Consulting Memories

These two songs bring back some vivid memories. Nervous, sweaty palms sitting in my soon to be beloved RAV in a furniture store parking lot. I hadn’t had a lot of interview experience and I just remember leaning back in my seat, breathing deeply as Rob Thomas and Sufjan Stevens washed over me, wandering what 9am would bring. Agoura Hills was grey and cold as traffic whizzed by on the 101, blurs through the tall wire and I desperately tried to remember everything I had read about the company. Little did I know then that I was a few minutes away from a two and a half year journey. A journey that seemed to last a lifetime at the time but now seems to have only lasted an incandescent moment, one that was one of the most rewarding, most frustrating, challenging and difficult experiences of my life.

Looking back on it now I wonder if I did the right thing, walking away from it all. Of course you tend to remember the good and forget the bad as with anything in the past. I know I wouldn’t give up that experience for anything but it still wasn’t quite for me. The team was mostly great, DD and MC providing their endless encouragements and patient leadership, CD with his erratic brilliance, SM with her mothering, SR providing the musical background, MD with his surfing tales and understated humour, DS being the most demanding boss I have ever had. I still remember sitting in my office and dealing with the unfamiliar sensation that I would miss most of my workmates when I moved on, a feeling I hadn’t had thus far in my working life.

The location was brilliant as well. Climbing the hills of Malibu, the ocean breaking in the background, golden sunshine breaking down the Pacific Coast Highway and Malibu Canyon drives past the houses of the rich and the famous. The chaparral and bush of southern California, the red earth roads and hard rocks of the trails I hiked. The characters were varied and interesting, Bob the contractor, gruff, father Christmasy but hugely knowledgeable, sweet talking the ladies at the City to get what I needed done, trying not to punch out the assholes at the City and County who were holding up my projects.

It was a great trip for those couple of years, being a bright shining star in that team, topping the company in productivity and earning quick promotions, closing out tough projects under pressure. Of course those are the good memories. And it takes some dredging to remember why I left. The 12 hour workdays, the constant requirement to keep running at high speed and keep billing out with no end in sight, the unyielding pressure to meet your minimums, the stress when there were a million things to do and the worse stress when there weren’t, the financial under appreciation and those hours stuck on the 101 in congealed traffic.

Most of all I remember the panic attacks in the morning, the nausea and insomnia, the drugs and pills to take the edge off living the American Dream. I think I made the right decision. Given the uncertainties I face now in making a living, I have my moments of doubts and weakness. But that trip in the end was not sustainable, it was not my niche.

Where that is though, I’m yet to find.

Sleepless in Changi

Changi’s eerily quiet at 4am, my fellow transit passengers are variously sleeping in contortionist positions or surfing mindlessly at the stand up kiosks for free internet while I sit here trying to figure out what I’m feeling. I always find the welter of my emotions difficult to decipher. It might have something to do with the trails that my life has led so far, the unending goodbyes to family and friends whom I consider family that prompted me since I was eight to start putting up walls around myself. Now I find myself not at a cross-road, but at the start of a whole new journey. And I cannot figure out what I’m feeling.

Will I miss California? Undoubtedly. For all the crap, the rat race, the heat there were moments of unspeakable beauty, loving family, comfort with friends and spine tingling excitement. The bygone weekend was a microcosm of what I gained from my six year sojourn in the US, Tori Amos at the Greek, alcoholic nights, skydiving and friends and family around.

The boys and I have seen some amazing groups in the last couple of years and to top it off, SR and I went to see Tori Amos on Friday. Admittedly I may not be her biggest fan unlike my obsessive interest in groups like Death Cab for Cutie or Snow Patrol, but boy can that girl sing and play various keyboards. High on Tori Amos we then proceeded to meet up with P and S and enjoy my dubious Mojito mixing skills. As was proved last July, the summer heat and the refreshment of a sparkling Mojito makes a bad combination, as we dragged ourselves out of bed with mighty headaches at the ungodly hour of 5.30am to make the drive to Lake Elsinore, so D and I could throw ourselves out of a plane.

