This is the big one, Elizabeth!

Back in the 70s, there was a TV sitcom called Sanford and Son.  If you remember the show, or have watched an episode or two at some time in your life, you probably remember how Fred Sanford (played by Redd Foxx)would look up (as to heaven) with his hand across his chest in times of distress (and he was always in some kind of self-imposed distress) faking a heart attack and addressing his departed wife with these words: "This is The Big One, Elizabeth! I'm comin' to join ya', honey!"

Back in the 80s, there was a man named James Fixx whose best-selling book "The Complete Book of Running" led tens of thousands to take up jogging and made him a guru of the running world. One day, while out running, Jim collapsed and died of an apparent heart attack. Friends described him as being in fine physical condition and said he had not complained of any symptoms while running 10 miles a day and pursuing other vigorous physical activity. An autopsy revealed that Mr. Fixx's left circumflex coronary artery was almost totally blocked; only trickles of blood could flow through the pinholes that were left of the inside of that artery. About 80 percent of the blood flow in the right coronary artery was blocked. The chief nourishment to Mr. Fixx's heart came from blood flowing through the third artery, the left anterior descending, which was less severely affected. Nevertheless, half that artery was blocked in places.

Not so far back, in March, 2013, I had an experience which brought memories of Fred Sanford and Jim Fixx to the forefront of my mind. Let me explain.

On March 26, I was standing at the bottom of the stairs in the lobby of Alliance Francaise Paris, where my wife and I were attending French language classes.  This was the penultimate class in the four week series we were enrolled in.  We were in two different classes. Hers was on the fourth floor, mine was on the third. My class usually got out a few minutes before hers, so I had a few minutes to wait before she came down the stairs.

That morning, we left our apartment as usual and took the twenty minute walk to school.  Along the way, we passed now familiar places near our apartment on Rue de Sevres - Le Bon Marché department store and Le Grand Epicerie supermarket. After turning the corner and heading down Boulevard Raspail, we passed a Mini Cooper dealership on the left and a Smart car dealership across from it on the right.  In the center median of the boulevard was the city's major marché biologique (organic market) where we had shopped for fresh produce, meat, and cheese on the weekends. We were living a long-cherished dream of mine to spend a month in Paris and learn a bit of french via immersion.

The classes were held three days a week for three hours each, with a short break somewhere around the midpoint.  That day, I began to feel something funny in my chest part way through the first half of the session.  By break time, I was feeling moderate discomfort, but walked down the stairs and got a café crème, then back to class to learn some more french. By the end of class, I was convinced I was having a heart attack.  I had the classic symptoms of chest pain, with pain radiating down my arm and up into my neck and lower jaw.  However, It wasn't intensely uncomfortable, so I walked down the stairs and waited for my wife to come down from class. When she arrived, I told her I wasn't feeling so good, that I thought I was having a heart attack, and that we needed to call for emergency help. We went to the front desk, found someone who could speak English, and explained that I was sick and needed emergency help. (I have since learned that "crise cardiaque" is passable french for heart attack. I hadn't learned that in class.  All I could think of was "coup de coeur".  If had gone around saying that and holding my chest, I might have ended up in a  psychiatrist's office instead of a hospital.)

The lady at the desk summoned the school security person, who escorted me to his office, where I sat on the floor and waited while he called the pompiers.  The pompiers arrived within a few minutes, asked me a few questions, and hooked me up to their portable heart monitor machine.  Blood pressure and pulse were normal, and at first, they were indicating that there might not be any serious problem.  They hooked up some electrodes and did a quick EKG, which showed some problem.  They then called for an ambulance with a doctor on board.  The ambulance arrived within a minute or two, they carried me out to the ambulance, and the doctor confirmed that I was indeed having a heart attack and needed to be transported to the hospital.

