities outside of the company. Stress is at an all-time high because the company is reorganizing at the end of the fourth quarter and quota numbers are in the toilet.

A few people did remember and wished me well; very nice, as long there is no song.

My birthday was lost but I'm not down, I'm glad I get to watch college football on it.

Soul Searching

2005-10-17T22:44:00.000-07:00

After five months of soul searching, I've finally settled on an identity. Now I know what Ronaldo, Madonna and Emilio Estevez all went through.

From this day forth I shall be known as: Poutine La Stevensonieux.

Mad props to Hang with CCCP.

Boss's Day

2005-10-17T22:21:00.000-07:00

Hallmark made the personal enemies list today.

There's no stopping this calendar creating monster. Bogus holidays like Father’s Day and Valentine’s Day were all invented to increase the profitability of these pointless thought cards.

(How can PETA embrace cows but doesn’t concentrate on the millions of tree murders to justify these $3.65 thought darts?)

But now Hallmark partnered with corporate America to steal my money.

Today is Boss’s Day (yes, that is the correct spelling on the card) in another excuse for us lemmings to remember who gives us life on a daily basis. We employees are forced to honor them, thank them for guidance and buy them a gift.

I’m out five bucks for a restaurant gift certificate, worth roughly 1.5 gallons of gas.

Devoid of sarcasm and a brown nose, I thoroughly appreciate my boss’ willingness to hire me straight out of college. She took a chance on me and I’m sure the man wasn’t happy about bringing on someone who is nine years older than her son. Everyday I use her trust in me as personal motivation.

But why does Hallmark have to step in and thank her? I feel like Dad made me apologize to my sister or made me play heartless rendition of “Onward Solider” on the piano for my grandmother. It’s true that I’m a selfish bachelor; I watched four football games, five baseball games and hung with the boys this weekend.

I probably don’t thank my boss at all. In fact, I highly doubt I’ve actually thought about what she’s done for me. This, I guess, is a shove in that direction.

“Thanks for all of you support, Boss,” I scrawled on the inside of the card. It actually made me feel good to tell her that. I hope she keeps the card and knows that I really meant it.

Then two ours later, a card circulated for the man…….

“Thank you for pointing out my one sick day last year that kept me from perfect attendance and lost me personal recognition from our regional president. I should have fought through that 102-degree fever and kept sweating through my leather jacket. Next time I won’t leave at 9:30 a.m.”

Definitely in the red but not a direct hit.

“I thoroughly enjoy five daily branch emails that document my monthly unfilled goals. I tend to forgot why I am here.”

Close, but not so much.

"There's nothing finer than the five-second stare down with you after I showed up 30 minutes late to an off-site training session. If it was any cosolation, I spent 45 minutes trying to find the building and was swiped by a truck that cause $150 in damages."

That'd be a good one.

“Thank you for leading us. It’s been a tough year but we’ve gotten through it,” signed me.

Then my soul died a little more.

AND I’m out five bucks.

Office Drive-Bys

2005-10-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

Screw work, screw promotions and screw writing; I’m finished with constant interruptions during my day due to office drive-bys.

Cube 19 is located directly in the traveling path of the copy room, the main exit and the popular printer. I’m in a high traffic zone and co-workers constantly steal a look into the Cube or over my shoulder while they roll by.

Now I’ll admit, I do glance into others’ cubes en route to an office errand. However I refuse to comment on the work status of the individual. I don’t get little office kicks by making a snide remark, I have enough self-esteem.

But what’s the point of these little interruptions? Yes, I do surf the web in an effort to escape a fully loaded email from the man. Yes, I causally enjoy a three-minute power bar with my feet on my desk. No, I haven’t done any work today, I’ve been pouring water, talking over the Cube and shuffling around papers all damn day.

“What’s the score," while I’m on ESPN.com.

“No love for you!” during an email check up.

“Plane tickets again? Man you go everywhere,” surfing through Orbitz.

These phrase jabs are coined drive-bys because when I turn around, the person has vacated the three-foot frontal cube region and is two steps away from desk view. Is it humor? Boredom? Are these people jealous they don’t have the guts to effectively recharge themselves during the day because of man fear?

