Managing

One of the more challenging (and vexing) duties of  a manager is to balance the needs of the organization vs the needs of its productive workers. The vexing part was always why I avoided leadership roles like the plague. I didn't want to have any kind of responsibility because (and I saw this in a movie once) being "responsible" was "being the guy everyone else blamed" if things went south.

Where I live, things are often expected to go south:  traffic laws are routinely broken, socks are mismatched, zippers break at embarrassingly crucial times, someone else has gotten to your food or bonus long before you were supposed to. These Islands are Third World after all.  I knew from the get-go that the prospects for failure are often more likely than those for success. It followed that being "responsible" was (to my seven-year-old brain) something thankless and futile and generally not worth trying.

Someone should have told me back then that responsible people got things done in spite of the likelihood of failure, and that not all failures were catastrophic. Maybe I wouldn't have been so afraid to take choice jobs or responsibilities when they were presented to me.

Now, I'm responsible for the well-being of half the teaching staff at my place of work. I've had to make decisions that are neither completely kosher with upper management nor satisfying to the people in my care. I must proceed with tact, with wisdom, with other qualities not traditionally associated with me. 

I can appreciate the irony of being in a management position where lots of things can potentially go south. 

C'est la vie.  

     

A Belated Goodbye to Camelot

Actually it's a belated goodbye to "Gwen"-- not that it should matter to her. There were still some things left unsaid when I was, all of a sudden, unreachable. I'll say them now.

You have "Arthur" and I'm no longer the kind of guy who'll put himself in between two people who care very much for each other. Having a wife stolen out from under me  does not do wonders for the ego, and I had no desire to put you and Arthur through that ordeal. I have no stomach to dish out the kind of testing-by-fire that God seems to mete so callously and haphazardly.

Perhaps I... should have endeavored to meet you a year ago, but I was obviously preoccupied. I would not have known you for the wondrous, terribly sweet and caring person that you are.

At any rate, having known you now, I would have followed you anywhere, Arthur or no Arthur. And I did, all the way to Camelot, where I served as one of your mercenaries of literacy. For a time, I was probably your best knight.

Here's a tip about myself: it's generally not money that keeps me tethered to someone's employ. I've been known to throw my life away on a fool's quest because I cherished the feeling I got when someone smiled at me. I've been known to spend long hours in the field because someone's kerchief was tied to my shoulder.

It's who I am.

It is also who I'm not appreciated for. Nobody really likes a man whose eyes follow and drink your every movement down to the very dregs. Nobody really adores the people who adore them.

I've gotten much older than I've had to be in this department, Gwen. I no longer have the staying power to remain fool-hardy.You obviously can't give me what I need  and it upsets me that I feel you've shut me out before I ever got the chance to ask. I would have been happy with simple talk: you always made a four-letter word fall sweetly on the ears.

There was no more reason for me to stay on in Camelot, was no other logical course of action available but to wish you all well, to pack up my Lance and leave.

If I'd a dollar for all the times I've had to say this I'd be rich:

I wish you every happiness. I wish you and Arthur every joy.  


I say it ruefully, but I truly mean it.

In case you throw my letter away, (and you will).

I've often thought of letters as successful only in two things: expressing sentiment and saying goodbye. This is partly why I've been stymied for pretty much the last two years. Everybody tells me I write eloquently, passionately, powerfully, lovingly. But who am I kidding? Against the weight of my sin against you-- which you can neither forgive nor forget-- any missive of mine, indeed any attempt of mine to reach you is anathema to you and ultimately useless to me.

Letters don't really move people-- how many times have you seen a letter move a government? How many times have you seen a love letter really move people? It hasn't moved you and I have long stopped expecting any future missive to do so.

This isn't my core message. As I write, I'm angry and I'm sad and I don't know how objective I can be despite my best efforts. Stupidity is banging your head on the same wall hoping that the next attempt will not end in bits of broken skull, blood, matted hair and a broken face. When the matter is you, though, I excel at being stupid.

