I feel like I've thought "I should blog about that" a lot recently, yet...it's hard to remember it all. As David Allen (the Getting Things Done guru - the new guide of mine, especially at work), says: Never go anywhere without a capturing tool. Your brain has a hard enough thinking of something once, much less twice. And have you, like me, thought (reminded yourself) of something you had to do not once, nor twice, but five, 10 or 15 times? It's awful! If you've experienced it, you know what I mean. The umpteenth time you drive by a billboard that reminds you of something you have to do when you get to work - which you will forget by the time you get to work!
They say that memory loss is a sign of stress, and certainly this sensation of trying to not drop any threads, of trying to keep all the balls in the air, of feeling like the abyss is just....over....there. And you're trying not to look too closely lest you fall in. David Allen describes this sensation so perfectly at the beginning of his book that I laughed out loud: the difficulty in doing many things, all the time, and trying to turn ideas into reality, and the stress that all causes. "Boy, he's really got my number," I said, and read some it out loud to my partner J. "Wow," he said, "that's exactly what I do!"
Nevertheless, I do manage to retain some few interesting details, and list them below, in no particular order.
Buying a Buddha
A co-worker of mine - and old friend, really; we've worked together, off and on, for a decade now - recently told me a story that was quite lovely. K is Irish, so he is a good storyteller - I probably won't be able to do it justice, but I will try.
He was with his partner (they aren't married but have a baby together - although this was, I think, before the baby, or maybe she was pregnant) in Hawaii, on vacation, and they had just signed papers to buy their first house together. The woman, G, also works for the same company K and I do, and she's basically an interior designer, but for the large organic grocer (who shall remain nameless) that I do. She makes these grocery stores really amazing and unique and interesting. I mean, she's a big reason for the look of a company known partially for it's look.
K said, basically, as they began to discuss the house, naturally decor came up, and...well, he knew he didn't really stand a chance. I mean, G's entire specialty is decor. So he told her, "I only want to make three requests, that's it, and you can do anything you want with everything else. One: a wall-mounted bottle opener near the fridge [remember, he's Irish]; two, a hot tub somewhere on the premises; and three, a big old Buddha by the front door, welcoming everyone."
Maybe the third one maybe threw her for a loop, but she agreed, and they continued on their drive in Hawaii. They passed one of those outdoor statue places, and thought, oh, we should stop there on the way back and just check it out, since they were in decor-minded mode. So they went to see the waterfall, or whatever it was, and forget about the place until they passed it on the way home and remembered they were going to check it out.
K had a very specific Buddha pose and expression in mind, by the way. I mean, Buddhas, unlike Jesus, come in all different shapes and expressions and states. I mean, Christ is sometimes with the little lambs and sometimes on the cross, but that's still more consistent than, say, the obese Laughing Buddha and the Emaciated Buddha; Buddha had, after all, ten thousand names. But K knew what he wanted: the standing laughing Buddha with his hands over his head. You've seen it. And it had to have a certain expression. You know the expression. A good face, a good Buddha face.
Well, the store and its yard were full or statues and blocks and bricks and "crap" K said. "There's crap of every sort. Bamboo and cement and stone and crap everywhere." Then he sees it. The perfect Buddha. Exactly what he wants. He can't believe it. Only, like Stonehenge in Spinal Tap, it was way too small. It was like a tabletop or altertop Buddha, which isn't exactly the type of Buddha you want in a front entryway. "I'm thinking....you know..." and K gestured with his hand to his solar plexus, "yea high." But when the salewoman came by and saw them looking at it, they inquired anyway. "This Buddha has the perfect pose and face," they said, "but it's so small."