During this essay, I’ve been interrupted four times.

In an effort to curb these impromptu bed checks, I’ve tried to “AltTab” (the dual keystroke toggle between two windows and minimze the net window into the tray) cover up but usually I’m too late.

"Not quick enough there, ESPN boy."

This is a second shot at an entry today. Earlier I was working on a piece in Word but was interrupted with some weak humor on a mistaken account letter construction, laden with office sarcasm and nervous laughter gracefully interrupted by a cell phone.

Throughout the day I am in constant need for timely distractions to remain focused. Sometimes I engage in passionate debates or get lost in lengthy discussions. Two weeks ago I organized a Chutes ‘N Ladders tournament, (the boss held a clothing drive and a 1982 version was donated. She vetoed the tourney) so I consider myself a player in the social office “in-crowd."

But do I need the competing manger to stroll to the printer and hit me with a “you’re quiet today,” over her shoulder while I broil in silence, seven hours of sleep and hate?

It’s Friday and I lost out on Angel tickets. The parking lot is filling up and traffic will be unbearable due to the 5 p.m. start time to accommodate all of those east coast bastards. There was hope to sneak out a little early due to the boss’ absence but I doubt it.

It’s all in good jest, I’m sure.

“I can proofread it if you want,” two minutes before publish time.

Louis-Vuitton Field Trips

2005-10-12T16:48:00.000-07:00

The group never misses an office activity. They attend the daily 8:30 meeting in the conference room, corralled for bathroom runs and dragged to desk side chats that spill over 15 minutes.

These are not co-workers, they are purses.

Purses have become the latest female tag alongs in the office. They seem to follow a few of these women in the office to all activities.

Legend has it 14 months ago a woman on the floor had $50 stolen out of her purse that resided under her desk over the lunch hour.

Apparently two coded entrances that flank the office coupled with a desk drawer hideout was no match for a midday burglary.

A few weeks later $85 (a team collection for the boss’ Christmas present) disappeared from an unlocked dresk drawer. Two weeks later three CD’s were reported missing from another desk on the opposite side of the office.

All three victims were women, coincidence? I’m not trying act sexist but I’m questioning these allegations based on lthe ack of male burglaries in my two plus Cube years.

During the summer I tried to track down the culprits. A few days I worked into the early evening hours and watched the dual office cleaning tandem empty trashcans and lightly dust desks. They seemed harmless.

Despite the coded door locks, it’s highly improbable an authorized outsider cracked the code, wandered to a female desk and ripped off a few Christina Aquilara CDs.

Turning inward, I highly doubt a co-worker risked their job by eavesdropping on the shopping plans and hatching a covert after-hours cash dip.

Unfortunately these are the presented scenarios that drive a few of these women to tote their purses everywhere during the day. Is it really necessary to protect a lipstick and tampons , blush and a thick wallet with about 50 retail store account cards?

I haven’t bought into the supposed security threat; I’ve personally set the office terror alert at green.

My wallet never makes it into the office, it remains locked in the car glove box. If I plan on going out to lunch or ordering something online during the workday, it resides in my unlocked desk drawer. I have no fear.

If I’m really worried about it getting lifted, I just remove my drivers license and credit card. You can have my Southwest Airlines Card and my Supercut tracker that’s taken me 18 months to near completion, just don’t make me make another trip to the dreaded DMV.

But still, because of three supposed shotgunned burglaries during the 2004 holiday daily Louis-Vuitton bathroom field trips are the norm.

Out of the hangover woods

2005-10-11T12:03:00.000-07:00

Finally I’m out of the woods from this nasty hang over.

Saturday was the big game between Arizona and USC at the Coliseum. Even though the Wildcats were going to get shredded, this was an automatic party day. Sporting the UA gear, I arrived on USC campus at 9:45 a.m., already a Rockstar-vodka and two beers deep.

For the next two hours I slammed around seven beers and three heavy mimosas while plowing through a fine cigar with Tommy Trojan. It didn’t matter Arizona had no chance; the main highlight for me was to get lost in the middle of the giant frat party.

As kickoff neared, I snatched away the last champagne bottle and double-fisted it with another beer as our band marched onto the game.

