Author Topic: Re-employment Culture (renamed)  (Read 1306 times)

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Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #105 on: March 09, 2018, 12:55:09 am »
Next week on The Facilitator...  The Golden Handcuffs.


Michael arrives in a a lobby. An attractive young Japanese woman arrives to greet him.


“Hi, I'm Michael. Are you Noriko?”

“Mikaru! So happy to meet-a you!”

Michael and Noriko walk down a hallway together.

“My grandfather's dream was to bring joy to Japanese children through the tales of Chibi-Land! A land of imagination! Delightful creatures and heart-warming stories to cheer children and the young at heart!”

“Chibi-Land...” Michael muses.  “I think I've seen comic-books--”

“Manga! They are called Manga,” she corrects him. “My father has a new dream! He wishes to bring joy to children around the world through Chibi-Land VR, a magical virtual-reality playground where all will be welcome!”

“That sounds like a pretty great dream,” Michael says. “So how do I fit in?”

“Father is most disappointed by the lack of progress. Father feels Canadian programmers are lazy and stupid and do not understand our culture. I believe we need ... a facilitator... to bring harmony to this project.”

“That's what I do,” he replies.

Michael strolls through the programmer pit. Boxes of half-eaten pizza and half-empty jugs of Mountain Dew are everywhere. An odor of stale Doritos lingers in the air.


“I gotta be honest, dude,” says one slovenly programmer to another. “I got no idea what we're even doing here.”

“I feel like a dork with these VR helmets,” replies another.

Michael shakes his head... this will take some work.



Noriko and Michael nervously wait in the lobby outside an office. An older Asian man-- possibly portrayed by George Takei-- emerges. Michael and Noriko immediately stand.


“Mikaru!  This is my father Hitoshi!” Noriko declares. “Father! This is Mikaru, our facilitator.”

“Faciritato?” the man asks, glaring angrily at Michael. “Faciritato?” he asks again.

“Hi,” Michael says, extending his hand. “I'm--”

“Mikaru... SUCKO!” Hitoshi declares. He turns and goes back into his office, slamming the door behind him.

“Father is ... most frustrated,” Noriko explains apologetically. Michael is crestfallen, to say the least.


It's dark outside. It's late, but Michael is still in his office. He is wearing a virtual-reality helmet, and wandering around, and gesturing aimlessly in the air.

“Pika-pika?” he asks.


Michael and Hitoshi stand in the lobby outside Hitoshi's office. Hitoshi points an accusing finger at Michael, but this time Michael is having none of it.

“Mikaru not sucko!” Michael defiantly tells Hitoshi, and points his thumbs at his chest.  “Mikaru goodo! Mikaru GREATO!”

Noriko smiles.  A moment later, Hitoshi smiles as well. “Mikaru greato,” he repeats. Noriko giggles, and Hitoshi begins to laugh as well.

“Mikaru greato,” Hitoshi says again, giving Michael a hearty clap on the shoulder. He returns to his office, this time smiling.

“I guess that went pretty well,” Michael says to Noriko.

“You told him you are a spicy radish,” Noriko explains, still giggling.


In the programming pit, gone are the pizza boxes and the Mountain Dew. Even the programmer smell has somewhat improved. Programmers are wandering about the area wearing virtual-reality helmets, gesturing aimlessly in the air. “Pika-pika,” says one programmer. “Chiba-chiba,” says another.  Michael nods his head approvingly.


Michael has his briefcase organized. Just one last thing to put away. He puts his rubber chicken in the briefcase, and closes it. Noriko arrives in the office, and slaps some documents down on the desk, as well as a silver pen.

“Mikaru! Father is most pleased!” Noriko declares, happily. “You have rescued our project from the forest of ghosts and sadness! Father wishes to reward you with a permanent position, and gives you his blessing to ask my hand in marriage! All you need to do is sign.”

“That's really great, Noriko, but--”

“Mikaru! You are packing your things! Why are you packing your things?” 

“My contract is up, Noriko,” he replies. “Job's done.”

“Mikaru! We are offering you everything you could dream of! Why say no?” Noriko stomps one of her high-heel shoes on the floor, exasperated.

"Golden handcuffs," he replies.

"What does that mean?" she asks, annoyed.

"It's a figure of speech," he says. "It means giving up your freedom for money and security. I promised myself I'd never do that."

"We have so much more to do! Chibi-Land still needs you! I still need you!"

“You don't need me anymore,” he says. “You can do this. You have everything you need right here to build Chibi-Land and make your father proud. Other people need my help now.”

“WHY?” she demands. “Why must you help others?  Why not help yourself?   Be selfish, Mikaru! For once in your life why can't you be selfish?”

Michael pauses.  Would it be so bad?  Security... a princely salary... a project he has come to care about... and maybe even Noriko. Would that really be so bad?  He imagines what it might be like.



Meanwhile, downstairs...

“I'm here for the recycling, dumb-ass,” says the woman. Despite the grubby coveralls, it's obvious this is not a typical garbage-woman.

“I... I just never seen a garbage truck driver in high-heels before,” says the security guy.

“Yeah, well life is full of surprises,” she snaps. “I haven't got all day.”

“Do you... uh, come here often?”

“Listen, you freaking idiot...” she snarls.


