Thursday, February 28, 2008
After a long fight to upgrade the standards of things, my tyrannical boss had her first major triumph in winning us a million dollars in funding for a major database project (and recognition by top management as a force to reckoned with). Getting money in a company struggling during these uncertain economic times is no trivial matter.
I’m impressed. In the next year of so this will mean less bull-shitting around by my team writing queries that produce some fairly basic reports (a fairly sophisticated querying tool will enable users to do this themselves) and allow us to focus on more strategic and complex analyses. This is really secondary to the fact that my boss is now in a great mood, and will focus her attention on fixing these technical things. In effect, I’m finally being left alone as she wallows in her success and in working on this big project.
For once, she comes into my office with a smile on her face. She leaves me alone as I aid the merchandising and marketing folks in their analytical needs - she’s focused on her million-dollar project. She is far less petty and involved with my day-to-day activities that have contributed to my irritation with the job.
Things are looking good (for the time being). During our bleak business outlook, I think I can be of great assistance. Patients that are healthy require very little. Now that the patient is sick, I now have an opportunity to be an asset to the company navigating through it.
Sticking this thing out would mean being a part of a team that is truly changing things. It’s time for the ER to really pull through in saving the patient. I now have a consultant working for me who is worth his weight in gold, and am getting so much more done than with the team I inherited who are now gone. I now search for more folks to build out my team and am going to be extremely particular in choosing them. I don’t want to work with mediocrity any more.
For the first time since I've joined, I’m encouraged.
Monday, February 25, 2008
It was a weekend of new things for me. You see, I’ve known my good friend Rob for about 6 years now, and it’s just this year that I’m starting to get to know his family, quintessential New York Italians.
Sunday I was invited over to his family's for dinner. Dinner with them, I found, is not a just meal but an epic journey where many generations gather for a larger occation wherein all involved debate the good and bad of what they are up to.
I arrived at 1pm expecting lasagna. When I walked in there were two turkeys on the counter. “What are those for?” I thought. “Are we having turkey?” I said. “Um, lasagna is just part of the journey.” Rob told me.
Dish after dish was served between cigars, neighbors coming in, biting criticism, children, grandchildren, aunts and uncles, wine, alcohol, coffee, nuts, and more conversation and drama than one could shake a stick at. There, clearly, is a lot of history among these people here. I finally understood where Rob got his confrontational style that, despite its harshness, ultimately forgot and forgave. I felt like part of the family. (All at a palatial home along the Hudson in Westchester, just north of the Bronx. )
Mother (80 years old): “What are we thinkin’ electing these morons in Yonkers?! I couldn't get anywhere during the snow on Friday!”
Rob: Well, the people cleaning the snow were stuck in the same storm you were getting to work.”
Mother: What?! You can’t turn on the damn weather channel and figure out that a storm was comin'? You cheap son’s a bitches just didn’t want to pay overtime and have em come in early!”
Rob: They were stuck? What can I do? (He works for the city.)
Mother: Enough with your smart mouth! Matt. Be a dear and pass the beans. You don’t look like you work for the city. What do you do?
Me: Um. I work for. . . .
Mother (to Rob): Are you sayin’ I complain? Are you sain’ I don’t know what I’m talkin about? What you are is naïve.
Rob (put in his place by mom): I’m not saying nothin. Let’s just eat.
Mother: (Says nothing but has a look on her face that could kill.)
All men then go down to the smoking room and drink and smoke more.
It’s like the family I always wanted. Cut to the chase and don’t hold back, but don't go too far, either. All during a 10 course meal that would put Little Italy out of business.
Aunt (turning to me): Are you Italian?
Me: No
Aunt: Do you appreciate Italian food?
Me: Absolutely
Aunt: Well, you're never going to have it again till you come back. Mark my words. . . Now pass that damn sambuca. Ha! Gimme your damn glass. Why are you so quiet.
Me: Um, well. ..
Aunt (pouring into my glass and hers): Oh, just shut up and drink this with me.
I'm in heavan.
Sunday I was invited over to his family's for dinner. Dinner with them, I found, is not a just meal but an epic journey where many generations gather for a larger occation wherein all involved debate the good and bad of what they are up to.
I arrived at 1pm expecting lasagna. When I walked in there were two turkeys on the counter. “What are those for?” I thought. “Are we having turkey?” I said. “Um, lasagna is just part of the journey.” Rob told me.
Dish after dish was served between cigars, neighbors coming in, biting criticism, children, grandchildren, aunts and uncles, wine, alcohol, coffee, nuts, and more conversation and drama than one could shake a stick at. There, clearly, is a lot of history among these people here. I finally understood where Rob got his confrontational style that, despite its harshness, ultimately forgot and forgave. I felt like part of the family. (All at a palatial home along the Hudson in Westchester, just north of the Bronx. )
Mother (80 years old): “What are we thinkin’ electing these morons in Yonkers?! I couldn't get anywhere during the snow on Friday!”