A flask of Kettle 1 splashed through about four Cokes (damn you, Steve Sample) kept me going through the game. I later found myself at a Cabo Cantina in the middle of two-four one happy hour with 24 oz. Tecates that later brought about Tequila shots.

I hurt all day Sunday, bad.

Monday in the Cube was a little better. Throughout the day word circled through about my haggard state as co-workers wanted the weekend report. My day was a sharp contrast from a few those with toddler birthday parties and other family outings; all of which yielded to envy.

Blowout binges are losing their luster due to the corporate strangle hold. I never thought a two-day hangover would be standard. Back in the day the turn around time encompassed 20 minutes to digest three Excedrin and three bottles of water. Then it was back to killing the liver Friday afternoon.

On Sunday I spent the majority of my time flipping through sports in the bed. Monday was a low-radar event as I quietly got through my work.

I’ve come to realize those all day events are not as frequent. They used to be regular multiple weekly occurrences but now they are limited to six week cameos. Partying for 15 straight hours with a small group of your boys and later passing out on a couch results in a 48-hour punishment. It’s a large price to pay for maturity and age.

Well, at least for two weeks until I hit Lawrence for KU homecoming with my best friend from Mizzou.

Get Your History Straight and Your Nightlife Gay

2005-10-10T21:26:00.000-07:00

Dallas looked fantastic for the first time in years with an unbelievable route of those punch less Eagles. Philly looked terrible behind that crippled joke of a quarterback, McNabb. It's really time for him to think about surgery because he was completely ineffective all Sunday.
The postings on the previous essay clearly mark the hated between the teams’ fans. It's clearly obvious Philadelphia has never accomplished anything as a franchise, as the fellow Eagle fan posted smack about regular season records.

Eagle fans always thought they were on equal footing with the Cowboys but it's hard to grant credit based on NFC Championship berths and poor clock management during the final drive of last year's Super Bowl. What a pathetic existence.

Bottom line: Philly is 0-2 Super Bowls and Dallas is 5-8. If the Cowboys don't make the Super Bowl this year, it means Dallas still averages an appearance every five years.

Plus I’d take North Dallas Forty over Ace Ventura any day.

I HATE PHILLY

2005-10-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

In light of Sunday's match up between the Philadelphia Eagles and the Dallas Cowboys, the rest of the week is dedicated to my eternal hatred for the city of brotherly shove.

The rivalry was a small one in the middle of the NFC East back in the 1980's. The Philly games never garnered enough attention from us Cowboy fans; the Eagels were the annual undercard during all of those Super Bowl years.

Meanwhile as time passed and Philadelphia surpassed Dallas' talent to NFC championship berth status, I began to cultivate a bitterness for those wanna-be punks. However I won't be taking a trip anytime soon to the city.

Be sure to check out the Pen Pals commerical.

Exhaling seven hours later

2005-10-04T21:48:00.000-07:00

Finally I’m able to unclench my teeth and peel my white fingers off of the steering wheel. Today at the gym I burned 763 calories on the cross-trainer in 45 minutes.

Yes, it was one of those days.

It’s the beginning of the month and of course I mean putrid to the branch seeing as though am at zero again and I have contributed absolutely nothing to the company or society. I am a complete waste of man.

In the early afternoon the man held an office meeting. The first 30 minutes was dedicated to a group of Alabama helmets who were pressing their DSL product via a bland power point presentation.

Then the man gave way to two of his assistants who preached the importance of really bearing down because they failed to hit their particular product numbers. The two refused to point fingers but promised their people would be sure to follow up on the existing leads.

This of course, left the huge unsaid elephant boring down on me. (I’ve got this knack for picking up bad vibes and I correctly read this one)

The man pierced the room that me and the rest of us pissants weren’t providing enough leads. I nearly fell on my sword.

Why the hell is it my problem I don’t uncover enough opportunities for these teams to close?!

I rot everyday in my chair and scourging around stuff for the externals in which I later get a payout rape along with its failure to retire my monthly quota. (it’s classified as a one-time charge and doesn’t count. I’ve gotten screwed in selling deals over $100k but get hammered for not brining in monthly revenue.)

