All for one and one for all, and lots for oneself! And therefore . . . no slackers allowed! no deadwood! no lightweights! no loafers! You headed straight for your desk, your telephone, and your computer terminal in the morning. The day didn't start with small talk and coffee and perusals of The Wall Street Journal and the financial pages of the Times, much less The Racing Form. You were expected to get on the telephone and start making money. If you left the office, even for lunch, you were expected to give your destination and a telephone number to one of the "sales assistants," who were really secretaries, so that you could be summoned immediately if a new issue of bonds came in (and had to be sold fast). If you went out for lunch, it better have something directly to do with selling....otherwise--sit here by the telephone and order in from the deli like the rest of the squadron.

A nation has lost its way...

What is Andrew up to today?
a) writing his memoirs
b) upgrading his blog to blogplus
c) being a total fuckhead and getting stoned on Monday night

While falling asleep on the couch last night, I watched Much Music's diary of P.Diddy. It was a"day in the life of" style documentary on the daily grind of a hip hop producer, actor, father and role model for aspiring hip hop artists. During one of the commercial breaks, I saw an ad for "Much 90s" compilation CD of hits from the 1990s, which I may have to remind you, were only 4 years ago. Just as The Onion predicted.....

What this war is not about, by Rick Salutin. Did I mention I love Canadians?

When I started this blog, I did so with the idea of emulating some other blogs that I had read and which inspired me to create a blog myself. For a while I unsuccessfully tried to imitate these blogs; their style, their ideas, their writing. But I realized that I was pleasing no one by doing this. As far as I know the only people who read this blog are Scott, Rob, and Sean. So now I write for myself, if only to make myself feel better.

There, there. No I feel okay.

Still waiting to hear from two customers to get their orders and process them so I can go home for the day. Reading the War of Art at my desk in the meantime, hoping that no one will notice. Actually, I don't give a shit anymore.

Although it is very lame, I give a lot of gift certificates to people. This is partly because I do not like shopping, and partly because I am often too lazy to think about what the recipient would really like but would never think to buy for themselves. Perhaps that is the art of gift-giving, moving it from a mere transaction to an exchange of energy.

What inspired me to write this is the gift I received from my brother Jim, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. As soon as I opened it, I felt his presence in the room, even though he was a thousand miles away. It was sent as a wake-up call to a man who is only have awake, and living somebody else's life.

The first record I ever bought with my own money was Combat Rock, by The Clash. I paid $2.50 for it in 1983, at Cheap Thrills, a used record store that would go on to provide me with over 100 more albums, cds and tapes. The Clash to me were as far as I could really venture into the punk world, being a white kid from the suburbs, but they had a huge impact on me, both socially and politically. They showed me that there was space in the world for people like me, who were sent to private school but did not want to swallow the bullshit we were taught to believe. They showed me there was an alternative path to mainstream society, other than becoming a headbanger. And for this, I am truly thankful.

Long may you rest in peace Joe Strummer.

I am going to have to get serious here, so there will be no post about the boring life endured in a "business intelligence" sales office. No, you see I originally started this blog to express my views on the world, and in that process hopefully cultivate a distinct view of the world; distinct enough for me to call it my own, but still relevant to many.

I have to put that aside and go on record regarding some current issues. You may or may not care, but it is important that the records show how I felt at this time.

I have never felt worse about the prospects for peace and prosperity in this world. Evil men, (yes, they are evil) are in powerful positions, and are eager to unleash a bloodbath on this world; they have stated publicly that they intend to wage war anywhere, at any time without notice, and for whatever reason they deem necessary. The pending invasion of Iraq will certainly result in hundreds of thousands of dead, even more homeless refugees, and another generation of orphans. Despite these certainties, Dick Cheney and Co. feel it is a necessary cost of doing business in their quest for oil.

I refuse to accept the commonly held belief that Saddam Hussein is hiding weapons, and even if he is, that is his business. Were he ever to use them, his destruction is assured, which makes me believe that he has no intention of launching any attack on anyone.

I am against this war. I am against the war on drugs. I believe that George Bush was not elected by the people of the US.

I do not hate Americans, but I hate what their government does, and what is does to its own people.

Enough ranting. I cannot change the way they operate. But I can help you change the way you think.

Have a peaceful holiday week.

Ah yes, here we are at another quarter-end, rushing to get revenue booked so we can sleep soundly on Christmas Eve. However, there are bigger problems right now, like my pounding headache, brought on by too much Christams cheer and not enough food. I only have three deals to close, but here I am begging like a pauper for a little generosity to be thrown my way.

Because Scott asked for it, and he may well represent 10% of my viewers, here is another Victoria Moment; number 27, taken from March 1998....

The dealership used to be named $1995 or less, but I don't remember seeing a sign indicating its name. But on its lot sat a mint-condition 1981 Honda Civic Wagon ( the long body-type, not the hatchback). Two guys seem to run the place, both in their 30s, but how late into the 30s I can't tell. The older one is talking on the phone with what must be his wife, as he arranging a pick-up or drop off of his children. His partner is in the office, a shack with a sliding glass door, two tiny desks and a cracked radio playing Q-103, Victoria's all classic rock station.
He too is on the phone, making arrangements for the evening, being Friday night. They both hang up to deal with me as I enquire about making payments on a $900 car.

Divorced dad comes on all friendly and warm-hearted, offering to take me out for a test drive. We drive down through Juan de Fuca park to the water, where I can really it open it up, making it into 4th gear. He tells me the CV joint will need to be replaced, and that frankly, for a man of my means you would be hard pressed to do better.

