Aftershocks

It was all over the news here last week. A moderate earthquake spent a few seconds knocking around a patch of southern California in and around Pomona. Five point something, no injuries but lots of stuff to pick up before bedtime. This sort of thing happens frequently enough that many residents simply put the books back on the shelf and get back to work. We may talk about it for all of 30 minutes, laugh it up with friends living elsewhere as though our lives are in constant danger, then crack open a beer and watch for it on the evening news. No big deal. In fact, for most, our tolerance for earthquakes is such that we show far more concern toward people living in Tornado Alley than for ourselves or any of our neighbors. Most of have just become accustomed to it.

In much the same way we seem to develop certain tolerance for specific individuals. Like the callouses on the thumbs of a bassist, this serves as a healthy form of self protection that allows us to carry on. Sometimes there is, along with this callousness, a propensity to tell it like it is. What might come across as vapid and cynical to some onlookers becomes unguarded and realistic to others. Think blind men and an elephant; each of them feeling up different parts of the animal, each with a different perspective of the what the whole must be. It's just that saying it politely sometimes means you have to lie. Politics ought never replace honesty. It's bad for the psyche. The harshest stinging truth trumps the sweetest empty deception any day.


I am reminded of a guy I once knew. This guy appeared to be in it for no one but himself. I came to view him as a self congratulating do-nothing who, in nearly all my interactions with him, couldn't honor his word if his life depended on it, showing little concern for the environment which sustained him. Yet for more reasons than I will probably ever understand, he worked with us all the way up until the end. I use the term 'worked' loosely. His main task was to sell his time; to create a stream of income based on his vast knowledge about the capabilities of a particular software application, which made him one of the best in his field. In face before joining us he had been the go-to guy for creating the training syllabus for this application, for which he had been very well paid. Evidently this gave him the freedom to take half the year off. Some habits die hard I suppose.

Naturally I was very excited to hear he had joined us and immediately caught a vision of his worth. In fact before he was even officially 'on board' I phoned him to set up online training sessions that would take place after his start date. But for all the fanfare, parades and confetti all he managed to deliver, from what I could tell, was a mountain of broken promises and unfulfilled potential. At nearly every turn I found myself wrestling with him to get him to show up and run his sessions. Frustrated and flustered I quit putting him in the lineup. Because I was the guy who paid commissions, however, I unwillingly mapped his consistent lack of productivity. Being the expert on something and being productive because of it are two different things altogether. Yet on the payroll he remained.

There are times in life when coming to terms with a disease means you have to lose a leg. Or an arm. Or a breast. Something you no doubt would love to keep but doing so is slowly going to kill you. Day after day, hour by hour, slowly draining your life away until you're are too weak to even breath. Surgery. It's gonna hurt like a motha'. For weeks afterward even. But your going to be better off because of it. You're going to be alive. And it isn't going to hurt forever.

One of the things I saw time and again while languishing in the restaurant industry was how a person seemingly foundational to the existence of life as we knew it could disappear...and we always lived to tell about it. We thrived in fact. Many times I had to be the guy who pulled the trigger. Tough choices, sure, but essential for survival.

There are a few other instances, besides the guy on the BBQ in today's post, where amputation would have suited CVIS better than attempting to outlive gangrene. I will add that there were a couple of documented cases of miracle healing; guys who were able to turn their ships around before striking the ice too awfully hard thus sinking into the icy depths for good. Those cases, however, were the exception.

Rightly has it been asked "(can) the leopard (change) his spots?" The leopard may be able to look different for a while but eventually the dye wears off and then we all see the same old leopard again just as he has always been.

For CVIS the 'big one' resulted in our recent demise. Unfortunate, yes, but in many ways cleansing. Gratefully, Microdesk saved as many as they could including the aforementioned individual. Aftershocks rumbled through when a few from those ranks defected to the competition. Actually I am unsure if they had agreed to become citizens of the new world in the first place. However 'the guy' in question had definitely come on board. Signed the contract. Had the t-shirt. Then he, too, went and joined the competition. Sweet empty deception wins the day.

Or does it?

While this may seem to spell 'coup' for the competition, let me reassure everyone that the leopard will always be the leopard regardless of which tree he calls home. For now let's just keep that our little secret, shall we? Like with any lesson needing to be learned - it'll be far more effective if we let them find out on their own.