Michael snaps out of his reverie.

“Sorry, Noriko,” Michael says. “I have to keep moving. Good luck, kiddo.”  He gives her a slight bow, and leaves. She sits down on the desk, sad and speechless.  Something catches her eye. It's a radish... with a happy-face drawn on it. It draws a smile out of her. “Mikaru greato,” she says.

 -k
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Offline Michael Hardner

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #106 on: March 09, 2018, 03:25:51 am »
Notes:

- I kept expecting them to bed down together
- I love how I have a 'briefcase' in these stories.  Other anachronisms you could add would be a quill pen, britches, and a musket
- Wages for what I am doing seem to keep rising by $10/hr.  Great, but the problem now becomes why stay somewhere for more than 6 months.  Also, the last time wages spiked like that in my field, industry lobbied government to bring in foreign workers, won, then I couldn't find a contract for 10 months and when I did it was for less than 1/2 my wage

It's super stress time right now for me and my pushy/OCD/urgency vibe is taking its toll on people I am working with ie. the client team.  People on the client team are yelling at me, because I keep mashing buttons to get them to do their **** jobs.  They are now challenging me to escalate my issues with them, which I believe is a bluff.  I'm hoping that their pissed-offedness is a sign that I am getting through to them.


Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #107 on: March 24, 2018, 11:16:18 pm »

Next week on The Facilitator...  The Tower of Babble.


***

Cheerful, bespectacled blonde: “Welcome to App-App!”

Michael, befuddled, in an office with the management lady: “App-App?”

Deliriously enthusiastic management lady: “App-App!!”

Miss Parker, in an alley on her cell phone: “App-App?”

Programmer-dude, in messy cubicle: “App-App,” he shrugs.

Parker, angrily, to her cell phone: “What in the blue hell is App-App?”

***

Allison, the management lady, explains her dream to Michael, as they talk in a minimalist office.  “App-App! It's a totally new paradigm! We're creating a B-2-B network to link content creators to content developers for a cross-platform marketplace of ideas and seamless integration of shared resources in the project development mindspace!”

Michael blinks a couple of times, then speaks.  “So... you created an app to sell apps to other apps?”

The management lady blinks herself, momentarily stunned, then refocuses. “I've brought you in because I feel like our workflow lacks synergy. Our team doesn't understand their deliverables, doesn't understand the big picture... I want you to help get everyone's oars in the water and pulling in the same direction. I am counting on you to really move the needle on communication and get the team on the same page! We need to reach out to all the stakeholders, drill down, get buy in, and get everybody drinking the Kool-Aid.”

“Uh, right.” Michael grabs his briefcase and leaves.

***

“Hello, fellow kids!” Michael says, greeting the bro-grammers. He holds his hand up for a high-five, but finds no takers.

***

Lyndie, the bespectacled and super-cheerful office manager, types happily away at her computer. A bro-grammer arrives.  “Hello! How can I help?” Lyndie asks him.

“I want to make a complaint about the new chick in IT,” grumbles the bro-grammer.

“Yes? What's wrong?”

“I asked her to restart the print-server, and she told me to do it myself.”

“Okay,” Lyndie replies, “I'll talk to--”

“...and then she told me that if I bothered her again she'd tear off my lips and put them in the paper shredder.”

“Oh my,” says Lyndie, no longer smiling.

***

Michael stands in front of a table full of bro-grammers in a conference room. Behind him is a white-board full of notes and diagrams, in red and blue. In Michael's left hand is his rubber chicken, and on his right hand, a sock puppet.

“I gotta be honest, dude,” says a bro-grammer. “I still got no idea what you're talking about.”

Michael sighs, crestfallen.

***

A frazzled, worn out Michael lays back in his chair with his feet up as he talks on his phone.

“...and they're always complaining about some weird old-dude,” Michael continues. “I have to find out who that is.”

“Mikaru...” Noriko's lovely voice comes through his phone. “Perhaps today being a friend is not the way to be a facilitator. Perhaps it is time for--” He cuts her off.

“I just feel like I'm not getting through to them. They don't get it. I don't get it. They don't get me. They're shutting me out.”

“Mikaru! Listen to me!” she scolds him. “They do not need a buddy! They need a mentor. A leader. A commander. If necessary, a ruler with an iron fist.”

“You're right, Noriko. Thanks.”

“Good fortune to you, Mikaru. You are the best facilitator in the world. Do not doubt it!”

Michael puts down his cell phone.  He picks up his rubber chicken, and opens his briefcase.  “Sorry, buddy,” Michael says. “I have to go this one alone.”  He places the chicken inside the briefcase, and closes it.

***

“Hey, look who's here!  What's up, bud? Time for another puppet show?” asks one bro-grammer, as Michael arrives in the cube-farm.

“Hey, bro, where's the chicken?” asks another.

“Don't 'bro' me, bro,” Michael cautions. “You're so far off the critical path you can't even see it from here. Get in my office and wait for me. We're going to have a talk about how you're going to get the API back on schedule. You feelin' that, bro?”

The bro-grammer seems startled by Michael's change in tone, but grabs his coffee-cup and quickly heads back to his cubicle. Michael turns to face the second.