The thrill of the skydive wiped all the alcohol residues from my system quick time. This being my second jump meant I wasn’t hamming it up for the camera and was bucket loads more confident. Instead I watched in open mouthed wonderment as the Pacific glistened from 12,000 feet up, the slipstream tearing at my goggles as we hit terminal velocity. Pulling on the parachute straps as instructed by Lelloo, my tandem instructor, we spiraled into a 360 degree turn, the parachute disconcertedly at right angles to us. I felt a twinge of regret as we dropped quickly and come in for a rapid landing at the drop zone. I would have loved to have taken the para course and jumped solo while I was in the US though with the constraints of time and money, this was always a bit of an impossibility (especially considering my other hugely expensive hobbies).

The sibling’s engagement party in the evening brought together some of the most important people in my life. Being able to give a toast at the party and say ‘I love you’ to my sister was when the final wall between us, built up during the decade apart and then warily explored when we met as adults was finally torn down. I will miss her most of all though the maternal unit comes in a close second. The last six years will probably be the last time the both of us will spend significant amounts of time in the same country much less with each other. I should be bitter that geography and family considerations have led to us leading such separate lives, but then what would be the point? I am grateful for what I’ve had so far.

All in all as S put it was one of the best nights ever, friends and family coalesced into one wonderful night of merriment with the Old Reserve flowing and the chocolate biscuit pudding being inhaled down. I am going to miss California, CP & RD up north, my boys (& one token girl) to blur the weekends away, the sibling and the maternal unit all made California worthwhile, made the rat race bearable and I am grateful beyond words. I’ll even miss the work team, as crazy as it was they were for the most part an excellent bunch of peeps.

As D would put it, One Love to the past six years and the memories. And I look forward to a new beginning and new aspirations to achieve.

A walk in the woods

Unfortunately this tale is not going to be as epic as Bill Bryson’s jaunt on the Appalachian Trail. Instead it was a rather gentle 4.2 hike to Escondido Falls in the early am. Most of the path, after passing some truly gargantuan McMansions, was pleasantly through a patch of riparian forest, rock hopping over some streams and a rather strenuous ‘rock climb’ to the top of the falls.

It was during the latter part of the climb up that I realized I had become a big pussy, there was a nervousness in sighting the next rock, sweaty grasping of branches and a definite lack of certainty in jumping from rock to rock. A couple of years of mostly sitting behind a desk has had its toll. Even just five years ago I happily trekked miles a day in the heat, well if not happily quite effectively, up and down the mountains of Maragalakanda counting birds and dodging vipers. Now a brief jaunt in the woods was a challenge. It’s not even a question of fitness, it’s more that the hand eye coordination is lacking, I guess bushwacking is not like a bicyle but needs some practice.

Of course as gentle as the hike was, with us, nothing is quite as simple. On the way down from the head of the falls, P somehow managed to lead us off the trail and down a much rather entertaining rock fall down to the base of the hill. Carrying a couple of thousand dollars in camera equipment on my back didn’t exactly increase my levels of comfort either. To add insult to injury on getting to the base of the climb and finding out that we still had plenty of time on our hands we headed enthusiastically up another upwards running trail in pursuit of the gal short girls that P had seen going up. It was when all three of us took a second look at a tree on the path that it was indeed the original path we had climbed up earlier and the way we came back was most decidedly non-convential.

Apparently navigation skills take some practice as well.

What a surreal weekend it was

As D put it so eloquently in his first twitter post. And indeed it has been. Of course my trip was more sedate than the rest of the boys considering my taste in chemicals is decidedly more sedate. The weekend had started before hitting up the usual jaunt with some more trips and a marathon of Audrey Hepburn. Heebejesus, the girl is hot, something else. I did however feel that she played a pretty weak character in Sabrina and Roman Holiday, and what was up with falling for old, old dudes. Geez.