I give him $500 and tell him I will come back with the rest in 2 weeks, and makes me sign a document, effectively transferring the car to his name if I fail to pay. Partner is off the phone now, enjoying a cigarette while telling me how great the car is. I ask them if they make a good living selling used cars. They immediately reply " Oh no, we just live cheque to cheque like everybody else." They looked at me with empathetic smiles, convinced that we all agreed there was nothing you could do in life but just get by.


Thirty minutes after taking the bus to the dealership I arrived home in my Civic to the astonishment of my roommates.

While he is not an alcoholic in the neglect-your-family and beat-your-wife definition, by the standards of Alcoholics Anonymous, he has some serious thinking to do about his relationship with alcohol. To his credit, he stops drinking for lent each year. My mother has nagged at his drinking my entire life. Some of the more memorable excuses he has come up with for drinking are:

It is St Patrick's Day
It is St Andrew's Day
It is Father's Day
It's Sunday
The Masters is on
The Super Bowl is on
But it's the Grey Cup
It's the playoffs
My son has returned from _______ safely
Your mother said it was okay
Mr. Davey made this wine
I made this wine
This beer is imported

Right now I am updating my sales forecast for next quarter with Lenny Kravitz wailing "Fly Away" through my cheap Canada 3000 headphones. I should hang on to these, as they could now be a collector's item, just like my Wardair tie. Lenny Kravitz I find a little cheezy, with his cliched 70s guitar riffs, but I bet a 14 year old would love it.

I chose to listen to this song because it reminds me of the time when I was working for this customer relationship management company as an inside sales rep. I picked a call off the queue, and I was instantly put on speakerphone with some startup company in Silicon Valley. There were three young men around the speakerphone, with Lenny Kravitz's "Fly Away" blaring in the background. They seemed so cool and carefree in their e-jobs, perhaps changing the way people buy transit tickets or return pop bottles with their soon-to-be-released zero-client, customer-focused solution. I remember thinking that I wanted to work in such an environment, instead of the one where I was stuck, with an English-born matronly boss, whose face had acquired the permanent scowl wrinkles on her jawline; wrinkles that are acquired only through a lifetime of mean disposition. I wished I too could fly away to southern California and take part in the revolution that promised to change everything but in reality changed very little.

The cool startup workers nonchalantly bought about $500 of software on their Amex, treating me as if I were someone who was just so out of it, so not part of whatever it was that was going on.

I really have to watch my spelling when I am stoned.

For the first time since the early 1990s, when I felt I was part of the demographic that had the term 'slacker' attached to it, I feel that my lifestyle and many marketing campaigns have intersected. At times it feels like these people are trying to convince me to live their lifestyle. The stongest influencer is the Banana Republic, aiming its ads squarely at people like me and my wife. I have had to impose a ban on that store, just because I now feel each time that I go in there, I am admitting that I can no longer make my own choices, and that they know best for me. Douglas Coupland called this a 2+2=5ism.

Now they have an ad with the young couple and child lying in bed. It screams to me that I should be having a child and living this fast paced yet balanced urban life surrounded by grey flannel and the New York Times; ambitious, aware of the finer things in life, but without forgetting that what really matters is spending time with my well-clothed family.

Two feelings for which there must be a German word that describes each perfectly.

The habit of completely forgetting that you used to live in a basement appartment rife with wood bugs once you have moved into a new appartment.

The feeling of seeing an advertisement on a bus shelter for a rave that you used to attend back in the day when it was word of mouth with no security, no searches, and now you find that it is an all-day event hosted by Ron Jeremy and the Coors Light Girls.

The GDP includes air pollution and advertising for cigarettes, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. . . . It grows with the production of napalm and missiles and nuclear warheads. . . . It does not allow for the health of our families, the quality of their education, or the joy of their play. It is indifferent to the decency of our factories and the safety of our streets alike. . . . It measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile

Victoria moment #235

We had just moved into a house in James Bay, the 4 of us; me, Carrie, George and the Doctor, as he was known then. In order to get high speed cable internet access, we needed a "technician" from Shaw Cable to come to our house and configure all the equipment. I felt kind of embarassed when he came over to the basement of our house, which was made out like a rec-room, complete with ping-pong, bean bag chairs, and a shiny black coke-dealer entertainment console with no equipment in it. Our ritual after work was to hit the bong immediately upon entry to the house. I remember that I was wearing a suit, as I worked for EDS at the time, who required all their people to wear suits. I looked over to the technician tapping away on the keyboard as I pulled a bong hit, and I thought to myself, he'll understand, this is Victoria. He glanced my way and gave me a look that confirmed my suspicions of empathy, a look that said, "yes, we are in Victoria, and this is what we do, this is how we affirm ourselves".

However, the real affirmation came 5 minutes later, when I came back downstairs and found the technician pulling a bong hit of his own.

A childhood taunt from my school days in rural Vermont;
You think you're hot shit on a silver platter, but you're really cold piss in a dixie cup.

Children are so blunt and cruel.

"How can I hurt you?" he says when we finally get down to business. He leans back on his mangy couch or bed/futon; I can't tell because it is covered in dirty clothes. With a stroke back through his hair with his hand, I can see the giant "M" on his knuckles, some kind of ring. I don't like to buy in this "retail" market, let alone having to sit through 5 minutes of whatever pirated dvd is playing.

His two friends on the other couch, nod at me silently, and immediately return their gaze to the television.

"Nice day outside," I say, "you should get out."

"Yeah, maybe we should.....haven't gone out yet today.

I get what I want and leave, so happy that I no longer inhabit their world, but disappointed in myself for having entered it, if only for a moment.