“If you don't have a template for the new web interface ready to show me by 4pm tomorrow, you might want to start updating your resume,” Michael warns him. “Can you dig what I'm sayin, bud?”

The second bro-grammer also nods, and scurries off to his cubicle without another word.

***

“The WORDS... coming out of your MOUTH... do not make SENSE... in the order in which you have COMBINED THEM,” a fed up Michael tells Allison. She looks in shock at Michael, then begins crying.

“bawwwwwwwww,” she wails, then hides her face against his chest. He cringes as she bawls her heart out. She is getting makeup, tears, and snot all over his shirt.

“It's ok,” he assures her patting her gently on the back. “We can work on it.  We can teach you to talk like a real human.”

***

Miss Parker sits at a table in a dark room, lit only by the glow of a computer monitor. The whir of many computer cooling fans can be heard.  A predatory smile lights up her lips as she presses dial on her cell phone.

“Hello?” Michael asks.

“Michael!” she says. “So good to hear your voice.  I heard you grew some balls today.”

“You ... heard that? From who?”

“Oh, everybody is talking about it,” Parker tells him in her husky voice. “They're actually pretty excited. They feel like they finally have some direction. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. We could have been a great team.”

“That's ... uh, that's great.  So, uh...  where are you?”

“Closer than you think, Mikaru.”

He can almost hear her smirk as she says that last word.  Panic strikes him. Is Noriko in danger?

“Parker! Wait!” he blurts, but she hangs up before he can say any more.

He has always prided himself on staying one step ahead.  But what if he isn't?

***

Parker savors it for a moment. She can imagine the look on Michael's face when she dropped that little nugget into their conversation, and it gives her some fleeting satisfaction. But she has work to do.

“Alright, Michael, let's find out what brought you to this dumpster-fire,” she whispers. “Who would be dumb enough to invest their money into a slow-motion train-wreck like this?”

She taps away at the computer, and information scrolls past on the screen. Suddenly she stops.

“Jens Ooblik,” she says. “Well. That can't be a coincidence.”

“It isn't, Fraulein Parker.”  Her heart skips a beat. The voice came from ... from the computer. “Certainly not a coincidence,” the German man continues. “But will you live to tell anyone?”

She doesn't stick around to answer. Frightened, she bolts for the exit, even as sirens sound.

 -k
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Offline Michael Hardner

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #108 on: March 25, 2018, 07:01:25 am »
Strangely, I used to keep a pack of kool-aid in my desk to show people that I do drink it, ie. to prove out the metaphor.  It's the creepy similarities like this in these stories that make my reaction:  70% intrigue, 20% amusement, 10% annoyance.  Also I think you have a crush on me somehow. 

Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #109 on: March 27, 2018, 09:52:44 pm »
10% annoyance. 

It's...  it's the briefcase, isn't it.    :(

Also I think you have a crush on me somehow.

I ... I may have feelings for TV Michael...

 -k
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Offline Michael Hardner

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #110 on: March 28, 2018, 05:08:32 am »
It's...  it's the briefcase, isn't it.    :(
 

Partly the briefcase, partly the cold lack of self-awareness that TV Michael has.  Real life Michael is surrounded by people who are terrified that he may discover how ridiculous he is, and feels sorry for them thinking he doesn't know.

Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #111 on: April 15, 2018, 01:20:38 am »
Next week on The Facilitator...  Das Gummi-Huhn.



***

She's being watched. Eyes in the jungle. She can't see them, but she can feel it.  Her heart is racing. They're walking into a trap. She needs to warn them. She needs to stop them, before it's too late. She tries to tell the men. She wants to tell them. But she's mute. She can't talk. It's like there's an invisible gag over her mouth. She can only watch in silent horror as the men quietly, cautiously tiptoe towards death.  Suddenly the sound of machine-gun fire fills the air. It's an ambush. “Charlie's everywhere!” she shouts, no longer mute. “Charlie's everywhere!” But it's too late. The men are falling in their tracks as she watches. Jonesie, Moose, and Briggs fall down, like marionettes with cut strings. Too late to save them. Too late to do anything but scream.

Parker finds herself awake, suddenly, sitting bolt upright and soaked with sweat, the echoes of their screams still in her ears.

“What the hell was that about?” she wonders. She shouldn't be having nightmares about 'Nam. The closest she's ever gotten to Vietnam was watching Forrest Gump as a teenager.  She makes a mental note to talk about this with her therapist, and brings her attention back to the present.

She's a mess, and it's not because of an imaginary Viet Cong ambush.  Ooblik, she remembers.  Ooblik's thugs did this to her.

Her lip is swollen, and her nose won't stop bleeding. Her vision is blurry... probably because of the large amount of swelling around her left eye. She only has an overly-large and blood-stained grey t-shirt, and her underwear. This has not been a great day.

She's locked in what seems like a janitor's closet. She's been put in a shallow concrete tub with a drain at the bottom, and her hands are shackled behind her, to a pipe. A dim incandescent bulb lights the room.  And she hears footsteps in the hall, getting louder.  It has not been a great day, and it's about to get worse.

The footsteps come to a stop outside the door.  The handle rattles, and again.

“Darn,” says a familiar voice. “I was hoping they left it unlocked.”

“Michael?” she asks. “MICHAEL?!”