The night later progressed in its usual, trips taken, arrack drunk and the most bizarre conversations had. Somewhere in there was drivebys, bestiality, crossfit, strange attempts at pushups, bitching about Portishead, loving Portishead, animalknappings at the local petting zoo and finally in a common consensus, a trip to the local strip club.

I swear she looked like J…it was such a brilliant coincidence that I had to text R know that a J lookalike was currently wrapping her legs around my neck and giving me the kind of anatomical lesson that one always wanted in high school. Of course with my iron clad will I spent exactly twice my budget, but lets just say it was well worth it. I of course will not be able to look J in the face again…well maybe with a slight leer.

Sunday morning dawned bright and early, blindingly some might say after the two hours of sleep that was had. As expected with the randomness that befits us, the morning saw P and I role blearily to a volunteer gig feeding the homeless. Absolving for some of our sins of the past night, we engaged in a whirlwind of stuffing bags for a brief 20 minutes. Eventually heading back after the world’s shortest yet somewhat efficient volunteer efforts it was to a Brazilian barbeque for a belated b’day lunch for S. He had also come of Lent so anything bovine within a hundred miles was in mortal danger. The food was brilliant at the Sampa Grill with the green shaker up most of the time. Succulent sections of cows, garlic chicken, some polish sausage, beans, cheesecake, brownies and bread pudding passed before us.

We left lunch bloated and with a possible house visitor to Sri Lanka next year in the shape of a friendly Brazilian waiter (male unfortunately). It was to one more of those afternoon naps and then a somewhat nervous drive in the new wheels, courtesy of N. I’m pretty sure all of us are resting our tired bones this evening, on our respective trips. One more Monday to come and what’s keeping me going is that there are only to be around 8 more of these to go.

Idiots Die

They do, it's only natural Darwinism (if that is a word). Stupid genes get taken out of the gene pool and on Wednesday, I came within a whisker of consigning my genetic material to the wastebin of history. I do really get annoyed with myself when I do something really silly, like being dog tired and talking on the phone while at the wheel. There’s something about the same seven mile stretch of road that I take to work five days a week twice daily that lulls me into a sense of complacency.

Luckily I noticed halfway through my lane change, a third through my conversation that the traffic had gone from 60 to zero in a nanosecond, that the fleeting rear end of the Civic in front of me was alight with red. Thankfully I had room, the presence of mind to brake, swing right and with a slight screech of tires avoid rear ending the car in front of me at 70 miles per hour. Thankful that I didn’t have to experience any cartwheels, windows exploding or airbags popping.
What really surprised me was the lack of reaction on my part. The sibling didn’t even notice a break in the conversation. I guess a cool head prevailed, I don’t think I will try that again though. The phone is to be strictly off limits on the road from now on, especially after a dog day at work.

Because I really want to at least make the motions of passing my genes on.

Sitting at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean

27 feet down, this was not exactly how I had envisioned my first California dive, off Escondido beach in Malibu. They had promised kelp and that most definitely was there. I was after seated right next to one. As I had raised my hand and released the air from my BC and slid under the waves, everything disappeared into a pea soup green haze. Divemaster Dave, Phil, Brian and P sank right next to me, yet when I hit the bottom they were nowhere to be seen.

And boy did I hit bottom. For some reason, it seems that people dive out here in California with much more weights than we did back home. Even taking in the discrepancy of wearing a full wetsuit, hood, etc 27 pounds seemed a bit excessive. As soon as I went negative on my buoyancy, I shot through the water so quickly my sinuses didn’t so much equalize as implode quietly. I’m glad I didn’t do this over the Marianna because I’d still be falling.

Dave’s instructions rolled through my head, 30 seconds down and if we don’t find each other surface. Of course being on the bottom of the Pacific in conditions that seemed reminiscent of the inside of an Blue Whale after a solid rice and curry session wasn't exactly condusive to recalling those instructions. Visibility was down to a couple of feet and everything was pea soup green.

