My New Resumé

I am not currently looking for work. Nor do I have a compelling need to update my resumé. I can, however, reduce my resumé to the most essential information you need to know about my working self:

Tim Adkins
Media Guy/Creative Type/Professional Empathizer

Skills:
Can give a very sincere shit about any problem you have and will collaborate with you thoughtfully and artfully to create a solution that leaves you feeling good about yourself and profoundly satisfied with whomever or whatever I have been tasked with representing.

Salary:
Six figures gets you a conversation. Seven figures gets you a meeting. 18 figures gets you my soul for half of eternity. 36 figures gets it 'til the end of all time.

"You have one ___ message."

There is a voicemail message currently residing on my work phone that was left for me two Septembers ago. Which should tell you three things:

1) I'm a pack rat.

2) I've been collecting paychecks from the same place for a while now.

3) It's one helluva message.

Actually, it's not necessarily the message so much as the person who left it. The guy's surname is Teodorescu and with his accent from wherever it is that he comes, the message begins with him saying what sounds like "to the rescue".

Which is fantastically silly. And never ceases to crack me up.

Especially on those days that feel like they last a week. Or during those weeks that feel like they last a decade. Or during those decades...

Lord, I hope I don't spend 10 years in the same place.

Playing Hooky

There is a pretty famous Englishman who theorizes that public schools often kill creativity. Here's his argument:



Personally, I think he's on to something.

Which is, in part, why I played hooky from work today. Sorta.

Early this week, I got an e-vite for this event.

Which was quite timely as I had just finished reading this collection of mini-essays.

Since Friday is normally my work-from-home day, it presented the perfect opportunity for a field trip.

So I took one.

Naturally, I learned some cool new stuff. Notably from the guy who runs this organization.

Then I wandered DC a lil bit. Checked out a couple book stores. Furniture stores. And some sneaker spots, too. It was, after all, a truly blue sky autumn afternoon in the nation's capital.

Now I'm home. Getting caught up on email. Flirting with some of the "work" I missed this afternoon. And I'm thinking that I've stumbled onto a new rule that would make Sir Ken (the guy in the video up there ^^^) proud.

Everyone should play hooky from work once a month.

It does a body--and a spirit--good. Lotsa good.

The catch, though, is that you probably shouldn't simply sit at home and watch The View. Or ESPN Classic. Or a My Name is Earl marathon.

This rule should have a clause that you have to do something that inspires you. Doesn't really matter what it is. Or even what it inspires you to do. Just that it gets the neurons in your brain firing. That's all.

'Cause the thousand paper cuts of death that await you in the cube farm don't actually need to succeed.

No matter how important that TPS Report is.

She Said "JaJaJaJa"

An email huddled in a long line of unread messages in my inbox when I logged in at work this morning. It was a response from a colleague based in Puerto Rico. She was following up on an interview we were working on. She, the subject. Me, the interrogator. I mean, inquisitor. I mean...aw hell...I was the guy asking questions.

In that message, she commented about one line of questioning and typed "jajajaja" in one conspicuous place that looked like a typo. Which made sense given that she was writing in her second language. Even though she spoke and wrote her second language quite well.

After initially raising a curious brow, I forgot about it and dug into what was a crazy ambitious schedule.

In the afternoon, she and I continued our dialogue on the phone. She does some really interesting work with furniture, space and architecture. Which is cool. But not quite as attention-grabbing as the way she spelled out the URL for her home page.

She said "blank blank blank blank blank blank punta com."

OOOOOHHHHHHHH.

Right.

"Punta" = "point." Or "dot."

And "jajajaja" = "hahahaha."

I get it now.

I think I'll be boarding the small yellow bus today. You s'pose they'll let me have the same seat I sat in yesterday?

The Considerate Shitter

I work in a four-story office building.

Three companies fill up the entire first floor.

Two companies--including mine--occupy half of the second floor.

One company takes up the third floor.

And the fourth floor is empty. Completely. Been so for over a year now. During that time, a silent society has coalesced on that floor.