So off we went to the hospital, with my frantic wife riding in the front of the ambulance and me in the back.  WEE-OOH WEE-OOH.  Our first (and hopefully last) ambulance ride. That was the beginning of five days in cardiac intensive care in Hôpital Cochin Paris, complete with two angioplasties and three stent installations.  We extended our stay in Paris for an additional two weeks before getting a doctor's release to travel back home.

Overall, it was quite an experience, and gave me a first hand view of the French health care system.  In terms of quality of care and cost, I would recommend it to anyone who is contemplating having a heart attack.

After arriving back home, I took one more week off work, and then came back to the cubicle with a whole new perspective on life, or what's left of it for me.  This experience has been a demarcation point. I feel like my old "cubicle career" life is over, and I am ready to launch into a new phase of living.  After thirty-two years of corporate cubicle life, have decided to retire from the company.

In a serendipitous turn of events, the corporate overlords have rolled the "restructuring/work force management" guillotine out of the closet and are preparing it for another round of job cuts. This time the plan is to cut two percent of the workforce, or about four-hundred fifty people. I was notified today that my head will roll.  (It also means that I will get a fairly generous separation package, which is a nice surprise.)  My last day of employment here will be 28 June 2013.

With this post, I plan to return to more actively posting in this blog.  I expect to follow this post with some reflections on my cubicle career, followed by more tales of a transformational journey through a new, post-cubicle phase of life.

As someone who is approaching the autumn of life, I leave you with this little verse to contemplate:

I like spring, but it's too young,
I like summer, but it's too proud.
So, best of all I like autumn.
Because its leaves are a little yellow,
Its tone mellower, its colors richer;
And its golden richness speaks not
Of the innocence of spring nor
Of the power of summer,
But of the mellowness and kindly wisdom
Of approaching age, and knows the
Limitations of life, and is content.

- June Douglas 1919 - 2008

Pop That Rag!

A few weeks ago, I spent five days in Las Vegas at a "business conference". In keeping with the generally accepted amnesiatic social convention of letting things that happen in Vegas stay in Vegas, I won't tell you everything I did there, but there was one notable activity which I would like to share with you.

Vegas is a city where you don't need any excuses to do something risky with your money or your life. You can get married at 1AM to a stranger you just met a 12AM or blow all your money on craps or roulette, then mortgage your house or hock your car to get in on a game of high stakes poker. All manner of illogical, destructive, and risk-laden activity is expected and excused if it happens in Vegas... and the best part is, you can do all these things, then go back home and say "I attended a business conference in Vegas". No further explanation or details need to be provided. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Anyway, as I said before, a few weeks back "I attended a business conference in Vegas". During the conference, I did something which I have rarely done in my adult life, and haven't done at all in probably thirty years or more.

I got a shoe shine.

The shoe shine stand, tucked away in a side hallway, caught my attention as I was leaving the conference center. It was attended by a petite, immaculately groomed, middle aged man. His shoe shine stand had two chairs, one of which was occupied by a customer, the other being empty. On impulse, I stepped up into the vacant chair and waited my turn.

When it was my turn, I sat and observed the meticulous work of the shoe shiner and the perfectly organized drawer of supplies which he opened and closed as he did his work. I watched as he tucked my shoelaces into my shoes to keep them out of the way while he cleaned my shoes, then applied polish, then brushed, then used a polishing rag to bring out a brilliant, deep shine. As he applied the final coat of liquid dye to the soles of my shoes, untucked my shoelaces, then tapped the bottom of my shoe to signal that he was finished, my mind was flooded with a long-forgotten memory.

I was remembering a boy I once knew who had a shoe shine stand in his grandfather's barber shop. This boy was about ten years old when he started shining shoes, and worked in the barber shop shining shoes on Saturdays. At first, it took a tremendous amount of courage for him to approach customers and say: "Shoe shine, sir?" (I challenge you to say that ten times fast - it's a real tongue-twister). I remember that he had a portable shoe shine box so that he could shine a customer's shoes while they were in the barber chair if they were pressed for time, or were using that as an excuse not to get a shoe shine. I remember how he used to pop his polishing rag to add a little flair to the final polishing process and hope it would get him a bigger tip. I remember him being terrified of getting polish stains on customer's white socks. I remember how, toward the end of the day, he would walk across the street to the bank and deposit some of his earnings into his savings account.