It was with some relief then that Dave appeared out of the gloom, fluorescent tank gleaming. As he motioned for me to follow him and we swam off, I assumed we were going to join up with the rest. Yet we continued swimming, at what seemed to me unseemly haste through the kelp. The brown green streamers pushed at us as we weaved through them. If I thought visibility was bad in the open, under the kelp everything went a chocolate brown. All I could see was the fluorescent tank and the faint gleam of Dave’s torch.

We continued swimming through the kelp, at one point Dave jerked up over a rock as something zapped him. I took great care to swim further up over the rock (turns out it was some kind of electric ray). After approximately 17 minutes of exploring this area, getting sick of kelp and learning to control my fear as the light kept ebbing and flowing, Dave gave the thumbs up. Ascending through the green and then dark blue waters, we got to the surface, right hand up as a sacrifice to any passing speedboats, we surfaced.

I was intensely curious to find out what had happened to the original plan of all five of us swimming in one line. Maybe because of the visibility Dave had decided to split us up. Of course it was with some surprise that I noted when the mask came off at the surface, that my dive buddy was in fact…not Dave.

I could however hear Dave in the distance, yelling. Floating on the surface, nervously eying Phil next to me, I couldn’t for the life of me make out what they were yelling. It was only as Phil looked over curiously and wondered aloud what the problem was, that it started to dawn on me….Phil hadn’t stuck to the plan. He’d grabbed me as a dive buddy and decided to go a wandering without waiting for anyone else. Me, being unable to differentiate white folks at the best of times and most definitely not underwater and in scuba gear, followed as had been instructed. Admittedly I did think the situation strange at the time, but then how does one discuss these things a couple of stories down in the water? Also if it was any consolation, Phil had thought I was P, which if anyone has seen us in real life would realize how laughable a mistake that would be.

As it turns out Dave had, rather un-gratifyingly in my opinion, decided that I must have panicked and drowned Phil (another experienced diver) with me. He had gotten Brian and P to take off their BCs and tanks, tied them to a kelp plant in order to help him look for our bodies. The worst thing is that P didn’t even defend me, pointed out that I’m not a likely person to panic. He was just trying to figure out how to tell the maternal unit without losing vital body parts. 911 was even being dialed as Phil thankfully decided not to explore anymore.

As it turned out, once we surfaced all was well with the world. Universal OK signals were exchanged and we came back to shore in staggered shifts. One thing is getting through the surf at the beginning of the dive was not an issue. But at the end, freezing, tired, disoriented, it’s a hell of a thing to be battered by waves while carrying that tank and wearing those fins. It was not with much dignity that I exited onto the beach. The rest of the dive club members assured me it was standard at the beginning.

Carrying the weights and tank in a wetsuit up PCH was also not the most fun. But it was worth it, despite some of the worst visibility I have seen outside of a drain in Colombo, I mean for all I know I could have had Jaws next to me I wouldn’t have noticed, the dive was an experience. The main lessons being stick to the plan and learning to recognize white people better. I think I’ve had my fill of kelp but I am looking forward to seeing what populates those forests, Channel Islands next stop!

On being a whippersnapper

Despite being on the latter end of three decades on this planet, there is nothing like my field and the small town (weirdly enough it is small) to make me feel like a wet behind the ears consultant trying to Old Men of the world their job. I swear the last two crisis meetings I’ve had, the average age of the room must have been around 50 and I have more hair on my chest than all the heads in the room barring mine. Everybody seems to know of everyone else and leading meetings in such an old boys club is nerve-wracking.

What is surprising is how many of these people cannot think out of the box and how many keep turning to me to get things done. Now this doesn’t mean their bad at their jobs, the vast majority are excellent to a fault, but the bigger picture is something that seems to elude them. In a way it provides me with some comfort. I’ve never been the kind of person to want to specialize. The thought of being a dentist or mortgage broker or something similar scares the crap out of me, doing the same thing over and over again.

