Dog Job Interviews

Luckily (and hopefully), at this pont in the Dog's life, job interviews aren't part of the personal scenario.   But, given my "HR" job, as I listen to how our recruiters conduct them in this era of "behavioral interviewing" and assessing "emotional intelligence" while "hiring for fit" and the other rhetorical psycho-babble coming from professional gospels of "how-to HR"; I am reminded of my own interviews.  I'm guessing everyone accumulates them in some fashion over the years.   Mine are all fond (?) memories and some still bring back a smile -- or an outright laugh, at their "ludicrosity"... 
Three-plus-one of the more interesting job interviews I have known...
- Escorted into the CEO's office; a large, well-appointed room, a tad on the dark side, with ornate furnishings.  His greeting was warm and friendly as he moved around his desk, and pointed to a chair by the wall for me to sit.   Two uncomfortable Louis XIV wall chairs, both facing into the office, with a table in between.   We sat side-by-side facing out into the office (seriously... parallel to each other).   I tried to turn toward him, but the chair wouldn't move.   He interviewed me with minimal, to zero, eye contact and mainly looking down or out at the wall.   I was reminded of the old joke about how you can tell an extroverted pathologist.... they look at your shoes instead of their own.   This guy was not extroverted.   I finally accepted it, pretended there was a camera hidden in the opposite wall and had a great conversation with myself.   I left wondering how he got the job, and not about whether I would get one.  
- Brought into the CEO's office and sat down in a chair directly in front of his desk.   As I sat down, I realized that I was sitting about shoulder level with the top of his desk.   When he sat down behind his desk, his eye level was at least two feet above mine.   I had to believe that his chair was raised and the other chairs were lowered.   I almost looked around the desk to see if he was on a platform or what?  This guy had issues, and mine were mainly trying not to giggle or stand up.   I did seriously think about slouching lower just to see what he would do. 
- Dining experiences aren't exempt from the interview process either.   It is almost a given that if you're interviewing for a senior level position, there will be some kind of meal involved.  Most of them are nervous food picking and "informal" conversations geared to assess social skills and gastronomic tendencies.  
And, folks, the first real question is always:  Do I have alcohol?   Good interviewers will make the first move and relieve the tension of choice.   You can bet it's a test, if they let you choose first.   And, whichever way you choose, will always give them another thought.... so don't sweat it. 
My favorite "dining experience"  was at an Olive Garden, in an anonymous Wisconsin city.  Per instructions from the recruiting firm who called me, I had arrived the previous evening and checked into the Holiday Inn Express.  The morning came and I was supposed to be picked up at 8, but at 7:30 the phone rang and I was informed there was a change of plans;  I should stay at the hotel and they would call me when they were coming to get me.   Around 11, the phone rang again and I was told that I should continue waiting.   The only phone number I had was for the recruiter, in Chicago, and I used it a couple of times that day. 
Around 3, the next call came and I was told to meet the CEO at a nearby Olive Garden around 5, and join him for dinner.   At 5:30, he breezed into the restaurant, introduced himself, and we immediately sat down for dinner.   During the meal, he asked me no questions and I was mainly engaged in listening to him expound on his healthcare philosophies and berating of the nearby larger city's health care providers.   I felt like I was eating with that little cartoon mouse standing on the railroad tracks in front of the roaring locomotive, with his middle finger raised.   He made minimal eye contact, and was so self-absorbed that my comments were usually missed or talked over.  The highlight was when we walked out the front door and he headed for his car without a word.   I left wishing I'd ordered scotch. 

Lastly, my favorite all time job interview...  after the usual "gauntlet interview" with various people, I was meeting the CEO.   He came in, we shook hands, and he asked if I knew a certain physician from another system.  I said yes, he was a good guy and we had coffee regularly.  The second question was, "what do you think of _____ ?   I said that ____ was one of the reasons I left that employ.   My interviewer smiled, stood up, extended his hand and said, "Good, he's an asshole, you're hired."
So folks, when you interview for a job, or for anything, do your research, learn everything you can about the people, places, and things you may encounter - and then relax, years from now you will only remember the good stuff. 
   

