bureaucratic

“Implement a rating structure on employees.”

"Exceed expectations."

"Interactive evaluations."

There it is - the aesthetic beauty of the corporate mindset via wordplay. Beauty? How in the world is there beauty in that, Mr. This Side of the City, you ask? How is there possibly any beauty within the impersonal bounds of the corporate structure? Please, allow me to explain.

Creative mutation of the language to fit the purposes of a particular entity is generally something to be praised. It could comprise the written word, an artistic performance, or even a business. But it also begs the question on how to grasp it? How does one conform to the workplace vernacular? How do you understand precisely what's being said? For all of its inventive gloss and veneer, it is what comes between words and sentences, in the gaps and spaces, where the true logic (or the lack thereof) of corporate-speak finds its tangible meaning. Yes, there is an aesthetic beauty, but this does not necessarily make doublespeak imperative or vital. Though corporate-speak seems conceived to allay and avoid confusion, it basically constitutes a superfluous professionalism and oddly politically correct-oriented method of word-clutter. It only lends itself to perplexity - fleeting bureaucratic beauty.

"Enhance shareholder value through strategic diversification."

"Re-engineer the length and breadth of the operational paradigms."

"Leverage the expense structure."

With widespread outsourcing and downsizing, as well as an increased detachment between employer and employee (and between employee and employee), within the corporate framework, the good ol' days of "company care" are nearly defunct. Once upon a time, a person could join a company and find an almost familial compatibility. Despite the necessary business configuration and hierarchy, there resided a feeling of belonging - pride, even. As a young man, I heard about it - and even observed it - in older family members. But that's all mostly gone now, washed away by the deleterious spectres of Enron, Adelphia, WorldCom, and Tyco. All are irrefutable examples of power and corruption run amok and the, ahem, "paradigm" of the corporation manifested as monster.

We have few actual "companies" anymore. Now, they are frequently conceived as an "enterprise entity." Employees are bodies with a functioning brain, motor skills, a diploma, and are usually disposable. There are still retirement packages, pensions, and often benefits and sick days. Without something to appease the proletariat, there would be rampant rebellion amid the rank and file. Work stoppages en masse under capitalism gone awry is the stuff of corporate nightmares.

But rebellion can be subtle. I for one can reluctantly acquiese and collect the check while I suppress the smirk and perform the tasks. But the spirit in me will never collapse and conform. It's too late for the corporate savior to rescue my defiant soul.

All I can say in reply to the latest corporate-speak jargon is, "No thanks. And have a pleasant day."

Utah

Outside right now it is the wait. There are traces of snowflakes tumbling down through the stalled air. All day out there it has been that eerie calm before the storm - no wind and static gray skies. But there is the whispered threat of winter along the streets and sidewalks, sneaking around the corners of the buildings, slinking across the brick, concrete and steel.

The past week of chill winter weather reminded me of my time in Utah a decade back. And why was I in Utah? Sure, my short-term memory is often unreliable, but for some reason, my long-term recollection is often precise and able to recall the finest minutiae with almost uncanny accuracy.

And thus it was that ten years ago this month I was in Salt Lake City. I jokingly referred to my time there as, "I once spent a year in Salt Lake City one month." I know, I should waste no more time and make that career shift to stand-up comedy. Anyway, how it came to pass that I was in Utah began with unemployment. Yes, I was without gainful employment because two months before, I had requested a week off to fly back east and visit the family for the holidays. This request was summarily denied and dismissed. Never one to acquiesce to the system, I promptly wrote up my resignation letter. A couple weeks later I was no longer a front desk clerk at the Travelodge at Fisherman's Wharf and on an eastward bound jet.

When I returned to San Francisco in early 1996, I searched the classifieds for a new job, worked on a screenplay, watched a slew of movies, and hit the bars and clubs. I still had enough money saved to last a while without immediate employment. Then one day in late January my former manager from Travelodge asked if I would like to be the interim manager at the sixty-room City Center Travelodge in Salt Lake City. The company was holding an annual national managers meeting in New Orleans and they needed qualified bodies to fill in at various locations during their great Travelodge Mangerial Assemblage. Hungover and burned out on my typewriter and movie marathons, I said, "Sure, why not?" Plus I had never been to Utah, land of skiing and Mormons. There had been a recent emotional upheaval on the personal front, so I felt I needed to get away and find a degree of solitude. Plus, this would be an adventure, right?


Well, after less than two weeks it was more tedious than adventurous. Delta flew me in and the current manager picked me up at the airport in the blue "Soccer Mom" Travelodge van. I forget his name, but he was an affable fellow who liked "new country" music. He tormented me with Alan Jackson and Garth Brooks for a while until I flipped the dial to the alternative rock station. He didn't appear to enjoy "Self-Esteem" by the Offspring, and I wasn't exactly a huge fan either, but it was preferable to country twang shitkickin'.

