GTFO

Over the summer, I learned that the company where I worked would be acquired. I did some checking into the big company that would buy the little company where I did my job. It didn't take me long to realize that I wouldn't want to work for what I percieved to be a big company where I wouldn't fit. As I started to interview for new jobs, I took to saying that by fall I would ". . . either be working at a different company (mine under a new name) or a different company."

The new management didn't take well to me from the start. They were told that my compensation was different from other people's who did the same job as I did. They were shown what the differences were. Initially, they said it was fine and that I was welcome to stay and do my thing. Time went by and new co. went slow about confirming my comp in a written agreement. Two lunch meetings were held. At each meeting, my old agreement (that was to be followed in my new agreement) was in my hand and the hand of the person with whom I was meeting. Did you see this, I said, pointing out a section? Yes, I was told, that will be fine. Yada yada yada, we had an oral agreement.

Weeks went by, no written agreement. I received a "on furhter consideration" phone call. We thought about it, I was told, and it's just not going to work for us. GTFO. I was accused of trying to get other employees to quit and start working for a company I didn't work for -- read that again, I was accused of recruiting for a COMPANY I DIDN'T WORK FOR. I said it was the worst kept secret in town that I had interviewed for other jobs while awaiting the outcome of my contract talk (I wanted to type negotiation, but given how this turned out, that would unfairly make it sound like I had a say in things that I didn't) Well, they didn't toss me then, because I was still making money for them. They changed their mind, sort of, and said, hey, agree to the agreement we typed up, even though it is not really your old agreement that we said was OK, and then everything will be fine. (Right, sure it will) They agreed to send over a contract for me to sign.

Weeks go by again, no contract to sign. I emailed my manager and asked him to get me a contract to sign (if I can find the email, I will post the text of it). He said it was coming, I think, I have to check that part. A few days went by, and now I was angry, not just frustrated by not having an agreement anymore, but actually pissed. I marched into my manager's office and made what turns out to have been an apparently inflammatory remark. I have repeated the comment to a few people. No one has said that what I said was a very smart thing to say out loud to the person I said it to. Live and learn.

BUT, and this is critical, I said it to my manager as a friend behind closed doors. That's right, I closed the door and then spouted off. I thought I was just showing how pissed off and frustrated I was. It turns out, I was ending my association with companies old and new. After the conversation, I had no way of knowing what was coming next. . .

A couple days later (a Thursday), I decide to hang out at home so I can take my bike in for some work. I drove my big kids to school and then my phone started to ring. It was the owner of BIG company, call from his cell phone. I didn't answer the first time because I was with my kids. He called about seven or eight times before I finally took his call.

I answered the phone and he immediately began screaming at me. He dropped F-bombs right and left. Then the name calling began. He told me just how little he thought of me and just how awful my remark had been. (As an aside, nothing waters down an angry diatribe more than to use superlatives, "this is the worst," "I have never", "that was the lowest, squirrliest," you get the idea). The yelling was such that Debbie could hear it from across the room. I tried to explain myself. I tried to apologize and I earnestly tried to explain my mindset at the time I made the fateful remark. No chance, pal, no turning back, GTFO. We don't want you here, we will pay you for your work (but, let's see if that really happens), but you are out.

How about a second chance, I asked. Lots of times a person who gets a second chance does great things. Oh, but you already got a second chance, he said, after I caught you trying to recruit people. What? I got a second chance after something I didn't do? Who says that sort of thing?

I said "don't form a negative perception based on something that didn't actually happen." Too late, the damage had been done. He did precisely that, decided I was a bad guy based on something I didn't do -- hard to fight that.

I was cut off from email and told to go clean out my office.

Next, 72 hours of hell. . .

Good Morning Earth

I took this picture five years ago when my daughter was two. My wife, my daughter and I joined a group that travelled by Russian spacecraft to the space station and then on to the Moon. We spent two nights at the Sea of Tranquility Hyatt. It was, by far, the nicest hotel I have ever seen. The rooms were plush, the food was great in the four restaurants (hey, we tried them all) and the service was out of this world (pun, not initially intended, but funny enough that I will leave it).

We were on a guided tour of the Moon's surface when I happened to look up and see the Earth overlooking the Moon like a proud parent. I quickly snapped an entire roll of film. This shot was the best one on the roll.

More from Brian Y

My good friend Brian Y is one hell of a cyclist. He rides a bike that is so feather light the Tour De France doesn't allow it without additional weight added to the bike. Rumor has it they fill up riders of this bike with fois gras, cheese and crusty bread before each stage of the Tour. Not really, but it sounds good, no? Below is a continuation of my conversation with Brian.

ThingsFogel: Tell a story about someone you once called your
"best" friend but haven't talked to in years.