Beginnings

I've been lax enough in writing this now that I do believe I've reached a point of minimal, if any, reading by anyone.   I'm finding freedom in that.   During the months of August & September, I think a lot about my parents (both birthdays) and my youth and the evolutions in life. 
I started out to become a newspaper reporter and ended up in healthcare human resources.  That makes me think that a whole lot of people never end up where they intended to be, so arguably the best strategy is not to have a strategy.   Just take the days as they come, pay attention when opportunities come by, and take a chance on life every now and then.   Keep learning, growing, exploring and living.   Everyone's life is individual, and for the making.  Become independent, self-sufficient, and humble.   That's freedom.  
I was born in Tacoma, Washington, on the cusp of the Korean War.  Tacoma was an industrial town, big in shipping and transportation.  I grew up in an "ethnically diverse" neighborhood before anyone even know what that term meant.  My Father was a native of Tacoma, and never went past the 8th grade.  His Father was killed in a railroad accident and Dad had to get a job to support the family.  My Mother was British by birth, and was 16 years younger than my Dad.  My parents were railroad people; my Dad a switch tender and Mom, a Caller.  They met at the Union Depot in Tacoma, and fell in love.   When Dad turned 54, I was born.   He was a better man. 
I was the only child of their marriage, which was a second marriage for both of them.  Dad had two other children with a wife who left him for another man.  Mom had three sons and left her first husband and a bad marriage.  
My parents were practicing Catholics, although because of their divorce and remarrying, they were excommunicated.  They took me to mass every Sunday, but they could not take the sacraments.  As I look back on those years, that was my first experience with true hypocrisy. 
They both worked 40 hour weeks, and I spent a lot of time with aunts and a grandmother. 
I went to Catholic school, became an altar boy and a crossing guard.  I was never molested by a priest, but I did have one pass out drunk at the altar.  I was taught by nuns, who taught me many things, with words, examples, rulers and slaps.  Excellent education in the basics, and a great education in hypocrisy.  I was taught religion, and learned to question religion. 
I moved to public school in the 9th grade because I did not want to continue my Catholic education, and my parents were fine with that.  Not paying tuition was a plus for all of us.  It was $45 a year and we did not have a lot of money.  Our idea of going out to dinner was going to the Royal Fork buffet.   To this day, when I go to a 5-star restaurant and see YUP's with little kids there, I feel sorry for them. 
My parents had a good post-WW2/Great Depression mentality about working; and I saw it without having to hear about it.  I had a paper route when I turned 12.  I saved up money from that and bought my first car in cash on the day I turned 16.  That may be some insight into the degeneration of the American work ethic; since I don't recall anyone telling me to get a paper route.  I got the paper route because I was always playing outside (yes OUTSIDE) when the "paperboy" came by and I thought what he was doing was pretty cool.  I mean carrying that big bag of papers and throwing them on porches, and people paid you??   And, I never expected my parents to buy me a car.  Maybe it was because I knew they couldn't afford it.  Obviously, in today's world, I must have had a troubled childhood. 
One of my first recognizable memories of the term "WTF?" came when I came home from school in the spring before my 16th birthday.   My Mom was excited to tell me that she had lined up a job for me to clean the garage shop for a fuel oil company... and I could do it before AND after school... AND on Saturdays.   On Saturday mornings I would drive around the county checking school fuel oil tanks, and on some Saturday afternoons I also got to go out to my boss's house and do yard work.   He did have a daughter, and that's all I'm saying. 
Those days of my youth, somehow instilled in me the confidence that I can always find work, and I need to be self-sufficient.  Kinda like a Road Dog. 
One of my favorite quotes is from Michael Todd, "I've been poor, but I've never been broke.   Poor is a temporary condition.  Broke is a state of mind." 