Yes, I remember being a shoe shine boy in my grandfather's barber shop. That was a long time ago - almost fifty years now. It hardly seems real. It's one of those childhood memories that has reduced down over time to a sweet, nostalgic reminiscence. Looking back, the life of that boy seems so simple and carefree.

Before you go, you might enjoy listening to this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bh5A2qmWjf0

A Matter of Perspective

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WARNING TO CAREERISTS

This posting includes examples of behaviour which are not acceptable on the part of those who are focused on having a successful corporate career. If that is your goal, please don't read the rest of this post. Instead, go read this: http://www.ehow.com/how_2135494_handle-change-work.html

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Even if you come to work every day and stand on your head in a corner in a pile of bull excrement, eventually you will get used to it. After a while, your perspective will change to the point that the world will again appear to be right side up and the excrement will smell like roses and taste like candy to you. It's all a matter of perspective.

The more flexible you are, the sooner this change of perspective will come about. In the world of cubicle workers, our corporate masters place a high value on "flexibility". From their perspective, "flexible" workers provide a more efficient match between labor resources and the work required. The general idea is that any one will be willing to do any thing at any time. "Flexible" workers have multiple skill sets, work variable hours, and multi-task among multiple job functions as needed; they are open to changing organizations and job responsibilities on the fly. From the perspective of the corporate executive, this all adds up to lower cost and increased agility for the corporate elephant. From my perspective, this is all well and good... up to a point. At some point, reality intervenes and sets limits. Elephants are good for heavy lifting, but aren't great tap dancers.

As my thirty-year anniversary with the company approaches, the smell of reality permeates my cubicle, and it doesn't make me think of roses. I suppose it is evidence of some sort of sclerosis on my part that recent changes in my organization and job function have sent me into a sort of apopleptic fit. I guess I'm just not as flexible as I used to be - or maybe I'm just not as naive. I've been around this block before. I've heard this restructuring dog bark many times.

The memos announcing an organizational change usually start with a phrase like "I am very excited about the opportunity..." The message is full of corporate speak and replete with buzzwords like leverage, synergy, stakeholders, and "customer intimacy" (yeah, right, I can hardly wait to get "intimate" with MY customers). The memo then ends with a phrase like "I know that I can count on you all to stay engaged and focused during this challenging time...", followed by a repetition of the "I am very excited..." phrase. Included is an attachment with a new org chart.

Last December, I scanned the latest org change memo with a jaded eye, expecting to ignore the changes for the most part and just continue with my cubicle duties. Beyond having a different "reporting structure", I didn't expect much to change. I planned, as usual, to follow my time-tested "hide and watch" tactic as people jockeyed for position and power in the new organization. This can be a fun game to watch, but not one I want to participate in. So, I settled in to watch the show. At first, it was quite entertaining.

Immediately after the announcement, three first-level managers bailed out of their newly assigned positions. One (the one I was supposed to begin reporting to) left the company. Two others maneuvered into positions elsewhere within the company. This set off a flurry of activity among my "cubicle careerist" peers. They put on their best faces, polished up their resumes, and set out to pursue newly percieved opportunities to advance in their corporate careers. This was all great fun to watch... for a while.

After a couple of months, the new selections were announced via yet another org change memo in the same format as usual, with the usual revised org chart attached. Scanning through this one, I began to feel increasingly uneasy. This didn't look like the same old dog barking again. This was a different animal, one that could bite.

In this latest memo, it was announced that two of my peers would become managers. I would be reporting directly to a guy who used to be my walking buddy, and his boss would be another of my peers who had recently joined the company and with whom I had often clashed fiercely... but the part that bites is that the number of people in my group is reduced from eight to five, and my new "role" is a combination of two jobs - my old one plus a new set of tasks consisting mostly of corporate transactional administrivia.

