My Corona Diary (Take XL): "We Need You Back (In The Office, That Is)..."

 

<"We Need You Back..."
Take I/The Reckoner>

<i.>

It had to happen, I suppose. Like millions of other workers out there, I too am now feeling the nudge-nudge-nudge -- gently-gently, at first, but lately, it feels more like a rude poke in the ribs -- to come back into the office, "if only for once or twice a week."

Given that I've largely made my living from my living room for 16-odd years, this directive strikes me as odd, especially after recalling how The Powers That Be (TPTB) sold my current job: "You'll keep doing what you're doing now, from home, but you'll get a regular paycheck." Sounded good to me, so I signed up, and that's how I've been spending my last year.

Apparently, that's not good enough anymore, though why hasn't been made clear to me, since my work -- primarily editorial, as I've chronicled -- can be done anywhere. It's not a new argument, as I realized in 2004, when I pitched a big city paper about working from home for them as a correspondent. I got a swift response, but not the one I'd imagined: "Oh, no, we can't do that. (Pause.) We're not going to pay to maintain an office." 

"But soon, nobody will need to go into an office anymore," I protested, trying to paper over my exasperation. "Soon, you'll able to work from anywhere -- desert island, middle of rural nowhere, the confines of your own home. Take your pick."

What the editor told me, I no longer recall. But her response sounded worthy of Homer Simpson's punchline: "The Internet? Is that thing still around?" 

Needless to say, the person who sparred with me over this issue is retired, like so many others in the news business who failed to appreciate the dawning of the new digital era. It reminds me of Metallica's fumbled response to the advent of Napster, with one major difference. Unlike Metallica, most ex-journalists won't have a rich back catalog to see them through their golden years. Such is life in today's technocracy, I suppose.

<"We Need You Back..."

Take II/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

As the above exchange suggests, The Office has always exerted a powerful, yet puzzling, gravitational pull on the American psyche. Otherwise, we'd hardly have a hit TV show named after it, would we? In many ways, "The Office" is simply the latest version of The Man In The Gray Flannel Suit (1956), or Mike Judge's comedy, Office Space (1999). 

But one message comes through loud and clear, in all of these Hollywood concoctions: The Office isn't a place you'd ever hang out willingly, if a different option presented itself. It's a whirlpool of bitterness and bitchiness, where it never takes long for hidden animosities to surface. Cue that shopworn punchline, "How boring is an office? You won't know till you try working in one."

That's why I piss myself laughing whenever some talking head waxes poetic about the camaraderie and collaboration that people are missing, by continuing to resist the Iron Nudge to return. If you read our Jobs To Nowhere series, you already know how hard I struggled to remember the good times at work. There were a few notable instances, but honestly, I struggled to recall most of them.

The Vox story (see below) makes some interesting points about the whole business. The general consensus suggests the whiff of a classic overdog power move: All right, you bastards. We know how much you've enjoyed working at home, but guess what? The party's over. Time to drag your asses back, so we can abuse you in person, all over again.

I've asked other people for some perspective about my predicament: "We've gotten by a whole year without having to rub shoulders. Why the rush?" The suggested motives I've heard range from control freak maneuvers ("Soon, you'll be coming in every day"), to financial ("They paid for all that office space, they want to get something out of it"), to resentment from above ("The heads figure, if they have to be there every day, so should you").

Still, what's the point of all that technology, if we can't capitalize on the flexibility ir promises? That's certainly true of cities like Los Angeles, where drivers spend roughly three hours a day schlepping back and forth to work. Who wants to endure that kind of insanity all over again?

And that's before we get to the other issue -- whether that green-eyed COVID monster's gearing up for another winter go-round. Time will tell soon enough there, obviously.

<"Be Seeing You..."/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

I just remember how I felt in Chicago, commuting forty-five minutes back and forth from the north suburbs, all to make my overdog bosses richer, as I scratched and scraped on $9.75 an hour. Without my freelance writing income, The Squawker and I would have struggled even more.