A familiar face appears under the door.



“Hi Katie!” says the rubber chicken, in a silly cartoon voice. “You sure look sad! I came to cheer you up!”

“Michael!” she says. “We don't have much time. The guard will be back any minute. It's Ooblik!” she tells him, talking as fast as her swollen lip will allow. “Ooblik wants to use App-App to distribute his data-mining software!”

“I know,” he tells her. “I'm on it.”

Of course he knew, she realizes. What else would have brought him to a dumpster-fire like App-App.

“Michael, you have to go,” she urges.

“I couldn't find a key,” he tells her. “I brought everything I could find. Maybe something in here will help...”

Office supplies begin sliding under the door, rapid fire. Staples. A staple remover. A ruler. Some thumb tacks. Post-It notes. Some Bic pens. A box of paper clips.  “That'll work,” she says, reaching her leg and snagging the paper clips with her bare toes. “Thank you Michael.”

“Any time,” he says. “Gotta go.”

“Michael! Tell my father...”

“About Ooblik? I sent him a message.”

“No-- tell him that... that...” she finds herself unable to find the words.

“Tell him yourself, next time you see him.”

She hears his footsteps disappear down the hallway. He left his rubber chicken behind... its perpetually stunned face stares back at her from under the door.  She manages a smile. It's nice to have some company. She gets to work with a paperclip.

---

“I'm sorry, Michael...” Allison says. She's barely holding together. He knows what she's going to say. His briefcase is already packed.  “I have to let you go.   I ...  I have to let everyone go.”  She grimaces and sobs, trying to fight back her tears. “Our major investor pulled their funding. Without any warning! ... I don't know how to tell my team...”

“It's ok,” he says. “It's ok. Just be direct. And let them know how you feel. Like you're doing right now.”

She nods, tears streaming down her face.  “I ... I thought we were turning things around...  for a little while, I actually thought this was going to work.”

He nods, sadly.  He understands. He's been there before.  And he wishes he could tell her the real reason the investor yanked her funding. But that has to stay secret.

“It'll be ok,” he tells her. “You'll be ok.”  Unexpectedly, she puts her arms around him and squeezes, then steps back.

“It was great working with you, Michael,” she says. “I learned so much from you...  I  ... I just made it through a whole conversation without saying 'synergy'!”  She manages to smile through her tears as she waves goodbye.

 ---

Otto checks the Bundesliga scores on his cell-phone. “Ja ja ja Dortmund!” he cheers. An obnoxious squeal interrupts him. “Vas ist?”

He scans the hall, and spots something odd.  A second annoying squeal assaults his ears. He stomps toward the anomaly. It is, indeed a rubber chicken peeking out from beneath a door.

“Das Gummi-Huhn!  This is forbidden!”

The chicken squawks again in reply.  Otto reaches the door, but the chicken retreats under the door before he can grab it.

“You must surrender the chicken! Do not make me come in there! Surrender the chicken, right now!”

The chicken lets out another mocking squawk.

“That is enough of this!” Otto declares, going through his key ring to find the right key. “Give me the chicken!” he demands, opening the door.

---

Michael waits in the departure lounge of the airport terminal. He has traded in his briefcase for a carry-on bag. He holds his cell-phone to his ear with his shoulder as he double-checks that his boarding pass and passport are in order.  As always, not a detail is left to chance.

“...and the new expansion content went live this week! Chibi-Land is alive with the laughter of virtual children!”

“That's wonderful, Noriko,” Michael says to his cell-phone. “I'm proud of you. I knew you could do it.”

“Thank you, Mikaru,” she replies. “I am sorry to hear that your venture with App-App was not a success.  What will you do now?”

“Flaming Man,” Michael replies.

“Flaming Man?” she asks. “Is that a mobile game?  I picture a man set ablaze, running in a maze, trying to find a way to extinguish himself before he is complete incinerated. If he does not find a pond or a fire extinguisher in time, he becomes a little pile of ash.”

He laughs in reply. It sounds like she's describing his life, he thinks to himself. “No, it's not a game. It's an event. An experience. A community.”

“That does not make it any clearer,” she replies, “but I wish you good fortune.”

“Thanks, kiddo. Gotta run,” he says, as the intercom announces it's time to board.  He turns off his cell-phone and lines up, a respectful distance behind the elderly and the passengers with small children.

---

Jens Ooblik storms down the hall, flanked by his right hand man Klaus and his American aide Karen.  “Now,” he declares, “it is time to, as you Americans so eloquently put it, time to freakin' find out what is up!”

“We Americans don't actually say that, sir,” Karen points out, running a couple of steps as she tries to keep up with the two much taller men.

“SILENCE!” Ooblik demands. “Never correct me, Fraulein Sykes, or you may find, as you Americans like to say, find my foot in your face!”

She thinks better of correcting him again, and instead hands him the key as they arrive at the door.

“And now... to freakin' find out what is up!”

Ooblik opens the door.  Inside is a bound figure, dressed only in underwear and a t-shirt.  But it isn't Parker.  It's Otto. Face down in a pile of office supplies, with a rubber chicken stuffed in his mouth.

“PARKERRRRR!!” he rages.




