-Warehouse Wheels-
Granted, it took time for me to understand this illogical, wasteful work culture, but I did, didn't I? I've learned the proper time and place for everything. When the boss asks the group for new ideas in morning meetings, or specifically asks me at any time or place in the building - especially the men's room - I know better than to say what I'm really thinking. He doesn't want to hear about how we could save money by encouraging the scientists to cite articles from the same, inexpensive vendor.
He does not want to hear your philosophy of copyediting.
He wants you to finish the tasks quickly, but he does not want to think about how fast you are. That would be threatening; most bosses are more afraid of employees than employees are afraid of them, and mine is no exception. But since his head injury this weekend, it may be possible, even advisable to inform him of my new plan before I begin without them. The plan is that good.
Nearly every business has old computers and office furniture languishing away on the premises. But we have some items that could fetch a pretty penny on the kitsch market, specifically, Tim and Marie Kitsch's market just off the highway.
My favorite is the ambulance. There's a layer of white paint covering the old markers, and a new seal with name of the company on the side. And yet, once the machine had ceased to be useful in their estimation, they lock it up in the storage bay. Just like that.
Some other curios: and industrial knife sharpener, red-orange typewriters with a rounded base, old fashioned fans with only four wavy bars to keep fingers away from the blades. I haven't had this brand of fun since my visit to the Museum of Questionable Medical Devices.
There's a wonderful old elevator, too. I'm still working out the logistics behind stealing it when I notice a general electric water fountain. I press the button on the front and watch a slim jet of water spiral up, down, and around the drain. Drink with gusto. Spit. There's something to be said for modernity in beverages. I haven't had this bad a reaction to stagnant water since I drank from the pool atop Old Rag Mountain in Virginia, in 2002.
Save the old things, the industrial detritus, and sell them to twenty-somethings in search of irony and oddity.
 | If there's one thing that really gets to me, it's a lack of creativity among the bosses. |
Granted, it took time for me to understand this illogical, wasteful work culture, but I did, didn't I? I've learned the proper time and place for everything. When the boss asks the group for new ideas in morning meetings, or specifically asks me at any time or place in the building - especially the men's room - I know better than to say what I'm really thinking. He doesn't want to hear about how we could save money by encouraging the scientists to cite articles from the same, inexpensive vendor.
He does not want to hear your philosophy of copyediting.
He wants you to finish the tasks quickly, but he does not want to think about how fast you are. That would be threatening; most bosses are more afraid of employees than employees are afraid of them, and mine is no exception. But since his head injury this weekend, it may be possible, even advisable to inform him of my new plan before I begin without them. The plan is that good.
Nearly every business has old computers and office furniture languishing away on the premises. But we have some items that could fetch a pretty penny on the kitsch market, specifically, Tim and Marie Kitsch's market just off the highway.
My favorite is the ambulance. There's a layer of white paint covering the old markers, and a new seal with name of the company on the side. And yet, once the machine had ceased to be useful in their estimation, they lock it up in the storage bay. Just like that.
Some other curios: and industrial knife sharpener, red-orange typewriters with a rounded base, old fashioned fans with only four wavy bars to keep fingers away from the blades. I haven't had this brand of fun since my visit to the Museum of Questionable Medical Devices.
There's a wonderful old elevator, too. I'm still working out the logistics behind stealing it when I notice a general electric water fountain. I press the button on the front and watch a slim jet of water spiral up, down, and around the drain. Drink with gusto. Spit. There's something to be said for modernity in beverages. I haven't had this bad a reaction to stagnant water since I drank from the pool atop Old Rag Mountain in Virginia, in 2002.
Save the old things, the industrial detritus, and sell them to twenty-somethings in search of irony and oddity.
posted by Benedict | 12:22 AM
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