I knew it was going to be another grueling day at the dump. My ass was on the grill again. A former dump staffer had gone public with a new book loaded with accusations and imputations regarding my priorities here at the RDF. I had enemies on the Board and they were - no doubt - salivating over the prospect of seeing me skewered, roasted and devoured by wolves. (Not a great metaphor, I must admit, but I am not in the mood for literary correctness at a time like this.)
I was at my desk munching a sandwich and reading the book entitled "What I saw: Wasted at the Dump." It was an unflattering indictment of me personally, and my management practices. It described me as "fat-faced Irishman"; Describing my appearance as "A body double for Ted Kennedy". Worse, the book, detailed many of my shortcomings as a recycling and disposal facility manager. It cited the briberies, the illegal body dumpings, the misuse of trash, and discriminatory hiring practices.
The author, a former yard man named Richard Head, had been laid-off several years ago (pre-blog). We had ramped-up our facility to handle the dot com boom. Citizens in this posh suburb of Boston were making money hand over fist, buying stuff to beat the band; which of course resulted in increased mounds of trash and re-usable discards. Hey, all boats rise with the tide, so we needed to hire more help.
Hiring Dick Head was a mistake from day one. He had a lean and hungry look about him. By contrast, most of us - Me, Lardass, George, Bill and Lonny - look very well-fed; and even our rookie Rajeed looks like he enjoys his beer and pasta.
But Dick Head did not fit in with our culture. He was all "Lets follow the rules." "Citizens should get first shot at take and leave items" , "Toxic waste should be trucked to New Hampshire and dumped in remote areas" (who has time to drive all the way to the Granite State?). He checked every vehicle for dump stickers. He wouldn't let non-residents in - even though they offered some tempting cash bribes. He was a bureaucrat. A rule-follower. (Many of the customers were calling him The Dump Nazi. ) He never told dirty jokes, he kept his political opinions private (his daddy had warned him not to argue about religion or politics) . He didn't fit in.
We had all agreed that he was the skunk at our lawn party. So, I decided to lay him off. He did not take it well. At the termination interview, he complained that it seemed strange that he - the best worker - was being let go, but Lardass and George who spent most of their time on break, and Bill who usually called-in sick, were allowed to remain on the staff. I tried to finesse that point, mumbling phrases like "Team player" , "Synergy", and "Flexibility" and finished reading him his rights. Finally, I took his badge and then escorted him silently to the gate. As we passed the work areas all the dumpfucks stood with their backs turned to him as if to ignore the shame of his existence.
That was nearly four years ago. Now, the kiss-and-tell Book. Dick Head was getting even.
The phone on my desk rang. I figured It was the board Chairman, probably calling to fire my ass. I have never shied from confrontation, and I picked up the phone.
"Yellow, " I growled.
"Hey man. It's me. Guess what I found?" The signal was weak, and the static sounded like a Geiger- counter. I recognized Lardass's voice, calling on his cheap refurb cell phone.
"Yeah. What do you want?" I didn't have time for chit chat games.
"I found them. You know - the peeshtx of peeshiz destrctphiz." The static was terrible.
"What the heck are you saying, I can't understand. You're breaking-up."
There was a pause that lasted a few minutes while all I could hear was Lardass panting as he moved to a higher place trying to get a stronger signal.
"Can you hear me now? .I'm on top of the 'dozer."
"Yup, I can hear you fine. What was it you found?"
"Well, I was poking around the Y250K area, where we stored all that arab plutonium a few years ago...."
I recalled the area. No one had worked over there for a long time. It was posted with Hazardous Warnings "Radioactive Material Do not enter until June, 248000" Some of the materials have a half life of 250,000 years. Now, I remember, we were experimenting with our HazMat Insourcing Program back then. We had handled a large secret shipment of waste from somewhere, maybe Syria - I could not remember exactly. We just stored the containers and forgot about them. No one was allowed to go near because of the radioactive hazard.
"You shouldn't be there."
"I know, but you'll never guess what I found..."
"What?"
"The fucking WMD's"
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Monday, March 29, 2004
Polarization
It's getting uncomfortable in the cobb house these days. The political debate is getting heated and loud. Bill has borrowed George's favorite argumentative tool: shouting louder if the opponent doesnt yield to the obvious superiority of your logic and facts. Sometimes the yelling gets out of hand.
To those unfamiliar with conflict management it is disturbing. Rajeed, whose cultural training forbids him to argue with anyone who outranks him is very quiet. Everyone outranks him. (Actually, Lonny is the new guy, but he outranks Rajeed by dint of his previous experience at another dump.)
As the manager, I encourage the free expression of diverse opinions as long as they do not interfere with dump regulations. To me conflict is natural. Arguing provides a healthy outlet for passionate feeling and is probably the best way for guys to communicate with each other.