She goes on to tell them her husband owns a shop - in Sausolito, did they know it? - and he makes Buddhas too. Of course, being in Hawaii, K and G were thrilled to hear it was so close to their hometown of Oakland, and took the business card and left. They looks up the guy when they got back, and he had a perfect Buddha of exactly the right size, and he did it up with some patina, and they paid for it. But they they said, "Our house is still being built." So he held it for a few months, no problem. When the landscapers were finishing the lawn, the Buddha guy put in a cement block in the right place (as the Buddha was, being large and stone or cement, very heavy), and when it was done, they came and moved the Buddha in. They delivered it, carried it, placed him on his cement block, and adjusted him, got him situated just right. And K got home from work and it was all placed perfectly and appeared as if by magic.
And I ask you: is there a better way to realize one's Buddha nature?
Talk about a Real Interview
The same large, upscale grocer I work for is also known for it being difficult to get hired into. They even make a joke of it in Reality Bites. We were looking, recently, for the head of a department (an Executive Coodinator), and I was once again reminded about how really difficult an interview can be. My company always does panel interviews - I mean, you will never sit in a one-on-one - but this particular process was amazing. First, they were, as candidates are, screened and reviewed and phone screened and all of that - I gather this particular screening process was extensive. Then (and this was the part I participated in) they bring the candidates in for something like a giant interview, a cross between a press junket and an extensive Q and A.
First, the panel assembles - the number changes; in this case, it was about 25 of us, from different locations and in different positions (we love consensus, and democracy). We discuss what we want in this candidate, and, if we have time, we form some questions as a group. We decide who will ask what. We really think about it, collectively, because we want to make it right, we really care.
Then the canidates come in, and it's like a presidential debate. We ask our questions, and each one has two minutes to answer, and we alternate with each question which one of them goes first. Can you imagine? This roomful of strangers, all asking you questions and judging every thing you say? How harrowing! And a timer, just to make it really fun. Now, we really listen, I will give us that; the process is hard but every person pays close attention, and when it's over, the canidates go outside, and we discuss them, sometimes in unbelievable detail. It's an art form, being good on a panel interview - seeing the right things, seeing the points of contention, the areas of energy and focus - and when you're in a group with other people who are seeing the same things, an insightful remark or well-formed question can draw sighs of agreement and even admiration from everyone else. "I noticed that exact same thing," someone will say. We even gesture to our notes - we've written the same things down, because we saw the same hot spot. If this is groupthink, it's good groupthink.
But it's not over. The candidates have to come back, and have an informal lunch with us, buffet style, while we caually talk to them. THEN, when that's done, they go into the - wait for it - actual interview. With about a dozen of the people that were in the earlier panel discussion debate.
Now, I have to say, this is not just a kind of exciting and enteraining process to be a part of - real human collective effort, whether it's panel interviews or Busby Berkeley chorus lines or Amish barn building, just really brings out a reaction of joy in me - but it's also fascinating to watch, from a learning perspective. These candidates were professionals; it was a tough process, but they were up to the task. They were self-possessed, articulate, properly and humanly a bit disconcerted but always perfectly capable of rising to the occassion. They oozed competence. It was kind of like watching an old time political debate or the Oscars: you might want one to win, but you can tell, really, all of them are fine choices.
I know. It's silly to enjoy doing a panel interview, but when you're not the one being interviewed, it's a terrific place to get to know your fellow man.
Feline Rentals
I read an article in the New Yorker about the world of rentals. We all know about cars and houses and jet skiis, but you can also rent friends or dates for your sister's wedding, or, God help us, really expensive designer bags and jewlery and gowns. The $42,000 vintage Hermes crocodile Birkin pocketbook rents for $4800 a month - although, not to just anyone. You have to have some serious credit, and, one imagines, maybe even a good laywer. You can rent kayaks and kids toys and goats that will eat your brambles. You can rent camera lenses and Wii and iPods and iPads - or Dalis and Bottichellis, if that's more your thing. You can rent time on research-grade telescopes in New Mexico and Spain.
But the thing that stuck with me was not even highlighted that much in the article - the writer they didn't even include company specifics, or a dollar figure, as they did for some of the other items (and just in case you were thinking about that bag, Avelle is your company.). They mentioned that you can, in certain Japanese cafes, get a coffee or tea and then rent a cat to pet who will sit in your lap for half an hour. In case you don't want a full time cat.