I need variety, on a large scale to keep me enthusiastic. Even in a job as varied as the consulting I do, things have started to pale. It might be the economy, the lack of big clients but things are boring now. Stressful and boring. Not a good combination, fingers crossed for a big fuck up of a project with a client looking to get shit done by spending money. Like a headache subdivision, in the coastal zone, in the mountains with a couple of access problems and pissed off county staff. Now that would make the stress worthwhile, for a bit longer.

I think I went off-topic there.

Task List for the day

Get through another day of work.

Check website is live.

Email a bunch of random people letting them know OR is finally available in Australia.

Find hiking boots.

Place insoles into said hiking boots

Purchase knee supports for hike tomorrow.

Get bars, camelpak, change of clothes and laptop, dive stuff ready for a productive day in the Valley.

Fly and finish watching Leon.

Stick to task list ....

Shiny, Happy Morning

Shiny, happy…I’m not sure why I’m so into this phrase as of late but I am.

Figured I would harness the insomnia for doing good. Woke up at 5.00am, ate a couple of wholegrain pancakes, cup of coffee, read a few FB messages and funny photo comments and one rather endearing email. Look I’m a social kind of primate and the fact that most of my friends are 10’s of thousands of miles away bums me out on a daily basis. I may be an online whore, but I am one with the best of intentions.

A refreshingly random Gmail chat about coital relations and implications of keeping score with D and it was off to the gym. Solid one hour workout…this early morning gyming is something I could get used to. A rather nervous shower in the gym (not a big fan of public nudity) and off to work.

The drive down Malibu Canyon was sweet if a bit trafficky. Singing along at the top of my lungs to a Hundred Million Suns while the early morning sun bathes the Santa Monica Mountains golden is not a bad way to get to work. The Asian gentleman in the car behind me seemed a bit concerned at the start of the drive, though by the end I think he was singing along as well.

Plans stamped, approvals gotten and its back to the office. It is all a bit breathless now and the tasks and action items keep getting piled on me by an oblivious management. Obviously being a high achiever has its downsides, especially when I’m currently in my lazy island boy mode.

All things in all, things are good. And I’m shiny and happy…I really am…

And for the record, I too resolve to be negative about negativity. All power to T!

No Nudity Please

Not that I’m against nakedness you know. But generally when it’s a cute girl…or even sometimes a mediocre girl when I have a high BAC. Beggars can’t be choosers right? Naked, wrinkly, old men though are however not high on my list for nude spotting.

There I was in the gym kind of elated that I ran into the only cute girl from work at the gym and I would finally be able to judge how her ass looked and picked myself a locker. As I took my shirt off up rolled some clown, you know the usual middle aged yobo. Typically of most Americans he tried to engage me in some random small talk about the baseball game that was going on the screen in the locker room. Typically of me, I ignored him (I don’t even understand baseball), plugged into my earphones and bent over to put my shoes on.

I’m not sure how long I took to put on my shoes but when I looked up my balls retracted. The gentleman next to me had not only disrobed but appeared to be putting on something that looked like a cross between a jock strap, a BDSM device and a leather thong. All thoughts of the work girl’s ass fled, never to be thought again.

Along with my balls.

Perhaps a career as a tenor.

What to do when the Big One hits

Look disconcertedly up at the air duct vent and wonder why the air conditioning system got so loud.

Realize that it’s not in fact the air-conditioning system as everything’s shaking.

Feel a certain sense of déjà vu.

Get a bit worried since the shakings not stopping…

In fact it’s getting stronger.

Desperately try to remember what the advice was for a big shake up…under the desk or in the doorway. Try to recall the news article I saw in the gym exposing one of the two options as a fallacy.

Fuck…

Realize files on my head would not be pleasant.

Make a run for the door and stand uncertainly as the shaking thankfully stops.

5.4 on the Richter scale.

Send the obligatory text…”you boys all shook up?”