Words can't do justice to how much that commute curdled my stomach. For three years, Monday through Friday, I'd walk six blocks to a cattle call bus stop, where cigarette smoke and stale exhaust mingled with the gray and white snowflakes of pigeon shit that coated the roofs of the so-called bus shelters.

I don't recall feeling any camaraderie there, either. For the most part, my fellow travelers buried their noses in books and magazines, or stared blankly ahead, resigned to their fates.

I can't fake any warm and fuzzy feelings for those gauzy gray late '90s day, just as the Internet began rearranging the rhythm 'n' blues of our lives. Compare and contrast with today, when I began looking for remote jobs, and got 100 or so to come up, with little effort.

Guess what? Some outfits are so hot to get their hands on a warm body, they're offering $1,000 signing bonuses. In some cases, you can work remotely, even if your job happens to be in another state. Who wouldn't scoop up an option like that? 

Of course, the real reason behind this sudden snap of the leash is straightforward, as a media company vice president tells Vox. She too commutes three hours to work every day, while trying to raise a child as a single parent. Of course, these facts cut little ice with her bosses, who continue to work remotely, even as they demand everyone else return to the office:

“It’s unfair, but then management was always privileged,” she said, referring to the people above her. “This is just a new way of showing that privilege.”

Indeed, some animals are always more equal than others. What else is new? But with a current ratio of 1.7 per open jobs per worker, I'm not sure how many people feel inclined to listen. My current issue remains unresolved, but if I need any motivation, I only have to recall the general flow of events in Titanic -- the James Cameron version, that is.

Those who scrapped for a seat on the lifeboats, more often than not, secured a shot at survival. Those tophatted and tailcoated gentlemen who paused to knock back another cocktail, as they tut-tutted that unseemly rush to the exits, punched themselves a first-class ticket, straight to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Moral of the story? Not everything good comes to those who wait. As long as that 1:1.7 ratio hangs in our favor, make whatever moves you can. Because the way I feel, and the way things are going, it couldn't have happened to a "better" bunch of guys. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Don't Hurry, Hurry,

'N' Worry Yourself Back To Work...)

Forbes: Bosses Are Winning 

The Battle To Get Workers Back...*:
https://www.forbes.com/sites/jackkelly/2022/09/20/bosses-are-winning-the-battle-to-get-workers-back-to-the-office/?sh=7cdef66b783e

The Guardian: "It's Just Not Worth It":
https://www.theguardian.com/business/2022/oct/01/back-to-office-say-bosses-staff-prefer-working-from-home

Vox: You're Going Back To The Office...:
https://www.vox.com/recode/2022/10/12/23400496/remote-work-from-home-office-boss-manager-hypocrisy

(*We'll see, guys, we'll see. I wouldn't get out the confetti just yet.)

Happy Halloween: "Dark Money Word Cloud I+II"

<"Dark Money Word Cloud I":

The Reckoner>

It's just too big to stop...Ka-ching, Ka-ching...It's not the time...

Ka-ching, Ka-ching...

The political climate doesn't allow it...

Follow the money...Money is speech...Follow the money...

Ka-ching, ka-ching...

Corporations are people, too...

Ka-ching, ka-ching...

Just follow the money...

It doesn't buy my vote...

Ka-ching, ka-ching...

"I think the major factor for why Biden has gradually been falling in the polls is by the way that he campaigns and speaks and the contradictions in his claims versus his record. 

"And those contradictions are very much played out in his current effort to rationalize taking huge money or accepting the huge money going into super PACs on behalf of his campaign."

<Norman Solomon,

Common Dreams Contributor>


."Joe Biden should get scorched 

on the next debate stage

 for starting a super PAC 

because he doesn't have grassroots support." 

<Erick Fernandez, Journalist>

"While there may be disagreements between candidates in this race about whether or not it’s okay to have a super PAC, on this issue the country is already pretty united: People have had ENOUGH of the wealthy and powerful buying our candidates and elections."
<Fahiz Shakir,

Bernie Sanders' 2020 Campaign Manager>

Common Dreams: 

"Sanders Campaign, Progressives

Rip Biden Super PAC"

<10/30/19>

<"Dark Money Word Cloud II":

The Reckoner>

I must make two honest confessions to you… 
First, I must confess that over the past few years
 I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. 