Brian Y: My best friend in high school was named Hadley. He and
I were inseparable and as adults we rarely saw one another or spoke on the phone. He chose the path of medicine and high-wire medicine at that: he became an ER technician for the sheer drama of it. I distinctly recall his joy at describing one night in a Louisville ER during which he massaged a gun victim's heart back to beating mode. His idea of medicine is one fuelled by testosterone and diatribes worthy of locker rooms and pissing contests between preadolescent boys. Yes, of course, I find this ridiculous but also somewhat endearing b/c I think it all shlock. I should add here that I chose the path of a working artist.

The last time I spoke with Hadley was perhaps 16 months ago while I was going through a particularly heart-wrenching divorce. I'm not entirely sure how it happened in the course of the phone conversation, but Hadley began speaking about the high cost of malpractice insurance and how difficult it was making his life and career. He said he envied my being an artist where I could just be "creative" all day without a care in the world. Again, I was going through a divorce, half of
my belongs were surrounding me in boxes preparing for a move to a much smaller apartment and I was just emerging from several months of unemployment in a town where I felt completely alienated.

I won't speak with him again.

A Spectator's tale - Part 2 (The Start)

7:45 A.M., still October 9, 2005. I gave Debbie a kiss, gave her the last bits of coachly advice I could muster (perhaps it was, "don't trip on all the water bottles on the ground as you start," or "don't splash in all the puddles of urine") and started to slog my way through the crowds.

I later discovered that I was near Jackson on the sidewalk to the west of Columbus. There was no way to know that as I turned north and began to fight through a crowd of people, dogs and strollers (but you know about that). The complicating factor (there always is one) was that the sidewalk was maybe four feet wide (whatever standard sidewalk is). To my east was an expected fence that separated the spectating masses from the athletes. You know the one -- the fence Debbie so gracefully climbed to take her place at the start. That East fence wasn't the problem. It was the barriers to the West.

To the west, was a building I couldn't (and still haven't) identified (it's in the picture below) and then a fence. No surprise, eager race fans had climbed the fence to gain a better vantage point. I pushed and squeezed my way past as many people as I could and then I heard the announcement that the wheelchair race had started. Five minutes later, the runners would start. By now I had pushed my way a block or so north of Debbie. More pushing, more squeezing and as I did I could glimpse the bright colors of runners clothing between squeezed together fans. Think of the most crowded elevator you have ever been on, you in the back, the door opens, you see something, but not much.

One minute until start: the sky began to fill with clothing and empty (one hopes) water and Gatorade bottles. Another tradition of the marathon, runners tossing clothing they kept on to stay warm and their last drink off to the side to begin the race. I was spared, but some guy near me had a shirt land squarely on his head -- the sleeves neatly draped over his eyes. Ah, some young fan heading home with a
souvenir.

The runners surged forward and then began to walk. Shit, shit, shit, I can't see. All this wrestling to gain a vantage point and nothing. I saw a standard, black, City of Chicago garbage can and thought of climbing on top, but thought better of it when I saw a light post next to it. I positioned my feet on the little outcrops at the bottom of the post. I had raised myself 2-3 feet above ground. I reached into my camera case, pulled out my camera and began to search for Debbie.

Suddenly, I was out of and above the same crowds I had been fighting. Lots of people streamed by on either side of me. In front of me, the runners. I saw the New Balance pacing teams go by, 3:10, then 3:20 (I looked for my friend Tim, a 3:20 pacer, but I wouldn't see him until 15K) and others. Debbie's plan was to be with the 4:15 group. As I waited for Debbie, crowds streamed by including a few folks I knew. Among them, my former co-worker and former middle line backer for the Chicago Bears, Tom Hicks. I learned today (10/25/2005), that Hicks's girlfriend ran a scorching, way more than Boston qualifying 3:08.



Hicks - No. 54 - in HIS glory days

I stood on my lamp post (boy, that sounds funny) for a good 20 minutes and the soles of my feet started to burn. I never saw Debbie and by then, I knew I had missed her. I climbed down and began the dash to the subway to head to another viewing spot. As I ran (walked fast, really, I was in intense knee pain that day and running was out of the question until much later when I threw caution to the wind), I realized I needed to find a bathroom. No time now.




The view from my lamp post.





To be continued. . . .

Brian Y -- finishing strong

Turns out, our friend Brian Y is a man of many talents. Among them is running the 2005 edition of the LaSalle Bank Chicago Marathon. And look, Brian is sporting a classic Vertels's singlet. Vertels has departed the Chicago running landscape, but Brian soldiers on.