Rob: Well, the people cleaning the snow were stuck in the same storm you were getting to work.”
Mother: What?! You can’t turn on the damn weather channel and figure out that a storm was comin'? You cheap son’s a bitches just didn’t want to pay overtime and have em come in early!”
Rob: They were stuck? What can I do? (He works for the city.)
Mother: Enough with your smart mouth! Matt. Be a dear and pass the beans. You don’t look like you work for the city. What do you do?
Me: Um. I work for. . . .
Mother (to Rob): Are you sayin’ I complain? Are you sain’ I don’t know what I’m talkin about? What you are is naïve.
Rob (put in his place by mom): I’m not saying nothin. Let’s just eat.
Mother: (Says nothing but has a look on her face that could kill.)
All men then go down to the smoking room and drink and smoke more.
It’s like the family I always wanted. Cut to the chase and don’t hold back, but don't go too far, either. All during a 10 course meal that would put Little Italy out of business.
Aunt (turning to me): Are you Italian?
Me: No
Aunt: Do you appreciate Italian food?
Me: Absolutely
Aunt: Well, you're never going to have it again till you come back. Mark my words. . . Now pass that damn sambuca. Ha! Gimme your damn glass. Why are you so quiet.
Me: Um, well. ..
Aunt (pouring into my glass and hers): Oh, just shut up and drink this with me.
I'm in heavan.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
I’ve been pretty busy with New York life lately. It came with my mother’s arrival where we saw three operas “Il Barbiere di Siviglia,” “Die Walkure” and “Otello.”
Barbiere, the Bel Canto masterpiece was executed with dignity - despite the muffled sound coming from the staging - was taken in with great pleasure.
“Die Walkure,” with its famed third act overture presenting the steadfast female warriors made (in)famous by everything from Bugs Bunny (Kill da rabbit) to “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” (Apocalypse Now), was presented in raw form. Sheer vocal power and brilliant conducting made sure the great orchestra and sopranos (hurling out those high c’s) brought a drama that reminded us why this piece pervades popular culture. And nobody can assemble the singers, conducting, and orchestra the great Metropolitan Opera can. It was a thrilling evening.
Then there is Otello, Verdi’s operatic adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello—the pinnacle of Italian opera. Where the Met needed to pull things off vocally, the all-star cast delivered. I can rarely think of an opera where the audience was stunned into silence at the end of the great arias. Botha and Fleming did it – not a single applause at any point. In the dark prayer “Ave Maria,” one of my personal favorites, Desdemona awaits her murder with such stunning drama and sang like her own life ended. We sat silently and let the music come over us in silence.
My mother was there for a little over a week. And I have to say I was exhausted with her company. I love her to death, but we are clearly coming from different walks of life. I’ll elaborate later, but for the time being lets just say the week was nice, but ended up like a bad date: Exhausted, unaffiliated, and ultimately relieved when we were apart.
Barbiere, the Bel Canto masterpiece was executed with dignity - despite the muffled sound coming from the staging - was taken in with great pleasure.
“Die Walkure,” with its famed third act overture presenting the steadfast female warriors made (in)famous by everything from Bugs Bunny (Kill da rabbit) to “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” (Apocalypse Now), was presented in raw form. Sheer vocal power and brilliant conducting made sure the great orchestra and sopranos (hurling out those high c’s) brought a drama that reminded us why this piece pervades popular culture. And nobody can assemble the singers, conducting, and orchestra the great Metropolitan Opera can. It was a thrilling evening.
Then there is Otello, Verdi’s operatic adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello—the pinnacle of Italian opera. Where the Met needed to pull things off vocally, the all-star cast delivered. I can rarely think of an opera where the audience was stunned into silence at the end of the great arias. Botha and Fleming did it – not a single applause at any point. In the dark prayer “Ave Maria,” one of my personal favorites, Desdemona awaits her murder with such stunning drama and sang like her own life ended. We sat silently and let the music come over us in silence.
My mother was there for a little over a week. And I have to say I was exhausted with her company. I love her to death, but we are clearly coming from different walks of life. I’ll elaborate later, but for the time being lets just say the week was nice, but ended up like a bad date: Exhausted, unaffiliated, and ultimately relieved when we were apart.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
My aunt, in her 70s now living in rural Indiana knows I love the opera and sent me the following poem about La Callas. Can you imagine how big Callas was? 35 years after her death the Kouts Times publishes something -- let along poetry -- about her.