 -k
« Last Edit: April 15, 2018, 01:35:07 am by kimmy »
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Offline Michael Hardner

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #112 on: April 15, 2018, 06:19:19 am »
I always wonder if the creative spark comes from an unknown psychic plane somehow.

You are always picking strange snippets of situations, phrases that are actually happening in my own life.  I like how Michael's professional tools always include things like staplers, which don't exist in my office of 100+ people.

But... is HE the rubber chicken ?

I also get the sense that Michael's relationship with the woman appears to be emotionally (but not physically) intimate with the dull glare of awkwardness.  This is still happening with several flaming man women in my scene.

Is there a level of relationship between 'friend' and 'girlfriend' ?  Something like loving someone without physically touching them, or speaking to them very often ? 

You should podcast this - and I offer to write my own dialogue, as my character comes from the stapler-less future to visit younger Michael.
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Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #113 on: April 17, 2018, 03:49:14 am »
I always wonder if the creative spark comes from an unknown psychic plane somehow. You are always picking strange snippets of situations, phrases that are actually happening in my own life. 

The first couple of episodes were inspired by your writing about your workplace-- the one where you announced you'd made a temporary office in a room where nobody would find you, your musings about the financial security of a permanent position vs the freedom of contract work inspired the Noriko episode.  Since then, things have gotten more esoteric.   I heard a radio interview with a woman who spoke entirely in management jargon, which inspired the manager in App-App. The name "App-App" struck me as funny, and the idea that they made an app to sell apps to other apps flowed from that.  I think "Ooblik" came from Dr Seuss or somewhere deep in the recesses of my memory. I had no idea why either Michael or Ooblik were interested in App-App when I wrote it, but finding out that data-mining was being facilitated through Facebook apps suddenly made it clear why a sinister mastermind was interested in an app that sells apps to other apps, and why Michael was there to stop him.

The idea of somebody too young to have served in the Vietnam War having 'Nam flashbacks because of watching 'Nam movies struck me as being funny for some reason.   And I'd had one of those nightmares where you know something terrible is happening but you can't stop it because you're paralyzed or your voice is gone or something like that. So that was where Parker's Vietnam "flashback" came from.

Soooo... initially this was inspired by your workplace adventures, but has been becoming less based on your work stories, and more a vehicle for my silly ideas. As I'm not actively pushing any of my other projects right now, these give me an outlet.

I like how Michael's professional tools always include things like staplers, which don't exist in my office of 100+ people.

My office has just a handful of people, but we do have a stapler. I guess we're low-tech.  We also have a lot of paper, which I gather is becoming a thing of the past.

I understand your complaint about the lack of realism in my depiction of a modern office environment.  Staplers, briefcases, and so on.  I feel that the audience needs the familiar trappings that they recognize as "office stuff", even if these are going the way of the quill pen. I feel like realism takes a back seat to atmosphere in this setting. Ultimately, this is a story about people, not about changing technology in the office environment.  And obviously, TV Michael can't become a telecommuter, even if real-life Michael does. We can't do a show where Michael sits in a home office and occasionally Skypes with someone.


But... is HE the rubber chicken ?

That's a complicated question.  My feeling is that it's not him, but it's a physical manifestation of what makes him Michael. It represents his spirit and his ethos.


I also get the sense that Michael's relationship with the woman appears to be emotionally (but not physically) intimate with the dull glare of awkwardness.  This is still happening with several flaming man women in my scene.

Is there a level of relationship between 'friend' and 'girlfriend' ?  Something like loving someone without physically touching them, or speaking to them very often ? 

Your question makes me think of my little brother.  We hardly ever talk anymore, and I'm not sure I even "like" him, in the sense that I'm not sure we'd be friends if we weren't related.  But if something happened to him, I'd be devastated. And if he needed me, I'd do whatever I could for him.  There's still an attachment that might never fade, plus a sense of duty and obligation as well I'm not sure if that's the sort of thing you're talking about.


You should podcast this - and I offer to write my own dialogue, as my character comes from the stapler-less future to visit younger Michael.

Maybe Michael will be visited by the ghosts of offices past, present, and future in the upcoming Christmas episode.

 -k
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Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #114 on: May 01, 2018, 02:40:45 am »

Next week on The Facilitator...  The Roadrunner.

Michael handles a crisis; Parker has a spiritual experience.

***

It's 100 degrees in the Nevada desert, and brisk gusts of wind blow sand back and forth capriciously. Most of Parker's skin is bare, but iridescent mirrored ski goggles protect her eyes, and a shemagh worn in the style of desert nomads protects her face and conceals her identity. Aside from that, all she has is motorcycle boots and skimpy shorts.  And some glittery body-paint, for the moment. Before long, her sweat will wash the body-paint away and she's going to feel even more naked.  She planned this costume to fit in with this crowd of Mad Max extras. She feels ridiculous.  This better be worth it.

She surveys the scene.  Sand City is bigger than she could have imagined. It didn't exist a week ago, and in another week it will have stopped existing. But for this fleeing moment in time it is immense and it is glorious. 

---

Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Michael waits for his connecting flight to Las Vegas, and checks his email.  There's an item marked “URGENT”, and this time it isn't herbal virility products. It's from Ouroboros... his next contract. Intrigued, he opens the email. They have a crisis. And they're pleading for him to start a week early.