I suppose I could quote the actual arguments literally, and that might prove entertaining, but in the interests of brevity, let me just summarize the nature of the debate:
George: "All Republicans are Good. Democrats and whistleblowers are merely humping a book."
Everyone Else: "Why can't we be more like France?"
To those unfamiliar with conflict management it is disturbing. Rajeed, whose cultural training forbids him to argue with anyone who outranks him is very quiet. Everyone outranks him. (Actually, Lonny is the new guy, but he outranks Rajeed by dint of his previous experience at another dump.)
As the manager, I encourage the free expression of diverse opinions as long as they do not interfere with dump regulations. To me conflict is natural. Arguing provides a healthy outlet for passionate feeling and is probably the best way for guys to communicate with each other.
I suppose I could quote the actual arguments literally, and that might prove entertaining, but in the interests of brevity, let me just summarize the nature of the debate:
George: "All Republicans are Good. Democrats and whistleblowers are merely humping a book."
Everyone Else: "Why can't we be more like France?"
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Wound Up
I am sitting at my desk in the cobb shack where my office is located, reading the morning Globe. This was the 15th anniversary of the Exxon Valdes disaster at Prince William Sound in Alaska. 11 Million gallons of crude wasted. I had filled the tank of my Van this morning, noting that gasoline prices were obscene. It makes you wonder how the world would be different if they could figure out how to use seawater for fuel.
Lardass and George were sitting near the stove taking a break. George was unable to talk about anything except politics. He has mellowed somewhat with regard to my recent apostasy on the righteousness of the war in Iraq. He is convinced that I am merely an intellectual weakling who can be swayed from one side to the other based on the most recent piece of culpatory information. He has begun to launch a series of preemptive factoid scuds to soften me up for the main attack.
“Do you know how long Kerry was in Viet Nam?” he smiled, cheshire-like.
“Yeah, I heard it was 4 months. He got wounded and sent home. Army rules. Three Purple hearts. A hero.” George tweaked the tips of his handlebar, his eyes brightened. The hook was set.
“And, do you know the nature of those wounds?” The word ‘wounds’ was drawn out like a Gershwin trombone aria – ebullient with doubt and mockery.
“No. But, I am sure the military would not give out a purple heart for minor scrapes or cuts. You have to be wounded in battle. And it has to be bleeding. You know, something more serious than a cut in a hockey game…” I was sure that I’d have heard about it if the Kerry War Hero legend had these kinds of holes in it. Purple Hearts were not political. They were awarded for real damages, suffering, incapacitating injuries when the bullets were flying.
“Well, “ he intoned with sonorous purpose. “you might want to check it out. I heard that he never even spent a night in the infirmary for those wounds. “ Again the gliding, questioning trombone on the word wounds.
It was time for them to get back to work. “Ok guys. Enough of this rank speculation and innuendo. You guys need to move that compost pile into the North forty before dark. Let’s go!”
As soon as they were gone, I googled “John Kerry purple hearts.”
Lardass and George were sitting near the stove taking a break. George was unable to talk about anything except politics. He has mellowed somewhat with regard to my recent apostasy on the righteousness of the war in Iraq. He is convinced that I am merely an intellectual weakling who can be swayed from one side to the other based on the most recent piece of culpatory information. He has begun to launch a series of preemptive factoid scuds to soften me up for the main attack.
“Do you know how long Kerry was in Viet Nam?” he smiled, cheshire-like.
“Yeah, I heard it was 4 months. He got wounded and sent home. Army rules. Three Purple hearts. A hero.” George tweaked the tips of his handlebar, his eyes brightened. The hook was set.
“And, do you know the nature of those wounds?” The word ‘wounds’ was drawn out like a Gershwin trombone aria – ebullient with doubt and mockery.
“No. But, I am sure the military would not give out a purple heart for minor scrapes or cuts. You have to be wounded in battle. And it has to be bleeding. You know, something more serious than a cut in a hockey game…” I was sure that I’d have heard about it if the Kerry War Hero legend had these kinds of holes in it. Purple Hearts were not political. They were awarded for real damages, suffering, incapacitating injuries when the bullets were flying.
“Well, “ he intoned with sonorous purpose. “you might want to check it out. I heard that he never even spent a night in the infirmary for those wounds. “ Again the gliding, questioning trombone on the word wounds.
It was time for them to get back to work. “Ok guys. Enough of this rank speculation and innuendo. You guys need to move that compost pile into the North forty before dark. Let’s go!”
As soon as they were gone, I googled “John Kerry purple hearts.”
Friday, March 19, 2004
Kerry - just for kicks
As usual we were arguing about politics today at the Dump. George is now alone as the conservative ideologue among us. Bill and Lardass have always been "Left-leaning commies" - according to Geo - but now he is calling me "Flipper." He believes that a person should come to an position and then stick with it regardless of new enlightening information.