I'm a member. There are others. But I have no idea who any of them are. One of my co-workers might be one. I've never mentioned this society to him, though. Nor has he to me. In fact, I've never actually come face to face with any of the other members. I know them only by the evidence they leave behind.

This society, you see, is made up of men who work in the building and choose to trudge up to the top floor of our building in order to, ahem, "do their business."

We're a considerate bunch. We all need to make our drop-offs. And we choose to do so on the floor where no one else will unwittingly encounter the smells, sounds or *gasp* sights some of us leave in our wake.

It is a necessary thing that we do. We are not proud of it. Which is probably why we do not acknowledge each other. Occasionally, I will sit down to make a 3 o'clock delivery and hear someone zipping up and flushing in the stall next to me. Never does the other member of the Society of Considerate Shitters speak. Nor do I. I do hear the other member wash his hands and exit. After the coast is clear, I do the same. Only to return the next day when duty calls.

Regrettably, this society is not comprised of every man who works in my building. There are those less considerate souls who utilize the bathrooms on the floors where they work. We all know who they are.

And none of us considerate shitters want to be ranked among them.

I'm a Player

For real. You ain't know?

Not in the Too Short sense of the word. Not even close.

I'm speaking a bit more literally. As in: one who participates in the game. And very specifically NOT: one who oversees or manages the process of playing the game.

In other words, I'm a player, not a coach. For now.
"
I've been made aware of this fact during the last few weeks at what we'll call "the real job." It's real 'cause it's the one that pays the bills. For now.

At this real job, I do a lot of writing. I do a little bit of photography, a little bit of power pointing and some other creative tasks. Together, those tasks require me to exploit my own talents, manage my own time and co-ordinate with a small number of collaborators. In short, I do the things that are a part of the process which someone else is in charge of.

That makes me a player. Not a coach.

In becoming aware of this fact, I've also learned that there are two types of professional people: players and coaches. (Surprise!)

The players are the folks who carry out the process. Some of 'em love the process. Some of 'em are incapable of doing anything else. And some of 'em simply settle into the process and make a career of carrying it out 'cause they can't think of anything else to do.

The coaches are the folks who manage the process. Some of 'em love the act of overseeing. Some of 'em know they aren't that good at carrying out the process so they milk the act of managing 'til it gives them a career. Some of 'em are patently ambitious and need to obtain more power, more money, more power, more money, etc.

I'm old enough to have recognized that I am fundamentally one or the other. But I feel like I've not worked enough to completely commit to a career as one or the other.

So I'll call myself a player. For now.

Down the road? Who knows?

The Professional

Earlier this week, I spent two days at this conference. It was the second time in the last month I attended a work-related conference. Third time this year. Which is three times more than last year. Three more than the year before that. And equal to the total number of conferences from the three years prior to that.

The point (though not altogether obvious): somehow, my professional life has been decidedly unprofessional.

I'm nearly 10 years removed from the campus of Duquesne University. Did a year on the first job. Left the legit work force for a few months while relocating to the West Coast. Did a few odd jobs before landing a full-time gig with a small publishing firm. Stayed with that one for five years. Left the workforce again for another year or so while trying to make this movie. Then hopped back into office life in early 2006. Been at the same job ever since.

And in all that time, I never heard of the Delphi Method. It came up at this week's conference. I gathered that I was the only person in the room without a clue. And wondered what else I didn't know about.



Having been to a handful of conferences now, I find the way people merge into temporary tribes to be mad interesting. And I've struggled thus far to figure out how best to behave. Wouldn't say that I'm socially awkward, but I'm definitely situationally awkward. And there seem to be a good deal of professional situations - whether its at a conference or in the office - that I just don't know how to navigate.

Maybe other people feel this same way. Working a room full of strangers isn't exactly a lay-up line. Maybe I'm overanalyzing things. I can break a little ice. And I'm usually nice with the business card exchange. Guess the only trouble I really have is the nagging feeling like I don't have the same body of experience - or knowledge - as everyone else. Then again, maybe that's why we all gather together. And maybe I'm missing the point.

In any case, the summer schedule of classes for NOVA came in the mail yesterday. Maybe it's time to get caught up. Become a real "professional" for once.