Every Song Tells A Story

The Dog's office doghouse is a reflecton of the Rod Stewart line, "Every Picture Tells A Story".  A long life history creates a lot of wall hangings, and more so many memories.   These artifacts serve to rekindle thoughts of people, places and things -- experiences. Each can give me one of those "poignant pauses" to reflect and connect again.  
Likewise, there's always music playing in the office doghouse.  The music serves several purposes.
One, it's just nice to have music (if you think music in your office seems unprofessional, you have issues beyond professionalism).  
Two, the music is a constant reminder that the effective performance depends on many things --- the environment -- the people playing in the band --the need for everyone to perform as individuals...and as a group -- and the absolute dependence of the leader on the members of the band, the need of the leader for the followers to play to play well.   What a better metaphor for leadership?  
Third, the music, like the wall hangings, has been selected by choice, not randomly.  Every song also tells a story, brings back a memory of an event or a person in my life. As Leonard Bernstein once said, "Music can name the un-nameable and communicate the unknowable."  In other words, it helps you think of what was, what is, and what may have been. Such things bring everything from smiles to melancholia, but rarely, if ever, regrets.  
So, it came to pass, on a quiet Sunday morning not too long ago, Aerosmith's "Walk This Way" fired up and the Dog was given cause to reflect on the message under the vulgarities of lyric:  "I wonder what ever happened to her?" 
It was 1965, and the Dog was fresh from his 8-year Catholic School indoctrination and entering the world of "public school" and worrying more about becoming the "high school loser" than getting any sort of good grades. 
And so it came to pass that one day, while wandering the halls of Stuart Junior High School on a perpetual search for coolness, a raven haired girl appeared on my right arm and began conversing in junior high school girl style that guaranteed a sweaty breakout on my forehead and total loss of control in the brain-mouth connection. 
The Dog knew this girl from home room and a couple of classes, but didn't pay much attention to things perceived to be beyond reach.  She was well beyond reach, in my mind until then.  Her name was Linda, and she was one of those school girls that fit in between the niches. Don't go down the trash chute with this thought.  I never went out with her..  But with that conversation and subsequent hall walks, she did give me the impetus to "walk this way, talk this way".  She wasn't a cheerleader, but she was cool, and a bit understated. She didn't run with the blond bombs or the cheerleaders, but more with the darker side. As with that fringe player status, she had a mystery about her. She didn't have to fake "cool". 


Linda never graduated with us.  During our junior year she found someone on the dark side, and that was it for Linda in the high school life. She disappeared. The Dog never asked nor thought about her much until Aerosmith re-lit the memory. When I hear the song, I think of Linda and hope she found some good music in her life; and made some good memories.  She's one of mine. 
I hope that everyone has such memories, and revisits them regularly. 

Happy Dogs Find A Way Around The Wall

Happened upon an interview with Roger Waters on the radio (you remember radios, right?).   Roger Waters, for you of the unenlightened music scene, chummed up with another rock guru named Syd Barrett and started a small English band called Pink Floyd.   They blew out the '70's and '80's, with things like "The Wall" and "Dark Side of the Moon", and then like so many others disintegrated into stife and conflict and litigation. 
Anyway, during the interview Waters was asked why his writing and music was so dark and depressive.   Waters responded that he only writes what he sees.   He went out of his way to point out his positive and happy demeanor, and then spoke about artists only painting what they see and the things he saw weren't real positive in those days.   Those of us who can remember the '70s would agree.  Those were dark times. 
But, Water's raises an Interesting thought... we are what we see, our perception is our reality, we are pack animals influenced by our environment.  When we're puppies we see life presenting itself to us as it is.  Then our parents, our teachers, our media, our culture, "teach" us how to see the world in the "right" way.  We are given labels for things in our world, we are given the right language to describe beings and events, and eventually we can't read the world in any other language or hear it saying anything else then what has been written on the walls of our minds. 
Too often happiness comes by breaking that spell and forcing ourselves to listen to the world in new ways, new views, and new languages, and let the world speak to us and write new meanings in our existence. 
Thanks Roger, it's never too late to tear down the walls and raise your legs on the ones that won't come down.

Dog Pads

Dog's got a blog.

Dog's got a Facebook.

Dog's got a LinkedIn.

Dog's got a blackberry.

Dog's got a iPad

Dog's got a Twitter.

Now Dog needs time.

Physical Fit

Forget the budget wars; all of us cynics know in the back of our minds that the pseudo intellectual politicos will pull it out of their self-preservation and pass a bill either at the 11th or 12th hour. The Tea Farty has made their point, and their inch deep brains have hopefully been orgasmically appeased. But more about that later - maybe.