He is annoyed that I have changed my stance and am now speaking out against the war in Iraq, and have withdrawn my support for our reactionary administration in Washington. These guys are scary. They cannot simply admit that they fucked-up, and then fire the people who lied or made up intelligence data.
I am among the millions who felt that we needed to act on the WMD threat. I am also among the many who were surprised last year when they named the operation "Iraqi Freedom." That was the first time we were told that the agenda was to free masses of people from the brutal dictator, and to superimpose western democracy on a bunch of people who never have (and never will ) believe in the core democratic principles of equality, freedom and tolerance.
Well, Saddam is gone. That is a good thing as Martha would say. I want to support our troops with equipment and a strategy that keeps them from becoming sitting ducks for the bomb throwers. But I do not want us to stay there. And I fear that a continued Bush presidency will just lead us to more Iraqs and higher oil prices. I don't believe them anymore - and without Trust of the people they are ineffective.
So, I am off the fence and in bed with the socialists. So be it.
I kind of like John Kerry. Man of the people. War Hero. Good driving record. Rasheed reminded me that all presidents in recent memory ran while holding elective office, so my criticism of Kerry as a no-show senator is dulled by the fact that they all do it.
I asked Lonny where he stood. He just scratched his head and mumbled, "I don't vote. It just encourages them."
He is annoyed that I have changed my stance and am now speaking out against the war in Iraq, and have withdrawn my support for our reactionary administration in Washington. These guys are scary. They cannot simply admit that they fucked-up, and then fire the people who lied or made up intelligence data.
I am among the millions who felt that we needed to act on the WMD threat. I am also among the many who were surprised last year when they named the operation "Iraqi Freedom." That was the first time we were told that the agenda was to free masses of people from the brutal dictator, and to superimpose western democracy on a bunch of people who never have (and never will ) believe in the core democratic principles of equality, freedom and tolerance.
Well, Saddam is gone. That is a good thing as Martha would say. I want to support our troops with equipment and a strategy that keeps them from becoming sitting ducks for the bomb throwers. But I do not want us to stay there. And I fear that a continued Bush presidency will just lead us to more Iraqs and higher oil prices. I don't believe them anymore - and without Trust of the people they are ineffective.
So, I am off the fence and in bed with the socialists. So be it.
I kind of like John Kerry. Man of the people. War Hero. Good driving record. Rasheed reminded me that all presidents in recent memory ran while holding elective office, so my criticism of Kerry as a no-show senator is dulled by the fact that they all do it.
I asked Lonny where he stood. He just scratched his head and mumbled, "I don't vote. It just encourages them."
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Searing Truths
Yesterday was a mild day in March here in New England. At lunchtime George hauled out the old gas grill from the shed near the Cobb house. He had several large fresh T-bone steaks - a bribe from a non-resident who we had allowed to illegally drop off some white goods at the appliance disposal area. We like to get rid of the evidence of our graft as soon as possible so I declared free steak lunch for the dumpfucks.
George had slathered the steaks in bacon grease and turned the heat up to full blast. The steaks went on the grill with a flash of flames, steam, sizzle and smoke.
"Watch it, there. Don't burn the meat!" I warned him.
He just looked at me with undisguised pity, as he turned the meat over with tongs. The flames leaped up, as if to consume his eyebrows.
He leaned back expertly. Only a few moustache ends seemed to have been singed.
"You know, DFM, one must cook with *elan*" he remarked pedantically as the smoke and flames flared dangerously.
I ran into the cobb house to look up the word in my American Heritage dictionary. It define elan as "enthusiasm and flair." Now I understood. I went back to the growing conflagration.
"Stop burning the meat!" I yelled. There was so much smoke I could barely see George. He looked like a ghost in the confederate mist, but I could see that he was becoming impatient with me.
"Searing. It locks the juices in." His eyes were watering from the smoke and heat.
"Bull Shit!" I yelled. " You are cooking the juices. That's why the meat is steaming and sizzling, you are cooking the juices OUT of the meat. It's a scientific fact."
"Shut the fuck up or I'll throw these fucking steaks in the compost pile!"
Sometimes as the manager you have to stop micromanaging. I let him cook the juices out of the steaks. Somehow, they were delicious. Science can bite my ass.
George had slathered the steaks in bacon grease and turned the heat up to full blast. The steaks went on the grill with a flash of flames, steam, sizzle and smoke.
"Watch it, there. Don't burn the meat!" I warned him.
He just looked at me with undisguised pity, as he turned the meat over with tongs. The flames leaped up, as if to consume his eyebrows.
He leaned back expertly. Only a few moustache ends seemed to have been singed.
"You know, DFM, one must cook with *elan*" he remarked pedantically as the smoke and flames flared dangerously.