Meet a kid from Tennessee -- Brian Y

I first met Brian Y a few years ago when he and his then-wife were buying a home together. I helped them get a mortgage (hey, that's what I do). Even as they neared the closing on their home, forces were pulling them from Chicago (here) to another midwestern city. Thinking about it now, I really think that conversations we had about how the purchase would go and the possibility that Brian and wife would move away quickly laid the foundation for our freindship now. There's more, a lot more, but I want to let Brian tell his story. A week or so ago, I gave Brian a list of questions to answer. Below is his (unedited) answer to the first question. I assume there will be more:

ThingsFogel: Talk about something from your childhood that you
think of more than once a month.

Brian Y: I don't give much thought to my childhood, neither
good nor bad. In reconsidering my past, I could claim that my childhood
has been the most intellectually neglected. when I do consider those
years, I mainly recall two visions: my mother wrapped in a red, down sleeping
bag lying on the couch, studying her psychology text books (she was
earning a Masters while I was between the ages of 7-9 perhaps) and my father
relaxing by playing the harmonica in the living room while I was getting ready
for bed. I would sometimes dance around in my pajamas as he played, hoping not only to be thought adorable, but also to extend my bed time. I don't recall achieving
either. I can also easily recall the way my father would dance around the
house listening to Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits - usually Mrs
Robinson. Still one of the best songs ever written. He was never a good or
unconscious dancer and he was fine with that -- he knew he looked somewhat
silly, but he revelled in it. I write all of that in the past tense which is
eerie and unfair to him; he's still very much alive and still as joyful. I
just haven't seen him dance in a while.

Look it's Gumby

Go Debbie Go

a spectator at the Chicago Marathon

My Timex alarm watch cried out at 5 A.M. on Sunday morning, October 9, 2005. Time to get dressed and load up with coffee. This was to be a very long day.

I choked down a bowl of oatmeal as Debbie went about her business, eating, drinking, and making multiple visits to the bathroom. Marathons give you a real opportunity to turn yourself inside out. Nifty.

We left the house in darkness at 6:00 A.M. The drive on the Edens to the marathon is always the same. Debbie looks at people in the cars around us and announces "game face" or "no game face." Game face is the look a marathoner has two hours prior to the race. It is somewhere between serious and scared. I think it looks likes someone falling and knowing what they are going to hit.

We quickly found parking at a lot that gave us a piece of yellow cardboard in exchange for twenty bucks. Great deal.

After parking, we connected with Debbie's training partners at the Hilton and Towers. Walking through the door of the Hilton, we were greeted by the minty fresh smell of Ben Gay.

It's funny, when you are running the race, the sights and smells hit you in a completely different way. Somehow the fetid smell of porta potty, while fowl, is nevertheless comforting. As a spectator, it takes your breath away.

With just under an hour until start time, it was starting to get light outside. We worked our way up Balbo in search of Charity Village (a collection of tents for the various runners who have raised money for charity) -- Debbie's charity was Y-Me). We entered the Y-Me tent to a steamy blast of portable heater heat. The tent was Game Face central. After a few swigs of water and some light stretching (the runners, not me) we began to make our way to the start.

The walk to the start was an upstream swim through a mass of people of all shapes and sizes. After the 50th time, I lost the energy to say "excuse me" as I pushed past more and more runners, fans and assorted leashed dogs. The most exciting part (and this was to be repeated throughout the day) was working past strollers. Would it be asking too much for these folks to spring for a sitter just this once? Think of a slow moving drain partially clogged by hair and then to complicate things, someone places a frisbee over the drain -- not so much flowing.

Like many other runners, Debbie was wrapped in a giant plastic bag (think Hefty). She was a teeth chattering advertisement for Lifeway (makers of a probiotic drink of some sort, try www.lifeway.net . Is anyone anti- , oh, nevermind). To get to the starting line, Debbie had to climb a fence. I had never seen that before and have to say she was quite graceful on the landing. Boy, that could have ended the day before it started. Fifteen minutes to start.

To be continued. . .

Just say Me!

Have you ever been in a conversation when someone says "let me tell you about myself" or "as for myself, well," or "Steve and myself will be attending your soiree next week"? You know what I am talking about? Post your own examples.

What is this nonsense? Just say me! Try this "let me tell you about me" It not only sounds pretentious to say myself, it fills your mouth with syllables that no one needs to hear.

It turns out, Dr. Grammar (where is this Grammar med school?) can illuminate this for myself and yourself too (or should that be for you and me?) http://www.drgrammar.org/faqs/#34

If it's all the same to you . . .

Turn Down The Heat!

Why is it that the minute the temperature drops outside some idiot you work with has to crank the heat and sweat out the whole office? Please put on a sweater and let the rest of us breathe.

Fixin' to Fixie

Spent way to much time today looking at fixed gear bikes online. Mostly checking out http://www.fixedgeargallery.com/ . I bought a new road bike this summer and suddenly my old bike (Gumby) is hanging lonely in the garage. A fixed gear makeover should be just the thing to bring Gumby back to the future.