Here is Arizona poet Steve Orlen's lovely tribute to the great opera singer, Maria Callas. Most of us never saw her perform, or even knew what she looked like, but many of us listened to her on the radio or on our parents' record players, perhaps in a parlor like the one in this poem.
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
In the house of the voice of Maria Callas
We hear the baby's cries, and the after-supper
Rattle of silverware, and three clocks ticking
To different tunes, and ripe plums
Sleeping in their chipped bowl, and traffic sounds
Dissecting the avenues outside. We hear, like water
Pouring over time itself, the pure distillate arias
Of the numerous pampered queens who have reigned,
And the working girls who have suffered
The envious knives, and the breathless brides
With their horned helmets who have fallen in love
And gone crazy or fallen in love and died
On the grand stage at their appointed moments--
Who will sing of them now? Maria Callas is dead,
Although the full lips and the slanting eyes
And flared nostrils of her voice resurrect
Dramas we are able to imagine in this parlor
On evenings like this one, adding some color,
Adding some order. Of whom it was said:
She could imagine almost anything and give voice to it.
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
Here is Arizona poet Steve Orlen's lovely tribute to the great opera singer, Maria Callas. Most of us never saw her perform, or even knew what she looked like, but many of us listened to her on the radio or on our parents' record players, perhaps in a parlor like the one in this poem.
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
In the house of the voice of Maria Callas
We hear the baby's cries, and the after-supper
Rattle of silverware, and three clocks ticking
To different tunes, and ripe plums
Sleeping in their chipped bowl, and traffic sounds
Dissecting the avenues outside. We hear, like water
Pouring over time itself, the pure distillate arias
Of the numerous pampered queens who have reigned,
And the working girls who have suffered
The envious knives, and the breathless brides
With their horned helmets who have fallen in love
And gone crazy or fallen in love and died
On the grand stage at their appointed moments--
Who will sing of them now? Maria Callas is dead,
Although the full lips and the slanting eyes
And flared nostrils of her voice resurrect
Dramas we are able to imagine in this parlor
On evenings like this one, adding some color,
Adding some order. Of whom it was said:
She could imagine almost anything and give voice to it.
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
Monday, February 04, 2008
On the kindness of strangers
New York City is pretty much on everyone’s short list of one of the biggest concentrations of, at best, indifference, pettiness, and an every-man-for-himself mindset; at worst it’s a place most likely place to be exposed to scams (outside of Washington DC), selfishness, and petty crime. New York can be a heartless place.
So when my laptop, checkbook, and other belongings were left in a cab, I didn’t even consider the possibility of someone returning them. In fact, I didn’t even want to bother to report it figuring it was sold on e-bay by the next morning. But Rob told me to do so and I did.
With my tail in between my legs, I went into work this morning and had to deal with the fallout from the loss. I cancelled all the checks I had known to be unaccounted for, including rent and personal debts written in the last week that I didn’t know the check numbers of. I then sent an e-mail to IT explaining the situation. I spent the morning on the phone with those with my outstanding checks begging them not to deposit them. I then spent an hour at the bank writing official checks and overnighting them.
Throughout all this, there was a message on my voice with what I assumed to be IT’s interrogation of what proprietary information was on it and weather or not we needed to contact police for a potential data leak. So I let the light blink on my desk for the entire morning before I had the courage to listen to it.
I prepare for my beating and dial into voice mail. Someone with a French accent saying:
“This is Adrian. I found your laptop in a cab on Saturday. I’m going to be in the city this afternoon and can return it to you. Please give me a call at . . . ”
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
I called back and he answered telling me to meet him at a location in Chelsea to pick it up. When I got there I found myself in a private art gallery and with someone at the door telling me that there was no male named Adrian she knew. Shit, this seemed too good to be true. I called “Adrian” back thinking I’d gotten the wrong address, or suspecting a scam: “I’m here, on 14th street. Not sure where you are but give me a buzz back.” I loiter in the front of the building loosing hope. He calls back: “I’m here. I’ll be right down.”
And there he was with my briefcase as the door woman saying “Oh my! Yes! I’m such a fool, he works as a waiter! You must be so relieved.” She had no idea.
I turn to him with what I hope came across as sincere gratitude. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what relief this is and how unbelieveable it is that someone turned this up. Can I give you something as a token of my appreciation?” He seemed reluctant. And I just pulled some cash out of my walled and gave it to him. I wanted to hug him, but it didn’t seem appropriate. “This is a good man.” I announced to everyone around. “He’s returned my belongings that I left in a taxi over the weekend.” “Good Karma for him” they said.