I ran into the cobb house to look up the word in my American Heritage dictionary. It define elan as "enthusiasm and flair." Now I understood. I went back to the growing conflagration.
"Stop burning the meat!" I yelled. There was so much smoke I could barely see George. He looked like a ghost in the confederate mist, but I could see that he was becoming impatient with me.
"Searing. It locks the juices in." His eyes were watering from the smoke and heat.
"Bull Shit!" I yelled. " You are cooking the juices. That's why the meat is steaming and sizzling, you are cooking the juices OUT of the meat. It's a scientific fact."
"Shut the fuck up or I'll throw these fucking steaks in the compost pile!"
Sometimes as the manager you have to stop micromanaging. I let him cook the juices out of the steaks. Somehow, they were delicious. Science can bite my ass.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Marching to The Polls
Today is "Super Tuesday" to the presidential hopefuls and hangers-on, because there are so many delegates on the line in the big-state primaries. Here at the dump, located in the western suburbs of Boston, there is little doubt about the presidential fave.
The assumptive winner John Kerry continues to point to his 4 months in Viet Nam as the qualifications to be president. But, I cannot help thinking about his voting record on the big issues of our times. And his attendance at the job he is currently sworn to do is pitiful. I am unsure what he stands for. He has missed hundreds of roll call votes this session.
Edwards, that weasel trial lawyer would look good, if it weren't for the fact that I suspect he is a phony bastard just like the rest of them. Sharpton? Naw, he might make a good animal control officer, but not President of the Free World. I forget the other guy's name - Kucinitch.
Some of The Dumpfucks were sitting around the Cobb house enjoying a well-earned coffee break.
Lardass, Bill and Rajeed were reading the paper.
Rajeed said, "Let's go to vote on our lunch hour."
"Screw it," I said. "What's the point in actually voting? It's a waste of time. Kerry will win his home state. No Point in it."
Lardass agreed, "Like Utah Phillips said, 'If God had wanted us to vote, he'd have given us decent candidates'."
Bill said, "I don't vote. Do you know how many germs collect in those voting booths. And the people who work the polls - they look sick!" Bill was our resident bacteriaphobe.
Lardass retorted, "Ok Detective Monk, let the democratic ideals be sabotaged by OCD."
Just then, George came in. We told him of our general apathy about voting.
"I see." he mused, "But what about the special state senatorial race?" He reminded us that there was a vote on candidates to replace the outgoing senator who had resigned her sworn dutues to become more active in Lesbian affairs. Apparently, gender issues were more important than her vow to uphold democracy.
"Did you dumpfucks know that one of the candidates is very upset that the state refuses to pay for trans-gender operations for prison inmates?" George sat back and let that thought sink in.
Suddenly civic duty hit us like a lightning bolt. We all rushed out and jumped in the van. Lardass left a 25 foot strip of rubber in our haste to get to the polls and vote for the other guy.
The assumptive winner John Kerry continues to point to his 4 months in Viet Nam as the qualifications to be president. But, I cannot help thinking about his voting record on the big issues of our times. And his attendance at the job he is currently sworn to do is pitiful. I am unsure what he stands for. He has missed hundreds of roll call votes this session.
Edwards, that weasel trial lawyer would look good, if it weren't for the fact that I suspect he is a phony bastard just like the rest of them. Sharpton? Naw, he might make a good animal control officer, but not President of the Free World. I forget the other guy's name - Kucinitch.
Some of The Dumpfucks were sitting around the Cobb house enjoying a well-earned coffee break.
Lardass, Bill and Rajeed were reading the paper.
Rajeed said, "Let's go to vote on our lunch hour."
"Screw it," I said. "What's the point in actually voting? It's a waste of time. Kerry will win his home state. No Point in it."
Lardass agreed, "Like Utah Phillips said, 'If God had wanted us to vote, he'd have given us decent candidates'."
Bill said, "I don't vote. Do you know how many germs collect in those voting booths. And the people who work the polls - they look sick!" Bill was our resident bacteriaphobe.
Lardass retorted, "Ok Detective Monk, let the democratic ideals be sabotaged by OCD."
Just then, George came in. We told him of our general apathy about voting.
"I see." he mused, "But what about the special state senatorial race?" He reminded us that there was a vote on candidates to replace the outgoing senator who had resigned her sworn dutues to become more active in Lesbian affairs. Apparently, gender issues were more important than her vow to uphold democracy.
"Did you dumpfucks know that one of the candidates is very upset that the state refuses to pay for trans-gender operations for prison inmates?" George sat back and let that thought sink in.
Suddenly civic duty hit us like a lightning bolt. We all rushed out and jumped in the van. Lardass left a 25 foot strip of rubber in our haste to get to the polls and vote for the other guy.