I didn't know quite what to think of it then, and I don't know quite what to say about it now. I guess it's one of those facts that speak for themselves, and you're not sure just what it IS saying, but you know it's something.
They say that memory loss is a sign of stress, and certainly this sensation of trying to not drop any threads, of trying to keep all the balls in the air, of feeling like the abyss is just....over....there. And you're trying not to look too closely lest you fall in. David Allen describes this sensation so perfectly at the beginning of his book that I laughed out loud: the difficulty in doing many things, all the time, and trying to turn ideas into reality, and the stress that all causes. "Boy, he's really got my number," I said, and read some it out loud to my partner J. "Wow," he said, "that's exactly what I do!"
Nevertheless, I do manage to retain some few interesting details, and list them below, in no particular order.
Buying a Buddha
A co-worker of mine - and old friend, really; we've worked together, off and on, for a decade now - recently told me a story that was quite lovely. K is Irish, so he is a good storyteller - I probably won't be able to do it justice, but I will try.
He was with his partner (they aren't married but have a baby together - although this was, I think, before the baby, or maybe she was pregnant) in Hawaii, on vacation, and they had just signed papers to buy their first house together. The woman, G, also works for the same company K and I do, and she's basically an interior designer, but for the large organic grocer (who shall remain nameless) that I do. She makes these grocery stores really amazing and unique and interesting. I mean, she's a big reason for the look of a company known partially for it's look.
K said, basically, as they began to discuss the house, naturally decor came up, and...well, he knew he didn't really stand a chance. I mean, G's entire specialty is decor. So he told her, "I only want to make three requests, that's it, and you can do anything you want with everything else. One: a wall-mounted bottle opener near the fridge [remember, he's Irish]; two, a hot tub somewhere on the premises; and three, a big old Buddha by the front door, welcoming everyone."
Maybe the third one maybe threw her for a loop, but she agreed, and they continued on their drive in Hawaii. They passed one of those outdoor statue places, and thought, oh, we should stop there on the way back and just check it out, since they were in decor-minded mode. So they went to see the waterfall, or whatever it was, and forget about the place until they passed it on the way home and remembered they were going to check it out.
K had a very specific Buddha pose and expression in mind, by the way. I mean, Buddhas, unlike Jesus, come in all different shapes and expressions and states. I mean, Christ is sometimes with the little lambs and sometimes on the cross, but that's still more consistent than, say, the obese Laughing Buddha and the Emaciated Buddha; Buddha had, after all, ten thousand names. But K knew what he wanted: the standing laughing Buddha with his hands over his head. You've seen it. And it had to have a certain expression. You know the expression. A good face, a good Buddha face.
Well, the store and its yard were full or statues and blocks and bricks and "crap" K said. "There's crap of every sort. Bamboo and cement and stone and crap everywhere." Then he sees it. The perfect Buddha. Exactly what he wants. He can't believe it. Only, like Stonehenge in Spinal Tap, it was way too small. It was like a tabletop or altertop Buddha, which isn't exactly the type of Buddha you want in a front entryway. "I'm thinking....you know..." and K gestured with his hand to his solar plexus, "yea high." But when the salewoman came by and saw them looking at it, they inquired anyway. "This Buddha has the perfect pose and face," they said, "but it's so small."
She goes on to tell them her husband owns a shop - in Sausolito, did they know it? - and he makes Buddhas too. Of course, being in Hawaii, K and G were thrilled to hear it was so close to their hometown of Oakland, and took the business card and left. They looks up the guy when they got back, and he had a perfect Buddha of exactly the right size, and he did it up with some patina, and they paid for it. But they they said, "Our house is still being built." So he held it for a few months, no problem. When the landscapers were finishing the lawn, the Buddha guy put in a cement block in the right place (as the Buddha was, being large and stone or cement, very heavy), and when it was done, they came and moved the Buddha in. They delivered it, carried it, placed him on his cement block, and adjusted him, got him situated just right. And K got home from work and it was all placed perfectly and appeared as if by magic.