Then the hour mercifully ends with another parting shot in the branch’s dedicated to bring on more people from the business office. Meaning, due to the whole HR paperwork snafu which sodimize my promotion chance, these people who haven’t paid their dues within the branch get my spot.

I am the zen master.

Twenty minutes later I’m back in the Cube and the man pulls me aside. He had a little bee in his bonnet with the fact that I didn’t answer his unified call to the conference table at the beginning of the meeting because I was content to sit at the back of the room.

He said that a young professional like me can’t get mixed up with the back room crowd and starting blissfully out of the window (our office is across the street from Angel stadium and the ever growing red sea of fans who were partying in the parking lot two hours before game time was begging my attendance) a few times during the 60 minutes wasn’t going to help my movement plans in the near future. It was hist two cents.

God I wanted to jump on that damn conference table, rip off my shirt and smash the Polycom phone against the wall.

I swallowed my fity-cent and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you,” like the big pussy I’ve become and marched out to the parking lot to kick over baby strollers.

To make matters worse, the Angel crowd had overflowed into our parking lot and as I huffed around, tailgaters were chugging beers and breaking down the lineups.

That should be me in those camping chairs slamming those MGDs but alas my Rangers still suck. At least I’m not a wussy-ass bandwagoner and watched them all year thanks to the MLB package. (I missed you tonight at dinner, channel 635.)

But I gathered myself, breathed in, became one with my power animal and went back to Cube 19.

September Eve

2005-10-02T18:25:00.000-07:00

Editor's note: The original posting was deleted in error; Cube 19 regrets the down time

The eve before the final day of the month whereas the final numbers are posted at 3 p.m. Despite the treacherous third quarter I will manage to make quota again. It was a gutless performance, extremely difficult but I made it.

Yesterday we had a team meeting to discuss account issues that have dated at least ten years. The year 1993 was mentioned and someone immediately interjected by questioning my whereabouts of that year.

Everyone grinned as I licked my lips…….

I represent Generation Y, Generation Next, or the MTV Generation (do we have a name yet?) and the other half of the 20-something twosome in a branch that numbers somewhere along 75 employees.

The meeting halted immediately as everyone waited for my answer.
It was a classic winter day in middle school, and in the midst of a bathroom run, the seventh-grade basketball teams were posted with out me in the middle of fourth period Texas history class.

I got cut.

Yes, I teared up in the middle of class you heartless asshole of a co-worker who asked that callous question at the close of my somber story.

Age is a constant debate within the office and it gives me an edge.

The boss is sponsoring a Hurricane Katrina/Rita charity drive and clothes piled alongside her desk. I’ve donated some dough to the fund in outside efforts, but I refuse to castoff clothing; each t-shit represents another day devoid of laundry.

The clothing mound has engulfed other items like children’s clothes, random toys and board games.

That’s right, board games.

Next to Wheel of Fortune, I found a 1987 version of Chutes and Ladders.

Today at 4:30 p.m., I emailed a large number of co-workers (who are part of the “in crowd”) an Outlook appointment request (an idea passed along to me) to meet me in the conference room for a Chutes and Ladders tournament with the slogan, “Only the fittest will survive.”

Everyone accepted and it was the subject of afternoon conversation.

I’ve had a few Tecate’s, so here is tonight’s television lineup review:

1. Toronto vs Boston (NESN) – MLB package marks the greatest investment of my lifetime. The Sox rally is only a peek of October post-season drama. DH David Ortiz singled home in the winning run in the ninth off of Blue Jay closer Miguel Batista to all but lock up the MVP award. Does anyone else like me have a problem that he doesn’t play the field? How can he be that important if he’s a liability?

2. UEFA Champions league Chelsea vs. Liverpool (ESPN2, Wednesday but DVR’d) – An unbelievable scoreless draw. Liverpool forward Peter Crouch, who stands at 6-6 is a force inside the goal box. He’s in the middle of every cross and was fouled at least four times by pussy Chelsea defender Paulo Ferreira. Crouch, who makes seven million Euros a year, made the personal bad-ass list.

