Product oxymoron

I don’t know how I came across this, because God knows I don’t indulge in energy drinks. I’ve never even so much as sniffed a Red Bull.

But am I the only person who wonders how you can have a decaf energy drink?

No, seriously—how does that even work?

Down with Skool--up with Searle

I was rooting around The Telegraph looking for news on the body found at Sandringham, when I came upon the very sad news of the death of Ronald Searle last Friday. The utterly brilliant cartoonist and illustrator was 91.

Searle had a wicked sharp artistic style, evident in all of his works; his wit was as sharp as his pen. In the inimitable British phrase, the guy could take the piss out of anyone and anything. As a teenager I became acquainted with his cartoons in Punch, and also his illustrations in the books on Nigel Molesworth. Down with Skool! is a classic, and I own How to Be Topp.

In case you are unfamiliar with him, Molesworth is not a recommendation for any education system. Searle seriously took the piss out of British schools in this series and the one on St. Trinian’s, a perfect horror of a girls’ school.

His title designs for the 1970 film Scrooge are gorgeous—as I was reminded when TCM ran the movie last month. The title sequence outstrips the live action in both evocative power and artistry. (I won’t speak of the musical score.) If you come across it, run through the titles and forget the rest of it.

And then, about 15 years ago, I went to the Imperial War Museum and saw his drawings of life in Japanese POW camps, where he spent three years in his early 20s. He had to sneak his sketches, because the Japanese didn’t allow any sort of documentation of the camps, and because the British officers took offense at them.

The drawings are searing, as well they should be.

That he lived so many years after that experience is a testament to the lessons he learned there—that when all your friends die around you, also in their 20s, every day is a gift.

 

Or maybe it’s that he spent the last 40 years of his life in France. The Guardian has a reminiscence by fellow cartoonist Gerald Scarfe of the friendship he formed with Searle. The established artist was generous with his attention and encouragement of younger illustrators.

And it seems that Searle just loved champagne and cats.

Really--we're all poorer for his loss; but I celebrate the wit and whimsy he brought to us.

Corpus delicti

Here’s my conundrum du jour: whether to comment on the Republican caucuses in Iowa or the female corpse found on the premises of one of Her Majesty’s royal properties. What to do, what to do?

<pause>

Nah—no contest. I’m going for the story with the lower stink factor.

It seems that a dog walker out in the woods at Sandringham (the Queen’s country house in Norfolk) on New Year’s Day found the body of a young woman. Presumably in an advanced state of decomposition, as it’s reported that she’s been dead for somewhere between one to four months. (Although there’s no word as to whether she’s been at Sandringham for all that time, or whether it was a dump job.)

Moreover, while there’s no cause of death yet, official word is that she didn’t die by natural causes or by accident.

So we’re talking homicide.

Ordinarily one would wonder at a corpse going unnoticed in the grounds of a royal estate—could this happen at Camp David? Aren’t there security patrols? But not all of Sandringham is entirely private, and the body is in an area open to the public, although apparently not very often traveled.

But you also have to wonder at someone having the chutzpah to either kill the woman or leave her corpse on HM’s doorstep. Or at least, within a mile or so of her doorstep. Was it a crime of opportunity, or some sort of political statement? And, seriously, what’s with her security force not taking a swing around the perimeter every once in a while?

Well, in “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches”, Sherlock Holmes averred that “The lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.” Holed it in one, old chap.

Sign of the times 2

Oh, ya gotta love California. Where else but the Golden State would you find this:

Sadly, it turns out that two businesses must have chipped in for a single sign. You can’t count on this drycleaner using the metaphiz biz to ensure that they never lose your interview suit or your little black dress.

(If you're interested, it's on El Camino Real, in Mountain View.)

Resolving 2012

It’s the season of resolutions, and I’m working on my own program, but to get the year started out right, I’ve got conflicting guidance for you on how to go about it.

First, what you’d expect—the whole S.M.A.R.T. schmear. Note that step 3 is “make it known”—blab it to everyone you know. Blog it. Tweet it. Slap it on your Facebook wall.

And then, the counterintuitive approach: keep your resolutions to yourself.

Personally, I’m not handing out any advice to you; I’m just focused on getting my own house in order.

Banished for 2012 & ever after

I don’t wish to start out the New Year by appearing crabby, so I’ll just pass without much remark on the report of Lake Superior State University’s list of words to be banished from the lexicon for 2012.

Just a couple of thoughts: how can they limit it to ten? I’d have gone for 100.

And I’d include “transparency/transparent”—as in “the app should be transparent to the user” or (even worse) “transparency in [government] or [management]”. In the latter case “transparent” means “so obfuscated that the [taxpayers] or [serfs] won’t be able to figure out what we’re doing.”

Off with their heads!

2011: The end is near

I can’t let 2011 get away without Dave Barry’s annual Year in Review. He has the knack of putting everything into perspective.

“Zombies on crack”, “rat mucus” and “hyperpartisan gasbaggery”. Yep—that pretty much sums it up.

And even though 2012 is a presidential election year and thus by definition starts out in the hole, I hope it’s a happy and healthy one for you.

Recruiters 24

Oddly enough, considering it’s “The Holidays”, I’ve had rather a flurry of recruitment activity this month. There are a couple that I’m quite interested in, a couple that would be okay, and several that, well, let’s just say that there’s not a bargepole long enough for me to touch them with.

There was the wireless voice communications company that focuses on hospital settings. In speaking with the recruiter I had the usual “what-are-you-looking-for”/”what-are-you-offering” dance.