And I ask you: is there a better way to realize one's Buddha nature?
Talk about a Real Interview
The same large, upscale grocer I work for is also known for it being difficult to get hired into. They even make a joke of it in Reality Bites. We were looking, recently, for the head of a department (an Executive Coodinator), and I was once again reminded about how really difficult an interview can be. My company always does panel interviews - I mean, you will never sit in a one-on-one - but this particular process was amazing. First, they were, as candidates are, screened and reviewed and phone screened and all of that - I gather this particular screening process was extensive. Then (and this was the part I participated in) they bring the candidates in for something like a giant interview, a cross between a press junket and an extensive Q and A.
First, the panel assembles - the number changes; in this case, it was about 25 of us, from different locations and in different positions (we love consensus, and democracy). We discuss what we want in this candidate, and, if we have time, we form some questions as a group. We decide who will ask what. We really think about it, collectively, because we want to make it right, we really care.
Then the canidates come in, and it's like a presidential debate. We ask our questions, and each one has two minutes to answer, and we alternate with each question which one of them goes first. Can you imagine? This roomful of strangers, all asking you questions and judging every thing you say? How harrowing! And a timer, just to make it really fun. Now, we really listen, I will give us that; the process is hard but every person pays close attention, and when it's over, the canidates go outside, and we discuss them, sometimes in unbelievable detail. It's an art form, being good on a panel interview - seeing the right things, seeing the points of contention, the areas of energy and focus - and when you're in a group with other people who are seeing the same things, an insightful remark or well-formed question can draw sighs of agreement and even admiration from everyone else. "I noticed that exact same thing," someone will say. We even gesture to our notes - we've written the same things down, because we saw the same hot spot. If this is groupthink, it's good groupthink.
But it's not over. The candidates have to come back, and have an informal lunch with us, buffet style, while we caually talk to them. THEN, when that's done, they go into the - wait for it - actual interview. With about a dozen of the people that were in the earlier panel discussion debate.
Now, I have to say, this is not just a kind of exciting and enteraining process to be a part of - real human collective effort, whether it's panel interviews or Busby Berkeley chorus lines or Amish barn building, just really brings out a reaction of joy in me - but it's also fascinating to watch, from a learning perspective. These candidates were professionals; it was a tough process, but they were up to the task. They were self-possessed, articulate, properly and humanly a bit disconcerted but always perfectly capable of rising to the occassion. They oozed competence. It was kind of like watching an old time political debate or the Oscars: you might want one to win, but you can tell, really, all of them are fine choices.
I know. It's silly to enjoy doing a panel interview, but when you're not the one being interviewed, it's a terrific place to get to know your fellow man.
Feline Rentals
I read an article in the New Yorker about the world of rentals. We all know about cars and houses and jet skiis, but you can also rent friends or dates for your sister's wedding, or, God help us, really expensive designer bags and jewlery and gowns. The $42,000 vintage Hermes crocodile Birkin pocketbook rents for $4800 a month - although, not to just anyone. You have to have some serious credit, and, one imagines, maybe even a good laywer. You can rent kayaks and kids toys and goats that will eat your brambles. You can rent camera lenses and Wii and iPods and iPads - or Dalis and Bottichellis, if that's more your thing. You can rent time on research-grade telescopes in New Mexico and Spain.
But the thing that stuck with me was not even highlighted that much in the article - the writer they didn't even include company specifics, or a dollar figure, as they did for some of the other items (and just in case you were thinking about that bag, Avelle is your company.). They mentioned that you can, in certain Japanese cafes, get a coffee or tea and then rent a cat to pet who will sit in your lap for half an hour. In case you don't want a full time cat.
I didn't know quite what to think of it then, and I don't know quite what to say about it now. I guess it's one of those facts that speak for themselves, and you're not sure just what it IS saying, but you know it's something.
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