3. The Office (BRAVO, Wednesday rerun) – The sexual harassment five-minute review was great but I can come up with better material than that on a daily basis.
4. The OC (Fox) – Marissa Cooper struggles with the Newport Beach public school kids is a complete joke. Even though I attended a public school (complete with a cappuccino machine, three gymnasiums, an indoor pool and now new millennium additions of a parking garage and covered, lighted batting cages) the chick punks who rag on her would have easily made the Highland Park talent list.

-Even though I completely dug Charlotte getting down in the seedy hotel, it’s quite obvious she never learned the secret housings of human feces, love juice and fleas in cheap bedspreads, as reported by ABC’s 20/20.

-Seth Cohen made the top three cell phone voice mail list with the instant classic, “It’s 2005 so you should know what to do by now.” The other two: Wedding Crashers’ John Beckwith, “*sigh* Whatever,” and Swingers’ Mike Peters, “Hey it’s Mikey, leave a message after the beep.”

-I can’t get enough of Taylor Townsend, what a hottie. First she hoodwinks Summer Roberts into confession then closes her school-wide address with, “It’s the end of Summer.” Then Summer secretly catches Townsend making out with Dean Hess. Hopefully blows will erupt between Townsend and Roberts.

As of now, put me down for a Roberts (Rachel Bilson) fan. In the great words of Rick Moranios in Spaceballs, “I bet she gives good helmet.”

Q3 Public Hanging

2005-09-28T21:42:00.000-07:00

As if things couldn’t get any worse I took a complete nosedive the past four weeks. In what was supposed to be a glorious third quarter that marked my two-year anniversary, a waterfall of incoming business and another step in my sell-out career, Corporate America crushed me.

It’s as if everything on my little Q3 “to-do-list” was hanged and beaten in the office copy room.
Two years was a significant accomplishment but I’m not about to waste needless time in grooming myself with resume fluff. Q3 was supposed to be my payday.

Now I’ve been a good employee and played by the rules as habitual quota man and company picnic cheerleader. Everyday I diligently file my five incoming emails from management that document my unattained targets.

In August I received my fifth straight monthly email from the man praising me on my steady quota achievement. I replied with a brief track record along with my intentions. Two days later I found myself eating enchiladas discussing my upward movement on his nickel.

Suddenly there became an opening and had full backing from him to win the position.
(It was a significant step; I would be on the road and close deals, rather than be restricted to the Cube. On top of that I would receive a small raise.)

I interviewed with the manger, met with the man and won the job over eight other applicants.

However they couldn’t move me into the position because someone else on my team requested a move and the team couldn’t afford to lose two at the same time. Plus human resources spend most of their time staring at large packages of paperwork and wouldn’t be able to process the transistion within the next few months.

Backed by the man, slaughtered the eight and hounded the new boss; I now must sit hapless while weak excuses rain upon me.

Two days later I marched into the man’s office and he gave me a spin on the corporate carousel. Apparently numbers weren’t the problem; someone else had leaving dibs. Quota rankings don’t govern pardons, it prevents floggings.

My spirit is beaten and I have little desire to meekly hit the monthly number. It’s tough to stay positive in an environment where your accomplishments go unnoticed. This is my hardest lesson to embrace and I’m struggling with it. The 2005 compensation has twice been tweaked in negative fashion.

In the last six weeks five people left the company and another one left the branch.

Humor is my solace and I’ve run dry at the close of Q3.

But I did manage to rebel:

-posted from my daily Spanish calendar on the office door of the man, “el jefe esta en un mal humor.”

-ripped down three different office signs imploring my attention on items outside of my compensation plan

-skipped 20 minutes of an afternoon session last week to snag Ranger shortstop Michael Young’s autograph

-stole two company t-shirts from clueless co-workers

It was a tough quarter that endured a 1-12 Ranger road trip and a large Vegas gambling loss.

But I still take pride in showing up everyday and leaving drained from my fullest efforts.

Cyclical Eating

2005-09-07T21:11:00.000-07:00

Cube 19 completely drives my eating schedule. In an effort to reduce costs I pack my lunch four days a week. Upon careful tracking for two straight months, a noon-brown bag costs me on average $4.16.