The real thought today is on physical fitness, wellness or otherwise being able to breathe when you stand up. The Dog's been pondering this for some time - and it's been one of those irrepressible hot buttons for a long time. The Dog used to weigh in at a svelte 234, so don't think too many mean thoughts about him.
While real dogs go for a run, this one goes for a bike ride some time. And, one of the misguided thoughts that regularly come to me is the incentive that people SHOULD have for losing weight when they try to squeeze into their trendy, over-priced, bike riding togs. I won't even comment on the ones who fall off the bikes because they can't get their $100 bike shoe off the peddle.
The Dog more than admires everyone's efforts to get some exercise and clear their pores and arteries with a little cardio sweat programming. But, the only people who look reasonable in those spandex compressors are real bike people, and few others. No sexist comments here, you can make them yourselves. I know what you're thinking.
But, now seriously folks, do some of these people actually LOOK at themselves when they put on the biker shorts and the skin tight jersey shore shirts? I know they must laugh at the guy on Modern Family when he dons the biker shorts, so why don't they make the connection?
Of course, who am I to talk when I'm merrily peddling along in gym shorts and t-shirt and one of the over-stuffed ones buzzes by me? Ride on !!


Another thought in this physical fit, the Dog would like to encourage both readers to attend any meetings, lectures, or presentation on wellness and, this time of year, health insurance programs. I went to one last week and listened to the presenters talk about the cost of insurance and the need for people to take responsibility for some of these costs being caused by over utilization and people leading unhealthy life styles.
The Dog went to refill his dog dish with warm coffee and happened to notice the eight people sitting in the back row folding chairs. Six of them seriously couldn't fit on the chairs. That can't be comfortable, can it? The Dog flashed on the thought that the view had to be similar to the one Aaron Rogers gets when he approaches the Packers offensive line on any play.
The Dog put down the scone and drank the coffee black; admiring them for attending, hoping they would listen and that they would live happily ever after.

OK, one more, from the other side. Have you ever noticed how the "physically fit" are always carping about being sore, or having a pulled something, or limping, or being tight in the chest, legs, or some body part? And, when they go out for an evening they always remind everyone that they can only eat salad, bland food, and drink less than real drinks? After they've succeeded in bringing everybody else down, they then have a heart attack or get hit by a bus? Seriously, get over yourselves and just live in semi-moderation and bust loose every now and then and experience something called "life". If that's your life, so be it, just don't wake up on your death bed wishing you had tried the lasagna. Or wake up wishing you hadn't, for that fact.

Back to the trail.... Ride on.

Dog's Day "Memorial" - 40 Years Later

The Dog was coming home. Working my way through the San Francisco airport to make the flight to Seattle. The resplendent disabled veteran, in my Marine Corps uniform, medals worn proudly.
I saw her coming well in advance. Call it jungle awareness, call it noticing the obvious, the point is that I knew she was directed at me and was on a mission.
She was in her late 20's, shoulder length dark hair and big brown eyes that burned with the passion and fire of someone who was following her heart. She was carrying a brown leather shoulder bag and wearing a long navy blue wool coat. She moved toward me with the grace of a tigress.
When she was within fifteen feet of me, I stopped. My instinct and reflexes told me to watch her hands, her bag, her coat. My sense told me to look deeper into her eyes.
She came to me, stopping within a foot and I could feel her energy and heat. I could smell her scent.
She grabbed me with her eyes, pulling my total focus there in initiating the shaking and nervous stomach of apprehension.
We stood there, locked in that optic connection, for some time -- then she blinked and the tears came down her cheeks. I had watched them fill her eyes and move onto her high cheekbones. She was sending me her pain, her sorrow... her hate.
Her right hand came up quickly, index finger extended as her mouth opened. She was struggling to find words, and when they finally came, the voice was raspy and choking through a hoarse throat.
Her finger touched the ribbons on my chest.
"You're nothing but a hit man for the U.S. Government."
With that, she moved to my left and down the concourse.

Physically, she was out of my life. Mentally, she will always be a part of my spirit.

I hope she found peace. I hope she found love.