I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion 
that the Negro’s great stumbling block
 in his stride toward freedom 
is not the White Citizen's Councilor, 
or the Ku Klux Klanner,
 but the white moderate, who is more devoted
to “order” than to justice; 

who prefers a negative peace 
which is the absence of tension
 to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; 

who constantly says:
“I agree with you in the goal you seek,
but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action”;

 who paternalistically believes 
he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; 

who lives by a mythical concept of time 
and who constantly advises the Negro
 to wait for a “more convenient season.” 

Shallow understanding from people of good will 
is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding 
from people of ill will. 

Lukewarm acceptance 
is much more bewildering than outright rejection.

<Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
 “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”>

Punk Rock Art Corner: "1977 (Year Zero)" Word Cloud

<i.>

Technically speaking, this drawing isn't a world cloud, in that the words don't directly flow out of one another. But that's okay. This is punk rock-style outsider art, which means we can call it whatever we want. I've always believed that if you're gonna be categorized, better to do it yourself, before the outside world slaps a disagreeable one on you that sticks like stale mashed potatoes. 

So, maybe in this case, we should call "1977 (Year Zero)" the anti-world cloud, I guess, since the words 'n' phrases don't care to rub shoulders with one another. It's also apropos for the song this drawing celebrates: "1977," which graced the B-side of the Clash's "White Riot," released in March of that storied year...what many writers refer to as Punk Rock's Year Zero.

That being said, what's striking, 40-odd years on, is how neatly "1977" straddles the punk-retro divide. On one hand, the riff is really a slower, stripped-down version of the Kinks' "All Day And All Of The Night," which shouldn't surprise anyone who collects Clash live tapes -- which showcase a leaner, angrier Mod-style garage band, with a gruffer vocal delivery, and more in-your-face lyrics than the era permitted.

At least, that's the evidence to these ears, based on the tapes that survived from the band's first half-year or so (notably, Screen On The Green, 8/31/76, The Roundhouse, 9/5/76, and Birmingham Town Hall, 11/5/76). Yet all the ramalama we soon called punk is present and correct here: the declamatory guitar, elementary song structure (verse/chorus, verse/chorus, verse/chorus, solo, and coda -- in 99 seconds), and no-frills approach (particularly the bass and drums).

<ii.>

The other obvious difference lies in Joe Strummer's lyrics, which veer from Dylanesque fixations ("Danger stranger, you better paint your face"), to straightforward protest ("I'm too long on the dole/And I can't work at all"), and provocative statements ("Ain't so lucky to be rich/Sten guns in Knightsbridge").This feature, coupled with Strummer's raspy delivery -- when most British singers affected a Yankee, or at least, mid-Atlantic accent -- truly draws the line in the sand between past and present. 

"1977" also marked another long-running tradition of Clash songs that would land Joe, at various times, in hot water with a) his punk-oriented peers, b) the music press, and c) rival bands, who gave him a great deal of grief for singing, "Sten guns in Knightsbridge." Was Joe suggesting. time to blow away those future British one percenters, Baader Meinhof-style, with automatic weapons? 

Not quite, Joe responded, maintaining the lyric referred to those Sten guns being pointed at him. Which makes a bit more sense, if you think about it, right? The classic posture of the punk rock troubadour caught in the crossfire, an image that many other bands would quickly mine themselves, to varying degrees of success.

However, that grief paled in comparison to the chorus, which drove the song's central point: "No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones, in 1977!" To Joe's critics, that assertion sounded -- well, downright dubious, considering that he'd bolted the more pub-rock-oriented 101'ers to join the Clash. How could the man who'd belted out Chuck Berry covers with abandon now seem indecently eager to bury him, as those slogans (CHUCK BERRY IS DEAD) daubed on his paint-splattered clothing appear to suggest?

Such questions are well worth asking, though 40-odd years on, what strikes me -- looking back -- is how many of Joe's critics, once they'd allowed themselves the luxury of making a rhetorical point, missed the fact that he, too, was making one of his own...that it was time to turn the page on the past, at least for the moment, and forge ahead with something new.