A Salute to The Dude

Can't let the work day end without putting a link to The Big Lebowski script here -- http://bednark.com/big.lebowski.script.html

Start at the beginning and keep reading and then go find a cash machine.

Debbie's Fundraising effort

Debbie celebrates mid-race.



Debbie (my wonderful wife) ran the Chicago Marathon on October 9, 2005, more on that later. In addition to running a wonderful race, she raised money for Y-Me a charity to help breast cancer patients and their families. Today, she sent an email to folks who haven't donated yet:


Hello Friends -

I just wanted to let you know that October 9th was an amazing day for me. I wish you all could have been at the Chicago Marathon, but please know that during the entire race, I was either smiling, laughing, enjoying the crowds, or singing with the bands along the course. As this was my first marathon, it was even more special because I was running as a pink streaker, raising money for Y-Me. I finished the race in 4 hours 26 minutes and I enjoyed every minute of it!

I am sending this email now because even though the race is over and my muscles are healed, it's still not too late to show your support. I hope you can do your part by sponsoring me.

It's easy to donate. You can either clink on the link below:http://www.justgiving.com/pfp/debbiefogelor, send your donation in the mail to the following:

Y-Me
Attn: Karen Greenberg
203 N. Wabash, Suite 1220
Chicago, IL 60601

* Please write my name on the memo line of your check.

Thank you for all of your support this summer. I couldn't have done it without you!

Debbie Fogel

It's a great cause, you should give.

COFFEE

Before I run out to get coffee I need to know: what happened to Starbucks's drip coffee? There was a time when it had true coffee house taste. Or did it? These days, I find myself disappointed everytime. It tastes burnt. What is that?

At home, it's fresh beans from Alterra in Milwaukee - no coffee I have found is better. Support them and enjoy every cup you drink at www.alterracoffee.com.

Alas, this is Chicago and Alterra isn't available here. Today, I stopped at Milk and Honey on Division in Wicker Park, www.milkandhoneycafe.com . It's a cool place. They serve Intelligentsia, http://www.intelligentsiacoffee.com/, a yummy cup of Chicago coffee.

I think it will be Caribou by Universal Sole today, though.

The Popliteus Muscle

The back story for this injury will have to wait for another post.

Yesterday, I stopped writing after saying I was sitting in an exam room reading The Times article about Judy Miller. I doubt I mentioned it, but I believe she is FOS and not a journalist. She is for Judy first. She was such a poor case for the NYT to advance press freedom and confidential sources -- which I believe in.

After a short wait, a resident entered and examined me -- Dr. Arayan. He is a wonderful doctor. Smart, but more than that, he know how to work with people. I always enjoy talking to him and feel like he will have a great career of helping people. He has his own style, but seems to have adopted Dr. Nicola's curiosity for solving sports medicine issues. I found a nice read about Dr. N. http://www.bestdoctors.com/en/askadoctor/n/nicola/tnicola_012400.htm

We had a short talk about my present history, more of an update to an ongoing saga, and then he checked my strength in both legs. A couple months ago (the back story I will tell) the fear was a bone bruise and menesicus tear. Those things seem to have resolved, but pain remains when I try to run.

Nicola entered the room after he and Dr. A looked at the MRI again and conferred. Dr. N says I have a "boring MRI" and my legs seems to be otherwise working. Boy, I wish I could get the $1,200 back that I spent on the MRI. I could buy lots of toys with that $.

He gave me the same strength test and gave the Dx -- it was my poplitues muscle.

The diagnosis is a weakened, or perhaps, strained popliteus muscle. I found the following article http://www.rocklandroadrunners.org/articles/JPKknees.html and it really lays out the injury.

We went into the gym so I could learn about treatment. It boils down to two things: exercises with a big blue rubber band and walking on the treadmill at a 10% incline.

I tried both today. Stay tuned.

First step

As I was sitting in traffic the other day thinking about the fact that I haven't run since June 20th, it occurred to me that I needed someplace to collect my thoughts about my road to recovery.

Today I returned to Dr. Nicola's office at UIC.

I have become such a regular there that I feel like I could get there with my eyes closed. I always leave my office a half hour early. As usual, I forgot not to take Halsted. It was backed up from Chicago to Randolph. Ten cars back, I watched the light go from red to green to yellow to green at least five or eight times.

From Halsted through Greek town, it's the turn right on Roosevelt into the parking lot and the special spots for "Patients of the Sports Medecine Clinic" or something like that. Into the waiting room, hello to Mel, and down to a room to wait.

This time I brought the front page of the Sunday NY Times. I just couldn't read an old magazine again. I read most of the front page article about Judy Miller. http://www.nytimes.com/2005/10/16/national/16leak.html

That's quite a story, but set aside an hour to read it.

Tomorrow I will explain what happened with the doctor and where we go next.