In all my drafts I'd wanted to just say that I loved you, needed you. That I was sorry. And that I do not want to say goodbye. We've seen too much together, done too much together. We've made love forgodssakes, or close enough to it, though I didn't want to call it that before. More than any ache in the loins I feel the loss of you every day.

Concurrent with that feeling of loss, Tin, is an outraged sense of futility, of terrible crippling sadness, the fear that I will never again see your face. Your voice, the smell of your hair, your caresses may belong to someone else now.

I love you. 


I do not want to say goodbye.   


october-december 2009 -january-february 2010

Laid...

"Laid" (v.) past tense and past participle of "lay" 


Laid Up

Fringe Dex has come down with a bug that took months in development, a month to diagnose and he knows not how long to treat. For today, he's taking things easy (as easy as his fevered brain will allow). If any of his arnis friends are reading this post, this situation is one more reason Dex has been...

Laying Low

It's something that I've had to do frequently because of the weakness and the lassitude, also because I have other things to do. I'm returning to the wonderful world of ESL (pronounced "ee es err") because I need to finance my medication for while I'm laid up, and maybe for months beyond that point. It annoys, it galls, it inconveniences like a boyfriend who just won't stop telling you he loves you. I'll need to lay low some more because I'm conserving what strength I have left for the now old job. Y'know, so I won't be...

Laid Off

It's the general consensus that quitting is a lot better. I promise, dear reader, that I will do nothing to jeopardize my plans of quitting the job after it's served my purposes.
 

One Step Short

The position won't be here forever. It could be gone now, for all I know. God knows I need the money, but do I seriously want to go back to the wonderful world of local foreign-run ESL with all its craziness? This is no longer what I want. I would have gladly stayed in this industry to be with Tin, or later on with Gwen, but beside me is not where either woman wants to be.

Add to my headaches this little problem: I may be dealing with something right now that puts me in no position to share myself or a future with anyone. I don't mean that metaphorically. There's a condition that some people have that is cause for annulment of marriage (as per Canon Law): what I may have is about one step short of that.

I'm always seemingly one step short: of greatness, of infamy (though some may argue with that), or getting rich, or what have you. That one time I wasn't one step short of something, I wake up to ...this. 

C'est la vie.

Check back with me in a few and maybe I will have become a step short of, thankfully, something else.

In Search of Decent Sticks

My little “fact-finding” trip south of the Philippines was not martial in nature, but thanks to that, I knew I’d need new sticks in the near future. And yes, a bunch of (wooden) knives to complement and replace the one I already own in case it broke. I resolved to fill part of that need with a quick trip to Quiapo yesterday.

What I should have done was pay more attention to what Jeff was telling me about where exactly he’d previously bought my training gear. Get on a Quiapo-bound jeep, he’d said. Get off a little after you clear the tunnel. The rest of it was a blur. Still, it didn’t faze me: it was a cool late Sunday afternoon and I had time to look around.

Too bad, I didn’t have company. Sunday afternoon shopping excursions— even if for only for anti-riot gear— should really be a shared experience. Seeing how your companion’s eyes light up at your latest mutual discovery (brass knuckles, steel and wooden knives, telescoping batons) takes away the annoyances of aching feet or the heat of the day. Days like this, with companions like that, you’re going to want to part with your money.

Sadly, each shop I wandered into had the wrong kinds of sticks: too thin, too thick, too light, too heavy, sticks that threatened to stick a splinter in your fingers and palm. I’d peered into alleyways full of shops festooned with faux military-grade bags, shirts, shorts, belts, and combat boots. I spoke to seedy-looking men in my search for sticks with the right thickness, length and finish. I’d gone round the area as far as Raon, where I used to buy cheap electronics for my old Practical Arts classes. What galled was that I knew I wasn’t searching the Quiapo area deeply enough, because that place is like any market in a Neil Gaiman novel: if you knew where to look you will find everything you need, even your elusive rattan canes.

I used to know this place at least as well as anyone who studied in the University Belt was reasonably expected to. Yet every scary man in a tank top who stood outside these shrines of macho was pointing to bundles of all the wrong sticks, tied together with plastic twine. Where were my sticks? Times like these, I really missed company: my feet and my head were beginning to hurt.