Over the next few days, my brain was a pressure cooker of emotions stewing in their own juices. I felt high anxiety, punctuated with periods when I was just livid, seething, and shaking. I wrote down some notes on how I was feeling, along with some ideas about the role I wanted vs the one I was being given. I "shared" this with my new manager, who was probably a little overwhelmed by it. His reaction was: "So, are you refusing to do your job?". That wasn't exactly what I had expected. Obviously, we weren't going to be walking buddies any longer.

Not being satisfied with my ex-walking-buddy's response, and still intent on sabotaging my corporate career, I composed an email message outlining my thoughts and feelings about my new role and sent it off to my first, second, and third level managers. I got a similar response (Are you refusing to do your job?) from my second-level manager(who also used to be my peer), and no response from my third level manager. I assume it is bad corporate form for a manager three levels up to respond directly to someone whining at the bottom of their newly-formed organization.

In the end, my dear wife of 35 years came to the rescue, providing relief and comfort as she has always done. She went to the library, checked out the book "Who Moved My Cheese?" by Spencer Johnson, brought it home, and read it to me, cover to cover, in one sitting. In case you haven't read it, it is a silly little story about mice in a maze that purports to "reveal profound truths about change that give people and organizations a quick and easy way to succeed in changing times". I'm not sure that this book has lived up to it's billing, but I am sure that it, along with "The One Minute Manager", has made Spencer Johnson quite wealthy. People who haven't changed since it was published in 1998 still have this book on their cubicle shelves.

Anyway, I've settled down a bit, and am making plans to go find new cheese. I have also relocated my magnetic cut-out likeness of Wally (my hero from the Dilbert Comic strip) to a prominent place near my cubicle entrance. Each day, as I enter my cubicle, I pause and bow slightly to this image, while silently asking the great Wally for guidance throughout my work day.

I am sure that one day, hopefully not long in the future, I will walk into my cubicle one morning and say: "What a beautiful day it is today! It smells like roses in here!". After all, it's only a matter of perspective.

Until then - color me disaffected.

PS - If anyone has a good home remedy for stubbornness or hemorrhoids, please let me know. I've been having trouble with both lately. Also, I am in the market for a new walking buddy...

I leave you now with a new reader-submitted comic for your perusal and enjoyment:

A New Month Begins

Today, I am rejoicing in my cubicle. A new month has begun, replete with fresh opportunities as destiny beckons me to reach toward new heights in cubicle achievements!

Happy April fool's day...

Expandable Pants

In my closet, I have two or three pairs of expandable pants. You know the kind I'm talking about, right? The kind with elastic cleverly disguised in the waistband. I'm assuming they are designed for old guys whose waistline is expanding ever more rapidly and who want to avoid buying a bigger pair of pants every six months or so; or maybe it just appeals to one's vanity. Think about it - if you keep on buying pants with the same waist size, you don't have to admit you're getting fatter. It also means that you can go to an all-you-can-eat buffet and really get your money's worth without having to unbutton your pants midway through the meal.

Of course, there are alternatives to expandable pants... for example, some men just move their pants lower and lower as their girth expands, so that they end up buying shorter pants, but not bigger around. I guess that serves the same purpose as expandable pants, but it means that you run a few risks. If you are wearing your pants underneath your belly, they tend to keep sliding down and you have to continually hold them up or they'll fall down around your knees at some inopportune moment. Also, as you move your pants lower and lower on your torso, you have to buy your shirts longer and longer to avoid the notorious crack exposure syndrome with which plumbers are famously afflicted.