This is how I justify $71 for Cowboys/Chargers this Sunday.

Plus bringing the lunch allows me to be a non player in the office popularity sweepstakes but that is a completely different topic.

Lunch four days a week (Friday is designated eat-out day) is extremely predictable. Sometimes a few breakfasts are lost due to excess morning sleep. Dinners are a daily decision based on happy hour victims. Weekend meals hang in question.

Therefore the grocery store run is based solely on my lunch supplies and I hate every minute of it.

My tale of the tape is 6 ft. 2 inches, 200 pounds (*ding* for you fellow DP listeners). I’m a human furnace burning a daily consumption of 2,000-3,000 calories in the midst of a four to five day workout schedule.

I’m a slave to habitual hunger pains every hours and a 4:30 p.m. power bar. Grilled chicken and frozen burritos fear me.

The trip to the store (I average one run every five days) is always a hated safari for me. In the words of Jerry Seinfeld, “the grocery store is like a casino: there are no clocks or windows.” I’m trapped with an abundance of food that needs preparation, a wretched tease.

To curb my madness, I try and shop from East to West. This never works; I always forget something and have to back-track which results in a five minute loss The produce section kicks off the 45-minute expedition and is always a gruesome task complete with the plucking and bagging.

New feature today, weekly shame: Ashley Simpson is on my workout IPod play list. There’s nothing like pumping iron to “La La” and reminiscing about the boo birds at the Orange Bowl. Good times, good times.
Life turns for the worst as I trudge along, dodging the clueless and grannies. Usually before I hit the liquor my mind turns to the basic form of in-house entertainment.

Women are the majority shoppers and most of them are dressed in their pajamas because the store is a low profile area. A good friend of mine pointed out that pajama girls are just a few steps towards bed.

I couldn’t agree more.

Gnarly hair, low-cut sweat pants, un-tucked shirts and cheap sandals breeds some pretty fine talent in there. One of Orange country’s secret pleasure are hot, PJ women in the cold dairy section.

Gidd-yup.

But my game plan fails me. If only I could parlay the awesome force of cooking for a gal with my cart’s ingredients. There has to be answer in there somewhere.

Has anyone ever successful picked up someone while shopping for food? Getting a gal’s number at a grocery store and an abortion clinic are two things I must accomplish in my life time.

That and being rich enough to afford a full time cook.

Taking a Knee

2005-09-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

Friday before the Labor Day weekend is nothing short of a breeze. It’s the last business day before one of the scared seven company holidays and the clock seems to move backwards.

The office environment is extremely relaxed but presents one key challenge: the art of looking busy.

It’s been a hellacious month (see the apologetic letter) but today’s importance ranks the same level of a NFL preseason, I’m playing enough not to get hurt. Luckily I’ve targeted a few low-profile activities effectively run out the clock.

Looking busy is a skillful craft because co-workers constantly monitor each other productivity levels. This is an every hour occurrence when people look into each other cubes while in transition. It’s not that we’re nosey, it’s because we’re all bored.

All throughout the day human traffic en route to the bathroom or copy room constantly peek over my shoulder to glance at the monitor. If someone is not on a work-related webpage sometimes a snide remark about work habits are mentioned.

Usually the alt+tab move (which switches to the most recent page) generates a laugh at my pathetic cover attempt. I’m the worst at this move and get exposed several times a day during my sports page musings. But web surfing is the number one time killer. With this high speed connection combined with a low co-worker activity, I am able to read three sports pages, send a few personal emails, check the bank and credit card balances and update the blog within the morning session.

The inter-office social life is a second time thief. I’m in a high traffic zone with a large outside area in front of Cube 19 that begs for conversation clusters. We don’t have typical office water cooler (it’s next to the copier) so two confidential trash bins serve as our forum.

The constant interruptions to break up work is nice and the office averages four cube clusters a day. As for the personal office troll, I only allow myself one per four-hour session. Therefore the boss appreciates my unwillingness to venture outside the cell and I don’t become an injection pest.

Today’s wardrobe malfunction- Rolling commando; it’s jean Friday and there’s nothing better than the slacks-only look.