Finally, at the recommendation of a not-so-scary gay shopkeeper who knew nothing about sticks, I settled on a pair made from lacquered hardwood. I had little choice: none of the rattan canes passed muster and all the other hardwood sticks were cracked or bent. My acquisitions were way too smooth to be handled properly and too heavy for my standard training needs. If I’m not extra careful, they’re as likely to break my wrist or slip out of my sweaty grip and bean someone on the head.

I took out my hardwood cudgels and went through a few of my exercises –slowly— when I arrived home.

Diagonal strikes, horizontals, half strikes: I didn’t trust myself with verticals, not yet. I shuffled, trying to get used to the weight and the increased and potentially more painful mass I was twirling in the air. One stick resting lightly on each shoulder: aim for your opponent’s head now. Lean left, attack with the right-hand stick. Lean right, attack with the left-hand stick. Arms crossed: lean right, strike right. Lean left, follow with left. Arms open now— keep your opponent from moving in!— strike with the right...

Shampoo, rinse, repeat.

I’m rationalizing right now, keeping the buyer’s remorse at bay. And as I tell myself that my find will be useful, I also tell myself that I will consult with Jeff and listen more closely the next time I go hunting for sticks.

Ricardo Montalban, RIP

Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannn!

Saying that and cracking jokes about the man's cleavage isn't going to be half as 

fun anymore. Neither will making those impressions of the original Fantasy Island's Tattoo (De plane! De plane!) be half as satisfying.  

He died yesterday, the actor best-known for his role of genetically engineered superman Khan Noonien Singh on Star Trek  and for his other, more sedate role of Fantasy Island proprietor Mr. Roarke. The people who spend time surfing the Catholic Channels will find Ricardo Montalban 1) thanking God, 2) advocating the rosary, or 3) hawking rosaries with stones from a cave in Jerusalem encapsulated in their crosses. And he was spokesman for the Chrysler Cordoba in the mid-seventies.  ....Not that any of these things ring bells with my four gentle readers.

I guess what should strike them is that the man lived to a ripe old age and somehow didn't piss people off, sully his reputation or figure in a high-profile brouhaha with other celebrities. Considering the climate in Hollywood, that's saying a lot. He was so nice the Pope knighted him, sort of. a role model for many Latinos everywhere-- a Mexican who made it big in the 'States, who never give up his Mexican citizenship up to he day he died.    

 

Ricardo Montalban is dead, reminding us of our own mortality. Reminding some of us yet again of how close we are to it. It's as if the creaky joints, the arrhythmia, the disproportionately increased insulin levels were not enough. 

There is so much for us to do-- like yell "Khaaaaaaaaaaan!" into a Starfleet communicator or praise the Chrysler's "soft Corinthian leather" in Montalban's distinct mellifluous voice--  and so very little precious time to do it in. 

Singing in the Stairwell

It looks like I'm frequenting the stairwell in my office building more than the Hotel Sogo these days. And this is a good thing. I've been meaning to find a more or less unobtrusive place to practice my singing voice. I pretty much failed on that score (the office bathroom being unsuitable), so the stairwell's the next best thing.

The stairwell has the ambience I'm looking for: enough reverb to make the voice sound crisp and lively. It's built like the inside of a giant flute so sound carries to the next few floors. If you keep the door open the sound  travels along the corridor and insinuates itself into the neighboring offices. As long as you sing well, it's not too distracting. In fact it might be somewhat welcome.       

Of course I wouldn't be Dex if I didn't do things like singing in the stairwell for at least three reasons most of the time. So, 

• Reason 1: My voice is somewhat rusty, so I really do need the practice. 
• Reason 2:  I'm often emotionally constipated, so I need the catharsis. 
• Reason 3: At any one time between lunch and ten p.m., the room next to the stairwell is occupied by good looking chicks.
  

To paraphrase myself, as long as I don't sound like I'm strangling the cat, I should be fine. ;)