I bought expandable pants because, well, I am getting older, my girth was increasing slowly but surely, and above all, they were cheap. Cheaper than any other pants in the store. Even cheaper than jeans. Not that I really needed more pants - I already had a dozen pair or so of perfectly good pants in the closet - but it was getting to the point where most of them were tight enough that I really couldn't wear them comfortably. Actually, it had been a few years since some of them were wearable, but they weren't worn out, so I was keeping them just in case. Pants last a long time if you leave them hanging in the closet. They only wear out if you wear and wash them. Sure, they may go out of style, but that's not a problem for me, since I am... well, let's just say I'm stylishly challenged, but fiscally aware. I'm more concerned about cost than chic.

So I bought expandable pants partly for comfort, partly to boost my vanity, partly to mitigate risk of me reaching up and my pants suddenly falling down, partly to avoid the added cost and inconvenience of wearing suspenders to hold my pants up, and partly as insurance against having uncomfortably tight pants which are left hanging in the closet and not being worn. You see, I had plenty of good reasons... and to top it all off, they were cheap. A wise decision on my part, don't you think?

I smugly wore my expandable pants while feasting on burgers, fries, Skittles, donuts, cookies, and other delectable and delicious things. For a while, as my girth and pants automatically expanded, so did my feeling of contentment and well-being.

However, long before my expandable pants began to show any wear, my contented, smug reverie was shattered by a trip to the doctor for a yearly checkup. I am not one to go to the doctor of my own volition. However, as I have aged, I have yielded to increasing pressure to have yearly physical exams. I am told that once you reach a certain age, there are some things that need to be monitored closely. I am told that my colon must be periodically examined via a rather invasive procedure called a colonoscopy; my prostate must be examined using a procedure which I don't know the name of, but which involves dropping your pants and bending over in the presence of a doctor wearing a surgical glove on his raised index finger; my blood pressure must be monitored for signs of hypertension; my blood must be regularly sampled and tested for signs of various improper levels of things like cholesterol, blood sugar, and triglycerides. This is only a partial enumeration of a long list of things that must be checked yearly, according to people who know about these things. I resisted the pressure for a while, but finally yielded when I discovered that these yearly checkups are free as part of my healthcare plan.

I was escorted to the examining room by a nurse who took my blood pressure, then left, saying the doctor would be in shortly. Eventually the doctor came in and probed various orifices in my head and nether regions with an assortment of tools and probes, including the gloved index finger previously mentioned. Once this examination was complete, he sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and entered some information. He then told me that my blood pressure was a little high, and he could see that in the past, my cholesterol levels had been a little out of whack. He asked me to go down to the lab and have some blood drawn, printed out a copy of the DASH diet, gave it to me, and said "Try following this diet, and go easy on the salt. You could stand to lose a few pounds."

I went into the doctor's office feeling healthy, smug, and content. I left feeling sick, deflated, and anxious, thinking that maybe expandable pants weren't such a good idea after all. But the real blow came about two weeks later in the form of a lab report and a note from the doctor, which said something like: "Your lipids are high. I am ordering a prescription for Simvastatin. Begin taking it, then come back to the lab after three months for a follow-up." I was devastated. I envisioned myself a few years from now, sitting down at breakfast time with one of those weekly pill organizers to take my assortment of prescription drugs every day. Simvastation was only the beginning, I thought. Next, it would be blood pressure drugs, then diabetes drugs, then who knows what else. I wasn't ready to start down that road just yet.

I ignored the prescription, changed my eating habits in accordance with the DASH diet, lost 25 pounds, and went back for another lipids test. This time, the results came back with a note from the doctor which said something like: "Your lipid levels are responding well to Simvastatin, and your liver function is normal." I then sent the doctor a letter in reply, telling him that I wasn't taking Simvastatin, but had changed my diet and had lost some weight. That was almost a year ago. I never got a reply from the doctor. He's probably not very happy with me. I'm not sure if I have the courage to go in for another yearly checkup and face being chastised for not following orders. Maybe I'll just skip the checkups for a while.