Why is it that companies can’t do their work and determine what the job is worth to them and be done with it?

Anyhow, it turns out that my expectation was just beyond what they want to pay (“though not by much”), so I was surprised to have the recruiter contact me within a day for a phone interview with the hiring manager. To cut this saga short, I spoke with her on the phone and went in for an on-site interview; but I didn’t think it was a good match. Their technology isn’t particularly interesting, its application is limited, and I don’t see it being a stepping stone to something I really want.

Plus—they’re cheap.

So I wasn’t crushed when I got the “we’ve decided to pursue other candidates that more closely match our needs” email.

However, it’s interesting that the job was posted again this week, so I guess their “other candidates” were more in the realm of wish than reality.

The other one that I decided to swing wide of was a start-up in Emeryville (as lousy a commute from Sunnyvale as it’s possible to have), with a technology that I personally find really annoying whenever I encounter it. But there’s a connection to France and I thought it might be worth a shot, in case there’s some flexibility with the commute.

But a phone conversation with the hiring manager disabused me of all interest.

First—more than half her questions were around how I’ve handled various situations involving conflict. Now, a couple of questions on those lines is quite in order; but her coming back again and again threw up more red flags than the game in The Longest Yard.

Then she informed me that they have weekly calls with the development team in Paris. Because the Paris wi-fi is unreliable, they use Skype; and to save money they limit the number of ports, so everyone on the call from the Bay Area has to be in the office. No calling in from home.

It was clear to me that there’s some serious dysfunction in a group of fewer than 80 employees worldwide and that all the flexibility is expected to be unidirectional: employee to employer.

I brought up the conflict with the external recruiter, who professed herself astonished to hear about it, because she knew nothing.

I myself in turn was surprised to be told that the hiring manager had passed on me because of my “lack of experience working with remote development teams”—since for the last three years that’s precisely what I’ve been doing. Moreover, I’ve worked for and with French companies and have considerable experience with the, ah, culture.

It was because I questioned what’s up with the conflict questions.

Well—I’m holding out hope for a couple of opportunities. One would be really good, a company that really does respect its employees. The other is on the “best companies to work for” lists, but that remains to be seen.

Let’s hope the New Year brings one of these home, early on.

Bookkeeping 3

In my post yesterday I mentioned B. Dalton Bookseller, the progenitor of Barnes and Noble. You used to find a B. Dalton at every mall in America, along with a Kay Jeweler and a Victoria’s Secret. Eventually they were absorbed into B&N because the big box concept of quantity over quality overtook the book world.

But I was disabused of the notion that B. Dalton was a suitable recipient of my literacy dollars back in the 80s after this experience:

At the time I was working in the film industry, in what is known as creative affairs—the unit where stories (“properties”) are evaluated and developed for production. One of my clients, who was also teaching a course in script development for UCLA Extension, suggested that Jules Verne’s Michael Strogoff was something I might want to pursue as a mini-series.

Well, he was right—it’s quite the swash-buckling story, vast in scope, visual, complex, great characters. And mini-series were big then, and the Soviet Union was opening up as a shooting location.

But I first had to read it.

Now, recall—this was pre-Internet. No Amazon, no ABE Books. I had no idea that the book was out of print, I just knew it wasn’t at the LA Public Library branch near me in Playa del Rey, so I went to the B. Dalton shop in Westchester.

I couldn’t find it—in fact, I couldn’t find 20,000 Leagues under the Sea or Journey to the Center of the Earth or Around the World in 80 Days. I looked in the Fiction section, in Science Fiction and in Classics. Nada.

So I went to the guy at the cash register and said I was looking for books by Jules Verne. He directed me to the woman out in the stacks as being the resource on inventory. I asked her, “Have you no Jules Verne?”

She got this puzzled look on her face and replied, “Is that a title?”

Unlike the blonde cashier at B&N earlier this month, this chick was the supposed book expert, so from that point on I never took the chain seriously.

I lucked out and found a paperback of Michael Strogoff at a used book shop in Santa Monica. It’s a great read and I recommend it heartily. You can get a free download for Kindle from Amazon, if you’re interested. It’s kind of satisfying that it’s survived and B. Dalton hasn’t.

Bookkeeping 2

A couple of Saturdays ago I was in the Barnes and Noble store in Campbell, Calif. That’s where my non-fiction book discussion group meets; otherwise I’d be unlikely to go there, since B&N has always struck me as the heir-on-steroids to B. Dalton Bookseller: the literary equivalent of Burger King.

I was early for the meet-up, so I spent some time in the magazine section. Eventually I picked up three: The Economist, Shambhala Sun and WWII History. The latter has a photo of Winston Churchill in uniform on the cover.

As the blonde at the cash register (and, yes, she was a blonde, in her early 20s) rang up my purchases, she commented, “Oh—he looks jolly!”

I glanced at Churchill and agreed, “I guess he does.”

There was a pause, and then she asked, “Who is he?”

“Winston Churchill. Prime Minister of Britain during World War II.”

(I debated whether to explain what World War II was, but decided against it. The meet-up was about to begin and I never know whether to date the war from the Japanese incursion into Manchuria, the Munich Conference or the invasion of Poland.)

I thought I was being neutral, but she felt obliged to explain to me that “I’m more people smart than book smart.” And then, “I like people better than books.”

Naturally, the thought occurred to me that in that case she might have chosen a different retail field. But I reckoned that, after all—they had her at the cash register, and she seemed proficient at operating it. She wasn’t on the floor making reading recommendations.

Still—it does encapsulate why I’ve never cottoned to B&N.