But that's what happens, isn't it, when people take art so literally. They don't see the forest for the trees, which is a more critical skill than ever to cultivate in these politically parched times...and why I felt, on the spur of the moment, ready to celebrate "1977" in my notebook on the train ride home. --The Reckoner

Links To Go
The Clash: "1977"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=KorwwAjKpaY

<I

Don't 

Care...

'Cause

I'm 

Not All There>...

Punk Rock Art Corner: "Touring, Touring, It's Never Boring" Word Cloud

I just went on a business trip to the East Coast for 10 days. It's probably the longest I've been away from home since, oh, 2011, give or take. Overall, while the actual business went smoothly enough, the actual logistics felt pretty challenging, at times, since I mostly opted for the train...which, generally speaking, is considered smoother (less physically punishing), than, say the bus.

Unless, of course, you're taking multiple trains, in which case all the cliches really do apply. One town looks like the next, and one mile melts seamlessly into the second, third, fourth, and so on. My last day proved particularly challenging, as I hopscotched from New York, to Washington, DC and Chicago, for a grand total of 23.5 hours!

I got a flash of insight into why bands hate the physical realities of touring, and why so many of them churn out songs about the drudgery of staying in Holiday Inns  as their careers blur into the twilight years. In my case, the road home started at 9:47 a.m. Saturday, and finished up at 9:15 p.m. Sunday, so in this case, I found myself thinking: "All my sympathies, lads. I get it now."

So how do you make the minute hand move a little bit faster, once you've exhausted what conversational possibilities exist among your fellow passengers? Well, me being me, you'll either write, or draw, and draw, and draw a little more. Thankfully, I had the foresight to pack some colored Sharpies!

So, in this case, I took my inspiration from one of the lighter odes to the road: "Touring," by the Ramones, which makes the whole business seem downright wholesome ("The kids all come from miles around/The party gets started when the sun goes down/And Holiday Inn's the only home I know"), if not an enviable experience ("We got a fuel injected tour bus, man, it really flies/With a video tape deck inside/Let's go rock 'n' roll, everybody come along") that no self-respecting combo should live without ("Touring, touring, it's never boring/Especially with your favorite girl/All around the world"). Suffice to say...look for plenty of drawings and writings to come out of this trip. -- The Reckoner

Punk Rock Art Corner: "Hipster Word Cloud (Takes I+II)"

<"The book behind you 

is the book behind you; 

the book ahead of you 

is the book ahead of you. 

And a success

 can be as difficult 
to survive 

as a failure. 

When you're a success, 

if you believe it, you're finished.">

<"Any real artist 

will never be judged 

in the time of his time; 

whatever judgment is delivered 

in the time of his time 

cannot be trusted.">

Quotes: 

James Baldwin,

New York Times, 1985

Images/Photos:

The Reckoner

Punk Rock Art Corner: "Away From The Numbers" (Word Clouds #1-6)

<"I was sick and tired 

of my little niche

Was gonna break away 

and find where life is...">

<"And all those fools 

I thought were my friends

(Coaching is easy)

They now stare at me 

and don't see a thing

(Reality's so hot hard)...">

<"Till their life is over 

and they start to moan

How they never had the chance 

to make good...">

<"Then I saw that I was really the same

So this link's

 breaking away from the chain..">

<Away from the numbers

Away from the numbers

is where I'm gonna be

is reality...>

<Reality's so hot hard, 

reality's so hot hard, reality's so hard...>

///Words: Paul Weller\\\

///Images: The Reckoner\\\

"In The City harbored one true masterpiece. From its opening power chords, the claustrophobic 'Away From The Numbers' was compelling.

"Too much could be made of lines, 'I'm gonna break away and find what life is'...but there does seem to be a grim determination to look beyond existing boundaries, onwards and upwards, away from the 'numbers,' Sixties Mod slang for the throng."

<John Reed: 

Paul Weller: My-Ever Changing Moods

Omnibus Press, 1996>