I'm not so proud of my expandable pants any more. I don't wear them much, and when I do, I don't have that smug, contented feeling like I used to. However, the good news is that I can now wear any of the pants in my closet, and I won't have to buy any new ones for a long while.

Meanwile, back in the cubicle

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I apologize for not including any subject matter on cubicle life in this post. Let me just say that the cubicle drama continues. Last week, my walking buddy becamy my boss, and another of my peers with whom I have often clashed fiercely, became my boss' boss. More on that in my next post. It's a story you won't want to miss!

Privacy, Possessions, and Social Status in the Cubicle

I don't really have anything worthwhile to post, but I'll just take this opportunity to spout some random bits that have been floating around in my head for a while. It's a new year, and I just need to clean out the attic, so to speak.

So, here are a few thoughts on life in the cubicle...

Regarding Privacy

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I don't know a lot about the physics of how sound travels, but my experience working in a cubicle suggests to me that it must flow up, then out, then down in a series of arcs of random length. I don't know how else to explain the fact that the network security guy who sits in the far corner of the cubicle farm sounds like he is sitting beside me while telling engineers why they are blocked from accessing Pandora at work.

Regardless of the physics involved, what it boils down to is that everyone in the cubicle farm hears every word you speak and every sound you make. We hear each other typing, shuffling papers, crunching ice from a cold drink, and tearing pages off of our Dilbert desk calendars. During my years of residence in the cubicle, I have (over)heard all manner of personal conversations; people telling their teenage kids to go mow the lawn, people describing intimate details of romantic encounters and spats with lovers; Managers explaining to subordinate managers how to deal with people who have been ranked as #2, but want to be #1. I know who is trying to get their furnace fixed or their car repaired; I have witnessed negotiations for the purchase of cars, houses, and in-home entertainment systems. I hear people making arrangements for golfing tee times, eating out, airline flights, cruises, marriage counseling, and doctor appointments. We hear each other cough, sneeze, blow our noses, belch, snort, laugh, curse, and fart.

This morning, I thought I heard someone peeing in their cubicle, which would have been novel behaviour to witness, even for a seasoned cubicle dweller. However, it was followed by gurgling and hissing sounds, at which point I realized that what I had heard was someone filling their in-cubicle coffee-maker... which brings me to my next point for comment.

Regarding Posessions

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The Corporate Cubicle Police, operating under cover as Workplace Services or Environmental Health and Safety employees, are ever vigilant about establishing and enforcing rules and policies about how cubicles can be (re)configured and what posessions cubicle dwellers are allowed to have in their cloth-covered boxes. They are especially sensitive about things that plug in and get hot, like coffee-makers, electric heaters, etc.

I'm quite sure that the cubicle dweller I heard filling their in-cubicle coffee-maker was violating some sort of corporate rule; However, a small in-cubicle coffee-maker is not an egregious or notable violation of cubicle rules and statutes. A more interesting case is one that I observed several years ago shortly after after starting a new position in the R&D lab. I arrived one morning to the smell of bacon cooking. Driven by curiosity, I followed my nose to the cubicle of an electrical engineer, where I found him cooking and serving a full breakfast - consisting of eggs, bacon, pancakes, coffee, and orange juice - to co-workers. I feel confident that his hot plate, griddle, coffee-maker, and refrigerator were not exactly sanctioned by the cubicle police, one of whom was in line for breakfast! I took my place in line to be served and thoroughly enjoyed my breakfast. I soon learned that this was a regular monthly event using food donated by R&D cubicle dwellers. Sadly, this engineer/breakfast cook was laid off some time ago in one of the first waves of corporate restructuring. I suspect they got rid of him primarily because he was providing stiff competition for the company cafeteria.

Regarding Social Status

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At first glance, the cubicle farm seems like a remarkably egalitarian and homogeneous place, with row after row of little cloth covered boxes, all nicely color-coordinated and provisioned with standard, built-in furnishings.

