For the last several months, I stopped corresponding with my friends. It's not that I didn't want to keep in touch with them. There, just, wasn't anything exciting going on in my life to tell. In the last couple of weeks, my friends have been sending me e-mail messages asking how I'm doing. I thought my answer was pretty amusing:
Me? I live the never-ending monotony, of meeting the demands of every day life, that slowly squelches what's left of my ambition to write the great American novel and win the Nobel prize in literature or at the very least settle for the Pulitzer.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Friday, October 5, 2007
He's Dead to Her
I generally prefer not to write about any of my employers either past or current. Too often, certain things, that I find funny, ends up being misconstrued as criticism. However, I think I can safely say that this story is just plain funny and does not involve anyone's job performance.
I, once, worked, as a senior consultant, for the global management and technology consulting firm, Booz Allen Hamilton. The founding partners were no longer involved with the firm by the time my employment, with the firm, started. George Fry had left to start his own consulting firm. Carl Hamilton died of an heart attack. Ed Booz retired and then died from a stroke. And Jim Allen had retired.
One day, Jim Allen decided to visit. When the receptionist asked for his name and he simply said that he's Jim Allen.
After the receptionist was not able to find his name on her list of appointments, she asked him whom he wished to visit. Although he was not on the appointments list, she could still buzz the person and check to see if that person was available to meet with him.
Allen replied that he didn't come to visit anyone; he just wanted to walk around the offices.
The receptionist politely explained that she can't let people come in to just "walk around the office".
Allen repeated his identity, "But, I'm Jim Allen."
Seeing the receptionist's confused expression on her face, Allen pointed at his picture on the wall and said, "That's me; I'm Jim Allen."
The receptionist, flushed with embarrassment, stuttered apologetically, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Allen; I thought you were dead."
I, once, worked, as a senior consultant, for the global management and technology consulting firm, Booz Allen Hamilton. The founding partners were no longer involved with the firm by the time my employment, with the firm, started. George Fry had left to start his own consulting firm. Carl Hamilton died of an heart attack. Ed Booz retired and then died from a stroke. And Jim Allen had retired.
One day, Jim Allen decided to visit. When the receptionist asked for his name and he simply said that he's Jim Allen.
After the receptionist was not able to find his name on her list of appointments, she asked him whom he wished to visit. Although he was not on the appointments list, she could still buzz the person and check to see if that person was available to meet with him.
Allen replied that he didn't come to visit anyone; he just wanted to walk around the offices.
The receptionist politely explained that she can't let people come in to just "walk around the office".
Allen repeated his identity, "But, I'm Jim Allen."
Seeing the receptionist's confused expression on her face, Allen pointed at his picture on the wall and said, "That's me; I'm Jim Allen."
The receptionist, flushed with embarrassment, stuttered apologetically, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Allen; I thought you were dead."
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