Changing Jobs

This past Friday I ended ten years in Silicon Valley to make way for a new job in San Francisco. Before I move on, I want to savor just a few of the kind words with which my co-workers and bosses sent me off.

From a writer who has reported to me:

I've been a technical writer for almost 20 years (pass the Geritol, please), and you are by far one of the best managers I've ever had. Better than that, you are genuinely a kind and good person, something the world needs more and more.

From a boss:

You were always there to solve any issue and took every challenge. You always remained calm even under the most stressful circumstances. You were always there to help everyone. We are really going to miss you. Richard, please keep in touch.

From another writer who has reported to me:

It was nice to have a manager who trusts you, cares for you, supports you, and backs you in difficult times. Your approach to work and management was inspirational. You would keep a tab on most things and make it easy for me. Also, I loved the fact that you trusted me with responsibilities.

From another boss:

When I'm on my deathbed, you will be one of the people I will be so grateful to have known.

I'm not sure what to do with such lovely words. Maybe the effect we have on each other becomes apparent only when we look back. Maybe in all the ups and downs--the stressful moments before a product release, the unreasonable demands of dysfunctional VPs, the doubling of workloads with no added resources to help carry them--we strengthen, inspire, affirm each other in ways we are unaware of at the time.

Whatever. I will save these words for a rainy day, and, in the meantime give thanks for colleagues who say such kind things. I hope their words are at least a little bit right.

And to each of them I say with all my heart:

Thank you.
Farewell.
Namaste.

Your Soul for a Doughnut

A mind-frying work week has left me in a heap, wondering if I'm yet another of Catbert's conquests, like this pathetic, lovable, coffee swizzling, doughnut muncher from Dilbert.

I tell myself: My job is as ennobling or soul-devouring as I make it. I'm the one in charge here. It's really up to me.

That's partly true. But the state of my soul is not my doing alone. We're social critters--partly shaped, for better and for worse, by other people. Catbert and the Evil Corporation really can mess us up, steal our souls. And, to the extent that they're the culprits, then standing up to them, demanding changes in our work, is clearly the noble path.

But here's where it gets both complex and fun: The problem can also lie within me, in my way of seeing my job, the way I choose to invest myself, make something meaningful out of those 8, 10, 12 workday hours.

A story... A man sees a worker hauling huge boulders and asks him what he's doing. "I'm a miserable man," he answers, "doomed to a life of menial drudgery, breaking and hauling these huge rocks all day in the hot sun. Woe is me." He sees another man doing exactly the same thing, asks him the same question, and hears him reply: "I'm earning a living to take care of my family." And then he sees yet a third man doing exactly the same task who replies "Me? What am I doing? Why, I'm building a cathedral."

I need to take charge of my job. Dunno yet whether it's the system I need to challenge or just myself and the way I look at my job. Whatever. Just don't wanna be an anesthetized victim like our buddy from Dilbert.

Sex in a Porsche

I've never done it. I mean, in a Porsche. But Wilhelm Oehl has. In fact, he thinks everyone should do it in a Porsche.

He's one of the Silicon Valley tycoons interviewed in Sylvie Blocher's "Living Pictures/Men in Gold" now at the SF Museum of Modern Art.

This guy may connect money with sex, but some of his buddies confuse the two altogether. One middle-ager says, "Money certainly is erotic. It makes you feel big, powerful and safe." And another: "Money can be a sexual experience without an orgasm." One of them tells how, just out of college, he landed a gig for $100,000 in cash. Then he and his girlfriend, fully clothed, spread the money on a bed and took pictures of themselves rolling around in it.

Is it just me, or does this seem kinda strange?

But despite this occasional confusion, these men have "an unbelievable wish to do something," Blocher says, "even if they can't say what." True, that desire can get derailed into trivialities--like simply making more money for its own sake, for example. Still, this deeper restlessness is a good thing, this genuine longing for more love, more life. One of them laments his inability to find a woman who values him for himself and not just for his money. Another hopes his legacy will be appreciated years after he's gone. Hints of deeper desires.

For a few of these men, the film shows a vulnerability rarely seen by Silicon Valley drones like myself. They're not the one-dimensional, driven, moral underachievers I thought. I like Jean-Louis Gassee's self-reflection: "I had a reputation for being flamboyant and abrasive, and now that I'm at peace, I call myself a recovering ass-aholic."

Having seen this film, I can only wish them well. I hope each of them finds someone to love, and the sparkle in their kids' eyes better than that of gold. Oh, and that money really isn't a substitute for good old, delicious, sweaty, passionate sex. I hope they discover that most people in this world have barely enough to eat, much less a Porsche to have sex in. And that they can make things better.

The Senior VP

My boss looks like hell: dark circles under blood shot eyes, gray complexion, very grim. "Did you get any sleep last night?" I ask. He shakes his head.
We and a few colleagues are waiting nervously outside the Senior VP's office, not yet sure why he summoned us.
Suddenly his door swings open. A blast of cold air, the temperature plummets. I can see my breath, my heart races. An enormous black beast with flared nostrils and fiery yellow eyes bounds into the hall. His snarled lips reveal fangs dripping with blood and spit. "Documentation!" he bellows, then commands us into his office. As we stumble in, four young guys pass us on their way out; they look like early christians after a bad day at the Coliseum.
The beast roars "These docs are terrible! I can't imagine what you've been doing this past year."
He's referring to a doc set acquired from another company. These docs were in bad shape when we got them; we did what we could in the time we had, but not as much as we wanted.
The beast thunders a few more accusations: Why didn't we re-architect the doc set, explain how to configure the DMZ, and SSL, and seven or eight other concerns he'd gleaned from customers? "You have an enormous amount of work to do on these docs before the release." With that, he looks at us as though we should simply haul our asses out of there and get crackin'.
But I blurt: "Well, these are excellent suggestions, and I see no reason why we can't implement them." It startles him that anyone would speak up at all, even agree with him. But then I close in: "But is there any reason we are getting these suggestions so late in the release cycle? Thanks for bringing these customer issues to our attention, but this is the first I've heard of any of them. And, as for the re-architecting, I completely agree that this doc set badly needs it. But the guidance we received from your VP was that this was not the release to re-architect them."
He is speechless, vulnerable, almost like an ordinary human being who's just been called to task. "Well, I didn't think...I would have to be...the one to... spot these problems." He glares at his product manager who had obviously not reviewed the docs as she'd been charged. He opens the door and waves us out.
I'm feeling good. I've kept my cool, listened to his concerns and responded to them appropriately, and made my own concerns known as well. In this brief moment, I am a magnificent butterfly freed from the spider's web, a prisoner exonerated and released, a christ sprung from the tomb. I'm off to the next task, strutting as I go.