It would mean missing Flaming Man, and the idea of missing Flaming Man pains him deeply. They are his community, his soulmates, his connection to a different world. And he had been looking forward to debuting his Flaming Chicken costume. But this is too important.

---

A couple of hours of wandering around Sand City have brought Parker no closer to finding Michael. She feels her cell-phone vibrate, and pulls it out. It's her father.

“This isn't a good time,” she says. Others are watching, looking with disdain or annoyance at her. “Who brings a cell-phone to Flaming Man?” she hears someone say. “Normies are taking over,” says another. “Gentrification is really getting out of control,” adds a third. She hates the unwanted attention, but puts it out of her mind.

“I need you to come home, Catherine,” her father says. “Immediately or sooner.”

“I can't do that, daddy. I'm this close to Michael. I can't let him escape again.”

“Forget Michael. This is more important.”

She hangs up suddenly, as something catches her eye. She turns off the phone to prevent further interruptions, and chases after the young man.

“Heyyyy,” she says, “I like your hat!”  It's a Trilby hat, with a rubber chicken mounted atop. Like the dragon at the prow of a Viking longship... yet so much more lame.

“Thanks,” says the rotund young man, staring intently at her glittering breasts. “I ... uh, I like your paint.”

“Where did you get the chicken?” she coaxes him. “I want one too!”

“I traded a guy some Mountain Dew for it,” he says, stroking his pathetic beard as if to demonstrate its existence to her.

“Where's the guy?”

“Let me take you,” he says. “I can escort you safely through these perilous streets!”

“Oh, I don't want to trouble you,” she assures him. “You've probably got a lot more interesting things to--”

“I insist!”  he interrupts. “Defending m'lady would be my honor!”

Great, she thinks. For the love of--  She wonders briefly whether kicking the kid's ass would be worth the attention it would draw. But then she sees where his eyes are pointing. It's like a beacon meant just for her.  “Later!” she says, dashing off before her would-be defender can object.

Far down the street, towering above the crowd, it calls to her. She weaves swiftly through the crowd, passing tents and tarps and all sorts of temporary shelters. It's a bird. A very tall bird. She senses that is where she needs to go.

As she comes closer, she realizes that it's not a chicken, but that does not deter her.  It's a roadrunner, she decides when she finally arrives.  It's a 14 foot tall roadrunner, built from straw and deadwood in a Native American artistic style. It's beautiful. Smaller sculptures of straw and wood are nearby as well, stylized native depictions of ravens and coyotes and lizards and cacti and people. But it is the roadrunner that she finds fascinating.

“Hey!” someone shouts. “Hey! You don't belong here!”

She's startled. Are they talking to her? Has someone seen through her disguise? She went to such embarrassing lengths to look like she fit in. She looks around trying to figure out who said that, and finds a native man looking straight at her.

“Yeah, you!” he says, coming closer.  His skin is so tanned and weathered that his age is impossible to guess. He might be forty or he might be sixty.  He is wearing hard-worn jeans and a cowboy hat and no shirt, and his barrel-chested physique has a strong look, the look of a man who is used to doing hard work.

“What do you mean I don't belong?” she asks.

He cracks a wide smile.  “Everybody else here is having fun, exploring, relaxing, trying new things...  you're not doing any of that. You're wound up tighter than a spring.”

She breathes easier. He's just messing with her. “I'm kinda new here. I'm looking for somebody.”

“Somebody important?”

She hesitates.  That's a complicated question.  “I'm looking for a guy ... kind of uhhhh  ... about this tall, might be carrying a rubber chicken?”

“Bullshit,” says the native man.

“Excuse me?” she says.

“You're not looking for some chicken-man,” he tells her. “You might think you are, but you're not.”

“And how would you know?” she asks, indignant. Then she notices his necklace. A string of leather, with wooden beads and a hand-crafted silver-and-turquoise pendant that looks like the giant roadrunner that towers over them. “Is this your roadrunner?” she asks, indicating the sculpture that has captivated her since she first saw it.

“Yes ma'am,” he says.  She stares up at the majestic bird.

“What does it mean?” are the words that come from her mouth, but what she really wants to know is why it resonates so deeply with her.

“Come on and I'll tell you about it,” he says, with a smile. “My name's Dave,” he tells her, motioning for her to walk with him.

“Kate,” she replies, following.

---

Michael arrives in a taxi straight from the airport, pulling his wheeled carry-on bag that still contains his Flaming Chicken suit. He introduces himself to the receptionist, and she takes him straight to the open-concept work environment, where a dozen flustered programmers, analysts, and managers are yelling at each other.

Quickly he gets them calmed down, and they update him on the situation. It's worse than the email let on. Ouroboros is in total chaos. Launch is just hours away, and the YARP server is down. The entire YARP network has crashed.

“Alright,” Michael says. “Campfire, everybody.  Let's hear some solutions. You: hit me!”

“uhhhhhh”

“Too slow! Next?”

“... what if we launch without YARP support?” offers a technician.

“No YARP support?” Michael scoffs. “We might as well launch with quill pens and briefcases! We'd look like a joke! It would be game over. Not gonna happen! It's YARP or walk, baby! Show me what you've got!”