However, this apparent manufactured consistency belies the fact that cubicle workers are stratified into several distinct social sub-classes. We cubicle workers like to differentiate ourselves - much like "normal" human beings do - by sending signals regarding our status relative to other cubicle workers.

In the cubicle farm where I work, most cubicle dwellers have cubicles of about six feet by ten feet with built-in cubicle furniture arranged in one of a few "approved" configurations consisting of built-in work surfaces, an ergonomically correct office chair, and a not-so-ergonomically-correct visitor's chair. Also included are a couple of lockable bookshelves, an open bookshelf, and a lockable drawer unit. This cubicle configuration is occupied by "middle class" cubicle citizens.

For those cubicle dwellers who are better than "middle class", but who aren't important enough to get a real office, there are a few distinctive features which are available to signal their elevated status. Following are some cubicle features which signal elevated status:

Translucent panel - some cubicles, while not appreciably larger than "middle class", are configured with a translucent panel next to the aisle in place of the usual cloth-covered panel. This configuration usually means you are a first-level supervisor or manager. It is an unspoken rule that "individual contributors" are forbidden from having a translucent panel in their cubicle.

Bigger cubicle with a small round conference table - These cubicles are occupied by operational managers and are often located at the "head" of a row of cubicles occupied by underlings.

Even bigger cubicle with lots of translucent panels, a round or oval conference table, and a separate work area for an "admin assistant" - these cubicles are usually located on a strategic corner of the cubicle farm and are occupied by people who are managers of managers and have an admin assistant to manage their precious time. Their position might be called something like "integrating manager".

I could go on, but you get the idea. There's a caste system in the cubicle farm in which higher level members have ways of signaling their coveted status in the corporate pecking order. Astute and ambitious members of cubicle society know how to recognize these subtle signals of status and show the proper deference and attitude in order to maximize their potential for advancement to the next level in the corporate hierarchy.

Regarding me being astute and ambitious

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Alas, after almost thirty years here, I don't even have a translucent panel in my cubicle. So much for being astute and ambitious. It's probably too late to start now. However, I would like to have a coffee mug heater if I can sneak it in past the cubicle police. It's never to late to start being sneaky and devious :-)

I'd Like Something Older, Slower, and Smaller, Please

In the corporate world, growth is everything. Growth is imperative. Greed, fear, insecurity, paranoia, and herd behavior permeate the corporation in its frenetic pursuit of continuous growth. Institutional investors and wall street financial institutions continually demand one thing: Growth. Short-term, quarter-by-quarter growth.

The obvious problem is that continuous growth is not possible in a finite world. Sooner or later, resources will be exhausted and growth will come to a grinding halt. Of course, this doesn't happen all at once. As resources get used up and the end game approaches, companies engage in cannibalism, gobbling each other up as growth becomes harder and harder to achieve. In addition, other tricks to simulate or stimulate growth are employed. In the name of efficiency, companies engage in "legal" tax avoidance, outsourcing and offshoring to "low cost geographies" (the company I work for now calls this "best-shoring"), downsizing (also called "workforce management"), and financial chicanery of various kinds.

Paradoxically, every rational individual in the system is smart enough to know - if they stop to think about it - that rapid growth is an illusion and it can't be maintained forever. But, as Charles Prince, former CEO of CitiGroup said in July, 2007: "As long as the music is playing, you’ve got to get up and dance. We’re still dancing.” So the whole herd runs headlong toward disaster together because no one wants to stop dancing. Like pigs at a trough, they grunt, squeal, and compete madly for every last morsel, never pausing to contemplate the fact that the supply of slop is limited.

Eventually, the game IS up, and the bubble bursts. Panic ensues. Political and business insiders from Washington and Wall street huddle and desperately conspire to keep the music playing, against all odds. They manage to coax a few more halting notes out of the global music playing machine, but over time it becomes obvious that it is impossible to continue dancing to the old tune of leverage, growth, and financial derivatives that has filled the bellies of the pigs at the trough while the bubble was inflating.