I digress. The City Center Travelodge on West Temple was a two-tier motel. No restaurant, no elevator, no pool - just an "L"-shaped building with a parking lot. I was given a second floor room for the duration of my stay. My first night there I wandered down the six-lane highway of West Temple to a gas station and bought a six-pack of beer. Make that watered-down, impotent beer. I drank the entire thing in my room and barely cracked a buzz. Yes, the alcohol content restrictions in the Holy State of Utah were indeed true. See the fine film SLC Punk! for further details. Or click here for additional insight into how to get a beer or cocktail in Salt Lake City.

From my handwritten journal, Monday, February 12, 1996: "I've been here since the 4th now, a week into what I'm considering my vigil... This vigil is good for me. I do get lonely, like I am now, but I almost feel it's necessary right now after all that's been going on in my catastrophe of a personal life."

The next day, not hungover at all, I met my staff, and after a mere two days of training, I took over as Interim Hotel Manager of the City Center Travelodge. Oh, did I mention that we were also short-staffed? I may have had the title of "Manager" but I felt like little more than a glorified desk clerk who had to do payroll, make bank deposits, and create the schedule. I pulled several double-shifts, which was a persistent joy. When the middle-aged biker lady front desk clerk called in sick because, as she so eloquently put it, "It's coming out both ends," I settled down in the front office for another epic eight hours of tedium.

Thursday, February 22, 1996: "Yes, I'm working yet another overnight. P. worked it last night, but she called in sick... so I'm stuck. I've been behind the counter for twelve hours now, with four to go. I'm feeling tired... It has been draining. They really should have hired a desk clerk before I came in."

I was there on serene graveyard shifts, when the ascending alabaster frost of the surrounding Rocky mountains would stab through the pall cast by long night skies. Parked in a desk chair in the anteroom near the front desk, I wondered if roaming interstate bandits would slip through the front door and rob me. That idea was the product of too many crime drama films and television shows. I would dabble in the slim selection of movies that the hotel made available for the guests. I watched Jurassic Park, Dying Young, and Bad Boys (no, not the good Bad Boys with Sean Penn) more than once, I'm ashamed to admit. Yes, I was a long way from my VHS collection of art-house films and foreign masterpieces.

February 18, 1996: "Nine more days here in Salt Lake City, then I'm back on a plane to San Francisco. Salt Lake is a nice place to visit for a person like me, but I could not live here."

And so the weeks passed, and by the end I was exhausted and alternately climbing the walls and crawling along the ceiling in my desire to get the hell out of Utah. Sure, it was partially the job - I worked ridiculously long shifts with a depleted staff. I dealt with the evil ingrate leader of the Phoenix Ski Club, an intolerable lumpkin of a woman I would wish on no civilized person. I usually ate at the same place - the restaurant at the sprawling Little America hotel directly across the street (at least I could get an effective Jack Daniels and Coke there). I'd listened to the CDs I'd brought with me a dozen times over on the boom box I'd relocated from the front desk. I missed my typewriter, the flat on Post Street, my roommates, the bars and clubs, my life as I knew it, and the general vibe of San Francisco.

Saturday, February 24, 1996: "Get me out of here. I've been behind this damn desk for what seems like a hundred hours this week. I'm getting so sick of people. I would die if I lived here. The city shuts down at midnight. I'm ready to go back to San Francisco... just two more long days then the changeover and I'm gone."

No, in retrospect, it wasn't so terrible to be there, and I'm glad I went. I visited the Salt Palace, the Crossroads Mall, the alkali flats, and enjoyed the brilliant architecture of the downtown Temple Square, including the Salt Lake Temple and the Tabernacle. Yes, Salt Lake City is a lovely place, enclosed by the glorious Rocky Mountains, and top-notch for the ski crowd. The 2002 Winter Olympics were held there, so for winter sports it's a prime destination. But any city so severely repressed by religion, that dilutes its booze, requires membership to establishments ("private clubs") that serve liquor, and usually closes shop at midnight ain't the place for a fella like me.

And then I was gone. Back to the airport, in the sky, on the tarmac at SFO, on a shuttle, and deposited at the front door of my Post Street flat. I was home.

Sunday, March 3, 1996: "I'm back in San Francisco, sitting at my desk, writing this, of course... Yesterday I worked at Travelodge from 3 - 11. It was the same old thing, but hard to get used to. I haven't put in an actual desk shift since the day I quit, December 17. Salt Lake City doesn't really count, in my opinion."

Yes, when I returned to San Francisco, the bosses offered me my job back on the Wharf. So, I accepted, strung that noose of a "sleepy bear" tie around my collar, pinned on my brass name tag, and completed the circle.