“We could disconnect the YARP central server and reboot the YARP units in stand-alone mode,” offers another. “We'd have core functionality and it would buy us time to rebuild our main YARP database.”

“Would that work?”

“The YARP units have their own internal backup databases so that they can YARP if they lose connection with the server. It's a Band-Aid, but it would buy us time. Obviously multi-YARP wouldn't--”

“I don't need your life story,” Michael interrupts. “Okay. You: make that happen. You: help make that happen.  Server team: recompile that YARP database. You: come up with a backup plan that doesn't involve quill pens and briefcases! Alright everybody! Let's go! Let's go! I have a FEVER! And the only prescription is YARP!”

He watches as the technicians and programmers get to work on their assigned tasks, while the managers remain near Michael, fidgeting impatiently.  “This is taking too long,” one of them says. “I'm going to--”  Michael stops the man with a tap on the shoulder and a stern wag of the finger.  A manager badgering them is the last thing the technical people need at this moment.  Minutes pass.  And then, “yarp!”

Michael perks up his ears.

“yarp! ... yarp! yarp!”

“What's happening?”

“That's the YARP units coming back online.”

“Alright. Is it working?” 

“They remote clients are starting to connect.  ... It's working! The YARP units are responding! We have YARP! We're YARPing!”

A sigh of relief.  And then applause.

“You did it, Michael!” says one of the managers. “That was brilliant!” says another, as the YARP units cheerfully “yarp!” away in the background. 

Michael soaks in the adulation, pleased to have proven his mettle so quickly.

----

Parker basks in the sun and the desert breeze as she walks with Dave and listens to his Hopi myths and legends about the roadrunner. It is a fierce little predator whose supernatural speed and sharp beak make quick work of its prey.  Fearless, too, they kill scorpions and even rattlesnakes. The Hopi believe the roadrunner is a magical creature, a bringer of good fortune, and a protector against evil spirits. The roadrunner's X-shaped footprints are everywhere in Hopi art. 

All of this would seem so silly to Parker, on any other day.  But instead, she finds herself more calm and relaxed than she has felt in years. The caress of the wind on her bare skin tickles her body, and Dave's whimsical native legends are gentle and pleasant. She remembers that she's supposed to be hunting for Michael, but realizes she doesn't care right now.  She knows that her father will be furious with her for hanging up on him, and it makes her smile.

The sun is beginning to disappear behind the far-off mountains as they return to Sand City.  Already the desert air is cooling, which is a relief.  As twilight descends, the epicenter of Flaming Man is transforming into something completely new.  Freed from the oppressive heat, people have crowded the narrow streets, dancing, laughing, singing, and playing music. With the harsh glare of the sun gone, there are lights and lanterns and glowing necklaces and blinkers of every description, turning the temporary city into a kaleidoscope of color. It's magical, Parker thinks to herself. She has never seen anything like it.

“Hungry?” Dave asks her.   “Starving,” she replies, suddenly she is painfully aware of how empty her stomach feels.

“Pork ok?” he asks, and she tells him it is.  “You gotta try these,” he says, buying some carnitas tacos and a six pack of Mexican beer. Soon they are back at Dave's tepee, with the giant roadrunner and the other sculptures standing guard outside.  She removes her motorcycle boots and her socks before she enters, acutely aware how soaked her socks are with sweat. 

Inside, Dave has begun lighting candles.  Her underwear is also soaked with sweat, and her shorts are full of sand. It's incredibly uncomfortable, and she peels off both of the filthy garments. Dave is watching her, but she doesn't mind for some reason. It's so unlike her. Is it because of this strange place, this magical temporary city? Or is because of this man? She feels comfortable with Dave in a way that surprises her.

She removes her shemagh and the ski-goggles as well. It's the first time Dave has seen her face. He can also see the black eye and bruises she still wears from her fight with Ooblik's guards.  That makes her feel far more exposed than her nakedness.  He's looking, concerned at her bruised face, and it makes her feel vulnerable.

“You should have seen the other guy,” she says, anxious at what Dave might be thinking.

“Chicken-man do that to you?”

“No. No!” she says, startled at the suggestion that Michael could do such a thing. “No, this was a different thing. Work accident.”

“What kind of work are you in that gets you a black eye and busted lip?”

“It's complicated...” she says. She is used to keeping secrets. But for some reason she wants to tell him. “I make people disappear.”

“Magician?” he asks as he hands her a beer and a taco.

“Nope.” She pauses and takes a gulp of beer. It's cold and bitter and refreshing. “I have done some pretty bad things,” she adds.

“Sounds like an interesting job,” he replies, seemingly unfazed.

“That's it?” she says. “You're not going to call bullshit again?”

“That's only about the tenth craziest thing I've heard today, so you might be telling the truth,” he says. “If not, it still sounds like a pretty good story. Tell me more about that.”   He's filling a long, elaborately carved pipe with some kind of leaves. He offers her the pipe and pulls out a lighter.

“Is this the part where I smoke magic leaves and have a spirit vision?” she asks, finding her accustomed sarcasm for the first time since she's met Dave.

“This is the part where we get high and talk about stuff,” Dave replies.  She shrugs and accepts the pipe.