You would think that we could do better than this. You would think that market makers and politicians could devise a system that would focus on sustainability and recognize the cyclical realities of business to maintain a thriving, healthy economy for the long term. You would think that people who are offered easy credit would consider the wisdom of accepting it, mindful of the fact that it has to be paid back, with interest, over time. You would think that we would have second thoughts about blindly embracing an economic system which is solely focused on feeding individual self-interest and building individual wealth of a few at the expense of the many. You would think we could collectively lift our eyes a little and take a longer term view of things.

So what is the relevance of all this to an old man in a cubicle? I'm not sure, but it's something I spend time thinking about. I guess I'm attracted to the drama of it all. Also, I'm secretly pleased that the pigs are running out of slop to gobble up. I'm relieved that the great slurping sounds of the golden boys (and precious few girls) of Wall street are now muted. I'm pleased that there are signs that we are collectively re-thinking our definition of success on a personal and business level. We are re-considering what is important in life.

I am concerned about what the future holds, and what the fallout will be over the next few years in this new postgrowth era. I used to think I needed to learn how to dance; to compete at the trough with the other pigs; to get my share quickly, before it was too late. I'm still participating to some degree - still trying to dance a little - but my heart's not in it any more. What I really want to do is leave work early, go home, play with the grandkids, take a siesta with my wife, then enjoy dinner and maybe a glass of wine. I'm going to learn to speak some French and maybe take guitar lessons. Maybe I'll make some new friends and re-kindle some old friendships. I'll also work a little, but not too much.

I will now leave you with a well-known story that illustrates my point, along with some quotes on the subject from my recent readings.

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From: http://postgrowth.org/an-aesops-fable-for-postgrowth/

An American investment banker was taking a much-needed vacation in a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. The boat had several large, fresh fish in it.

The investment banker was impressed by the quality of the fish and asked the Mexican how long it took to catch them.

The fisherman replied, “Only a little while.”

The banker then asked why he didn’t stay out longer and catch more fish?

The fisherman replied he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.

The banker then asked “But what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life, senor.”

The banker scoffed, “I am an Ivy League MBA, and I could help you. You should spend more time fishing; and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats.

“Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor; eventually opening your own cannery.

“You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would of course need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York where you could run your ever-expanding enterprise.”

The fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

The banker replied, “15 to 20 years.”

“But what then?” asked the fisherman.

The banker laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right you would sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”

“Millions?…Then what, senor?”

The American said:

“Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos…”

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From: http://www.nytimes.com/2002/10/27/magazine/in-defense-of-the-boom.html

As the brilliant Michael Lewis has written: "It's more than a little nuts for a man who has a

billion dollars to devote his life to making another billion, but that's what some of our most

exalted citizens do, over and over again."

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From: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/zach-carter/conservatives-want-to-liv_b_689521.html

A Monopoly player wins by pushing everyone else into total poverty in order to control all resources and establish complete economic domination over his peers. People in the real world who are fueled by such motivations are not ordinary, model citizens--they are completely insane. Life is not a quest to get our hands on as much stuff as we can so our neighbors don't get to it first. A society that allows a few people to establish supreme economic dominion over all others is not a society at all--it's just a bunch of nasty brutes trying to destroy each other.

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From: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jessica-catto/greed-and-growth-new-prio_b_137572.html

October 24, 2008

The French President, Sarkozy, is quoted as saying, "Together we need to rebuild a capitalism that is more respectful to man, more respectful to the planet, more respectful to future generations and be finished with a capitalism obsessed by the frantic search for short term profit."

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From: http://newsweek.washingtonpost.com/onfaith/panelists/adin_steinsaltz/2008/09/the_growth_of_greed.html

September 19, 2008 - Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz

Being rich is not proof of moral superiority, greater religious value or righteousness. And debt and poverty do not signify any moral or religious weakness or shortcoming. One has to remember that in many religious creeds, there is a notion that the poor are much closer than the rich are to God.