Archive for August, 2016

Shoot Me Not

August 13th, 2016

My fashooterlure as a senior engineering manager was not shooting my direct reports. That was both physical and digital.

We all put in long, productive workdays. Mine tended to run longer. I got to the office around 5 AM. They’d stumble in around 9 or 10. I was the documentation manager/head tech writer. The chief UI designer would arrive about the same time. We’d work alone and together on our stuff and the complex interface, head to the downstairs FitCorp gym at 6 or 6:30 and be groomed and caffeinated when the programmers finally showed.

They’d goof around, then work, then insult each other, and keep it going until 5 or 6. Then they’d shift from coffee to Pepsi. As all savvy tech companies, ours provide unlimited cold and hot caffeine. They’d do hours of multi-player games over our network, taking great joy in visually splattering each other for hours.

Weekend meetings might be paintball, when then mayhem was more literal, involving downers (beer) and bruises from the balls.

Old Mike instead read books, wrote blogs, worked cryptic puzzles, and philosophized. I had no interest in figurative murder or literal punishment.

I’m older. The sprouts seemed to forgive me. We all went out to lunch and after-work drinks. I just had no interest in multi-player games and feigned warfare.

When my engineering VP went off to sell the company, he dubbed me in charge of engineering, as in development, test, QA, docs and such. I became the socket for the whines. “His code sucks…he doesn’t know how to clear a memory address…she uses 54 lines to do what I can in 12…my girlfriend’s cat pisses in my shoe…I found this function perfectly done in Fresh Meat…Tom did not subversion his code and I wasted four hours waiting…”

You’ll never find a bigger bunch of kvetchers than developers.

Yet, I admit, I’d been a better sport had I picked up a paintball gun and tried to humiliate and hurt my reports. I could have upended my life and fought rush-hour Boston traffic to get in late, leave late, and devoted two hours every evening to network shooter games.

Sorry. I win.

 

Your Name Here, On My Chest

August 6th, 2016

IMshirt copy Gentle branding of human employees was normal and welcome. Is it still?

Companies that paid well and had good benefits and policies always seemed to try to dress their folk. Of course, the polo shirts, windbreakers, hoodies and the like had the company logo and likely a product name. I scanned part of a couple of my remainders here. Internet Manager was one of the major products of Elron Software (later bought and murdered by Zix Corp.).

micbreakerMicrocom was one f the first and surely the best maker of modems, telecommunications software and chassis and such. Of the high-tech companies I worked for, Microcom was the best. Even after its suffocation and dissolve by Compaq, virtually all modems contain vestiges of it, specifically communicating via MNP (Microcom Networking Protocol).

I have polo shirts (high-end cotton pique, of course), heavy dress shirts, Polartec pullovers, super-heavy sweatshirts, as well as Nerf footballs and various geegaws. It’s the branded clothing that stands out though.

I’d worked for sleazy companies that underpaid. They rarely would spend even for modest t-shirts. I’m also away of rich companies that went out. A friend got a leather and satin jacket from Ziff-Davis’ internet service. A son got a leather bomber jacket from Google when he worked their security division.

From a business perspective, these make good sense. Employees feel special, they are billboards for the company, the non-recurring expense doesn’t add to the salary base. You have to wonder what the cheapskates in companies that don’t offer clothes are thinking. Surely this is penny wise and pound foolish.

I do think though of my erstwhile acquaintance, the late Al Goldstein. As an early 20-something, I did some freelance photography for his Milk Way Productions, which includes the sleazy tabloids Screw, Smut, Gay and Bitch. They did very little original photography, instead, as Al proudly told me, the bought black-and-white prints by the pound from pornographers. Their files were stuffed with drawers with labels like TWO BLACK WOMEN/ONE WHITE MAN.

Al did the shirt thing, largely to sell to subscribers (yes, Screw had mail subscribers). He gave me a couple. They were the cheapest possible fabrics. I remember that the first SCREW-logo one shrank in a few washings from a man’s XL to about a woman’s S.

On the other hand, I have lots of highly serviceable logo-wear from elsewhere.