I don’t think I had any business cards in the brief case, so he must have seen the property sticker of “Saks Incorporated” and my name on the checkbook and called the company to get my work number, which would explain why he had to wait until Monday morning to contact me.
And this is what that great, cruel New York City (and the French) has against it: prejudice, even in our own eyes.
So when my laptop, checkbook, and other belongings were left in a cab, I didn’t even consider the possibility of someone returning them. In fact, I didn’t even want to bother to report it figuring it was sold on e-bay by the next morning. But Rob told me to do so and I did.
With my tail in between my legs, I went into work this morning and had to deal with the fallout from the loss. I cancelled all the checks I had known to be unaccounted for, including rent and personal debts written in the last week that I didn’t know the check numbers of. I then sent an e-mail to IT explaining the situation. I spent the morning on the phone with those with my outstanding checks begging them not to deposit them. I then spent an hour at the bank writing official checks and overnighting them.
Throughout all this, there was a message on my voice with what I assumed to be IT’s interrogation of what proprietary information was on it and weather or not we needed to contact police for a potential data leak. So I let the light blink on my desk for the entire morning before I had the courage to listen to it.
I prepare for my beating and dial into voice mail. Someone with a French accent saying:
“This is Adrian. I found your laptop in a cab on Saturday. I’m going to be in the city this afternoon and can return it to you. Please give me a call at . . . ”
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
I called back and he answered telling me to meet him at a location in Chelsea to pick it up. When I got there I found myself in a private art gallery and with someone at the door telling me that there was no male named Adrian she knew. Shit, this seemed too good to be true. I called “Adrian” back thinking I’d gotten the wrong address, or suspecting a scam: “I’m here, on 14th street. Not sure where you are but give me a buzz back.” I loiter in the front of the building loosing hope. He calls back: “I’m here. I’ll be right down.”
And there he was with my briefcase as the door woman saying “Oh my! Yes! I’m such a fool, he works as a waiter! You must be so relieved.” She had no idea.
I turn to him with what I hope came across as sincere gratitude. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what relief this is and how unbelieveable it is that someone turned this up. Can I give you something as a token of my appreciation?” He seemed reluctant. And I just pulled some cash out of my walled and gave it to him. I wanted to hug him, but it didn’t seem appropriate. “This is a good man.” I announced to everyone around. “He’s returned my belongings that I left in a taxi over the weekend.” “Good Karma for him” they said.
I don’t think I had any business cards in the brief case, so he must have seen the property sticker of “Saks Incorporated” and my name on the checkbook and called the company to get my work number, which would explain why he had to wait until Monday morning to contact me.
And this is what that great, cruel New York City (and the French) has against it: prejudice, even in our own eyes.
With travel to FL, visitors in from out of town, working on weekend, etc., having a weekend without commitments is something of a rarity, these days: Last weekend was such a weekend.
Friday night I went with my friend Michael to see the Met’s production of Puccini’s “Manon Lescaut.” After a relatively long week at work fighting with the boss, I would have been content (even preferred) an evening at a bar with a martini in hand. But we’d planned this for a while and there was no turning back. Man, am I glad I did. The opera, which isn’t often performed, was moving, and the cast was fantastic.
We drifted over to the Mandarin Oriental for a swank cocktail after. Bopping around town, first to Lincoln Center, then to Columbus Circle with my gym bag and laptop (which I rarely take with me) friends were joking that I’d become some sort of mule. Nonetheless I endured. There is a point to this, I promise.
I took a taxi home that night, which is something I don’t do too often. It was about 2am when I was dropped off. I walk up the stairs and realized: I only had one bag on me. Yep, after schlepping that thing around all night, I left it in the cab.
There was nothing I could do except call Taxi and Limo Commission and police to report it lost. Of course, my checkbook was in it too, so I had to place a stop payment on all my checks.
Looking on the bright side, I wouldn’t be able to work, then. So I woke up the next day and took care of dozens of errands, cleaned the bathroom, and went for a jog. It was a wonderful day. I then went to a dinner party where I met up with my old colleague and some of her HBS friends. We had a ball. One guest was a reporter for Fox news that night (we talked about beauty products) the rest were typical of what Mercer analysts go on to do. . . go to graduate school to make gobs of money in Finance, or live the life of an academic. There were a couple of obnoxious egos there, but it was otherwise fine.
The next day was Super Bowl Sunday and I found myself in Queens at a party with potato chips, chili, and baked brie with Shrimp (don’t ask). Not really knowing what I was doing there, I found myself engrossed in the game. By the end I found myself cheering for the Giants and having a ball.
So there you have it. Perhaps the most eclectic weekend imaginable: From opera and the Mandarin to a dinner party with Harvard’s heavy hitters, to cleaning my toilets, to a super bowl party in Queens.