Unfortunately I have been unable to schedule my daily bathroom movement. In year one of my existence, 10:30 a.m. was the designated DEAD (Drop Everything and Dump) time but now I have self-installed a 10-minute warning. When things begin to get uneasy I print three articles and haul them off to a different floor bathroom (I have to be completely alone for this sacred time).

Article volume is proportional to the day gauge, bad days equals more articles. It is usually a 20-minute session of complete solitude and an unquestioned time out.

As I slog through the work week, I usually bring in a magazine to read at the desk. This is a tricky one but I’ve found that reading the mag on the keyboard is a good disguise. I also have placed it next to the phone to sneak in an article. Sometimes in a flat out protest, I stretch out my legs on the desk and flip through it.

The idle mag on the desk nearby the entrance also sparks conversation from the co-worker stream.

It’s a lot of work to interweave these activities, especially on days like today. The man is on vacation and the boss is extremely laid back. Therefore work sandwiched around a social session and a web surf during the morning. It’s now the early afternoon and I’m starting to ferment a little so DEAD time is nearing.

We’ve been blessed to leave at 2:30 p.m. today (and I’m out on liberty leave until Wednesday) , so my failure to bring the Friday mag won't be a problem.

Monthly Jean Protest

2005-09-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

Originaly posted on Aug. 5

Monthly Jean Protest

Jeans are a big deal in directly outside Cube19. The man banned jeans from the dress code to conjure a professional atmosphere to stimulate business. (I agree with the move, jeans are for visiting hours)

The peasants are irked by the move. Even though a large number of us (self included) are never allowed to leave the office during the work week, there is a general grumble about the dress code.

Tension mounted and last year the man caved: “THOSE WHO HIT THEIR MONTHLY QUOTA SHALL WEAR JEANS ON THE FIRST FRIDAY OF THE NEXT MONTH.”

What a stupid rule.

Those who produce strut the Levi’s and those who fell short report in casual business attire which brands the non-performers, it would make better sense to make the failures wear a scarlet “A.”

Every month women wear a different pair as if people would remember their previous outfit. As the year rolls on the women jeans change with the some and it’s getting ridiculous.

Lengthy married men flaunt jeans dating to the Gulf War. Women developed a need for high-priced Seven’s or Citizens of Humanity. The summer months bring about capris.

My boss today is wearing Bebe jeans with pebbles sewn on the front of her quads; it looks like she just slide into third base. I’m not sure if my frustration stems from them or because I didn’t come up with the great idea of super-gluing rocks to jeans and selling them for $250 a pair.

Today marks a dual 12-month consecutive streak of quota attainment and my refusal to wear jeans. On purpose I forge the ruling and dress in my regular casual Friday attire of slacks and an un-tucked short sleeve collar shirt.

(Today’s wardrobe malfunction: The four-day business brown belt instead of the casual Friday brown belt.)

Earlier release times, free lunches and small monetary bonuses grab my attention. But the notion of temporary lift of a factious ban with my assumed satisfaction is more geared for the Penny-Whistle Park crowd.

Chalk this one to my ever-growing protest list of water club, lunch groups exceeding four people, anything to do with inter-office birthday festivities, frivolous paper certificate awards and the self-funded Christmas party

The unexplained absence

2005-09-01T14:48:00.000-07:00

Cube 19 went AWOL in August due heavy work complications and the author’s extreme paranoia. The three week sabbatical allowed me to contemplate the value of the site and along with my rants.

I’ll admit, amidst the protests, the whining and the sheer hatred for dragging myself here everyday I’m extremely grateful for opportunity. Cube 19 funds my sports love-affair, my monthly plane trips and my DVD additcion.

Today I’m on my way to Dallas for the weekend (with an added day of liberty) with a newly purchased portable DVD player and a flask full of vodka. This will be the last place in my thoughts.

Cube 19 is back Angel Berroa style. It was a young and vibrant but it needed more direction. I've fashinoed a pen-name for anonimity to quell my moronic fear of getting fired for insubornidation.

As the site grows it will be updated with more of the old material. Hence, the Cube 19 tour will be back next week along with more action shots of DEAD and inter-office patterns.