---

Just hours into his first day at Ouroboros, and he has already been summoned to the chairman's office. He finds a tanned, bearded, older gentleman casually lounging behind the desk. The man's beige linen slacks and casual short-sleeve shirt look like they'd be more at home on a patio in Havana than in a corporate office. The man's relaxed pose conveys confidence, not sloppiness. He motions toward a chair, which Michael seats himself in.

“I flew in today to deal with today's crisis,” the man says in a deep, smooth voice. “Thank god you got here first. I'm Esteban Aquilina... but call me Steve,” he says, leaning forward and extending his hand. Michael introduces himself and shakes, using years of experience to produce a grip that's firm, yet not aggressive. A grip that says “I'm not here to fight, but I'm not a wuss.”

“Michael, your handling of the YARP situation was brilliant. That's the kind of leadership I need in this company.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

“I'll cut to the chase. I want to bring you on permanently.  And I'd like you to lead a major project I'm planning.”

“I'll need time to think it over,” Michael tells him, but it's a formality. This is what he came here for.

“Of course. Of course.”

“Can you tell me more about the project?”

“It's called Project Pandemik,”

“Yeahhhhh,” Michael thinks, “that doesn't sound ominous at all.”

---

Parker awakens, with early morning sunshine beginning to illuminate the cloth walls of Dave's tepee.  She's still naked, and she's pressed against Dave's burly body for warmth. She carefully slides out from under the blankets, trying not to disturb him. It's cold. She finds her backpack and rummages around for socks and underwear. As she dresses, she hears him stir behind her.

“So you came here looking for a chicken-man, and you found a roadrunner instead,” Dave says, sleepily, watching her pull her shorts up.

“I guess I did...” her voice trails off. “I have to go, Dave. Thank you, so much. For everything.”

“Hey, Kate... That person you're searching for? I hope you find her someday,” Dave says.

“I think... at least I know where to look,” she tells him, and blows him a kiss as she exits the tepee.

She puts her ski-goggles on, and wraps the shemagh around her chest like a halter-top.  Her motorcycle boots are right where she left them the night before, and after giving them a brisk shake to make sure there are no scorpions in them, she steps into those as well. She decides she no longer needs yesterday's sweat-marinated socks, but remembering the “zero waste” credo, picks them up anyway and stuffs them into her backpack.

She pulls her cell-phone out of her shorts and powers it up. There are 11 missed calls from her father. There are 5 voice messages. She doesn't need to guess what those will be about.  And there's a text-message-- from Michael.

“Sorry I couldn't make it. Hope you had fun at Flaming Man.”

She snorts with amusement, and slides the phone back into her pocket. She notices something else in her pocket, and pulls it out. It's Dave's necklace. She watches how the morning sun swirls on the hand-beaten silver and shines on the polished turquoise. She looks up, and finds Dave's giant roadrunner sculpture watching over her.   After one last look at Dave's straw and driftwood creations, she begins her walk toward home.

 -k
Paris - London - New York - Kim City
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Offline Michael Hardner

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #115 on: May 01, 2018, 05:59:21 am »
Once again - oddly astute but also off in some aspects:

- You would never fly in to Vegas - it's an 11 hour drive away.  Fly in to Reno, the most underrated city in the USA.
- The Indians at Flaming Man are Peyute not Hopi.  They get in for FREE by showing a band card as it is their land we are on.  I met one in ... 2012 I think.  He had no water, or anything and woke up on our couch around 8 am saying he had to "call his brother to come get him".  That made no sense to me until I figured he was a local.  I gave him water and aspirin for his hangover.
- Smoking weed in the open at Flaming Man is actually a rare thing.  Definitely more rare than in Toronto.

Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #116 on: June 11, 2018, 12:33:57 am »
When Michael mentioned that he had a job interview with two young Asian women, obviously this is the first thing that came to mind:



 -k
Paris - London - New York - Kim City

Offline Michael Hardner

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #117 on: June 11, 2018, 06:20:30 am »
Can I still be PC if I watch it ? 

The gals extended me a job offer btw.

Offline kimmy

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #118 on: June 12, 2018, 03:21:13 am »
Can I still be PC if I watch it ? 

Only if you talk about how offended you are by the sexism and the racial stereotyping afterward.

The gals extended me a job offer btw.

Ohhh, beHAVE!

 -k
Paris - London - New York - Kim City

Offline Goddess

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Re: Re-employment Culture (renamed)
« Reply #119 on: June 14, 2018, 09:54:40 am »
I inadvertantly caused a bit of trouble at work yesterday..... :-\
#sorrynotsorry

We are a financial software company and have a Support Department connected to the use of our software.  Part of my job - Communications - is keeping an eye on how we are communicating with clients.  For the last year, I've been saying there is a problem in Support with not training the clients properly and doing their work for them.

After running some numbers, I found that 10% of our clients are taking up 30% of our time.  Most of that 10% are putting in tickets EVERY DAY for help and it's not software related - they just don't know how to do their jobs and we're doing it for them for free.  It's ridonkulous.  Support is answering questions that should be directed to CRA or Municipal Affairs and that puts us in a legal bind, if the info we give out is not current or incorrect.

Now there's a big meeting on Monday to discuss and the Support ladies are not happy with me.
"A religion without a Goddess is half-way to atheism."