A Southern Californian Fairytale (Part 2)

Cough…cough...life interrupted....my sincere apologies for the delay.

Where was I?

Oh yeah…channeling Sir Mixalot, how did it go? “I like big butts and I cannot lie!”

Well to be fair I don’t really like big butts that much, but then after a BAC of 10% who was I to be picky.

To be honest I can’t remember the lines that I threw but suffice to say that she had my number and I had her email by the end of the dance with the promise of a studio shoot for her portfolio. That I didn’t have any experience doing a portfolio shoot or for that matter a studio was a slight issue, but then to be fair, like most strip club experiences (don’t ask) I expected nothing to come of it.

Some incredulousness from P, a dropped cigarette in the car and a hangover later all I could remember was something about a Lavish from the night before. So there I was staring rather blearily at a computer screen suffering the Monday blues when the phone buzzed.

Hmm….818 number…must be a consultant accidently calling my cell.

“Hello”

“Hi Honey, it’s Lavish”

To say that I was surprised was probably the understatement of the century.

Of course she wanted a photo shoot. Now the issue of not actually having a studio became a bit of a stickler.

A quick call to P and a trawl of the web brought up a host of DIY photography equipment. Suffice to say that all the boys inhaled enough PVC over the weekend to take at least a decade of our lives. A couple of all nighters, lots of sawing, pissed off neighbours and various hallucinogens later and we had a studio (and a knowledge of plumbing that will obviously stand us in good stead in the years to come).

All that was left was planning the actual shoot. For this we needed research…and it was research of the highest quality and very taxing on the mind. Poring though picture after picture of naked girls to figure out poses and lighting. Rather excitedly I shared with P the fact that I had come across the girl’s old portfolio and even more excitedly pointed out a pose to him.

“Now that would be stellar….just getting the pose might be a bit of an issue eh?” Said I.

So the big day rolled around. Lavish turned up and in the blink of an eye was naked. I believe I had to snap my fingers in front of P’s face to get his attention. Fair enough considering she got disrobed at light speed, before we could even suggest lingerie.

“No, I need naked shots”

“Ok then…”

Then it happened. The first test shots were brilliant, but then the dreaded event occurred. I know apparently it happens to everyone, but I’ve certainly never had an issue and I don’t think P has had either.

Equipment malfunction.

Of course if there’s one thing that inspires quick thinking it’s a naked girl. So some quick thinking and some jerry rigging and the shoot progressed. The work was snappy, the giant lightbox was beautiful. Then the big moment came. With a rather wild glint in his eye P mumbled he was going in. Now or never…this was the time to ask for the pose.

“You know you earlier portfolio had a cool shot, we want to repeat it. Could you erm….turn around and spread your ass?”

History was made and a Studio was born….

A subway?!

Where the palm trees? Eh?

First things first, we have a subway here in LA?! Rather unsurprisingly it doesn’t go anywhere which kind of negates the point of a subway. I could go on and on about how much I miss public transport a la the Tube, but I did choose this hole for myself. So I shall continue to marinade in exhaust fumes, oil changes and high gas prices (or maybe not so high?) and deal with the fact that daydreaming while driving is a couple of magnitude times more dangerous than when sitting on a train or a bus.

Of course its hard to avoid when you’ve been driving the same route twice a day for the last 280 odd days not to lose focus on the road. And I’m quite convinced that is what is going to kill me, daydreaming on a familiar freeway when some idiot decides to take himself out of the gene pool. I’ve already had one close escape with an errant ladder, just hope the odds keep up with me.

Anyways I digress (old habits die hard). I’m not sure what’s annoying me more, the fact that we have a one route subway in LA or the fact that the BBC correspondent ends the article with:

“And, being stuck in traffic is, after all, that much easier when the roof is down, the palm trees are swaying gently and the sun is shining brightly in your face.”

Pray do tell David Willis, where the fuck are the palm trees on the 101/405 interchange?