Yesterday, Dan and I went to grab a couple of beers after work. There's a standard issue mick bar about a block away.

    Funny place. A year or so back, reacting to the gentrification of the neighborhood, they attempted to remodel. Out when all these rickety tables held together by duct table and denial. The wooden bar stools were replaced with the modernist metal monsters. A new, internet-fed super juke went in.

    By far the saddest loss was the removal of Hank, a moth-eaten deer head mounted on a plaque labeled "July 2, 1961." The origin of Hank's name and the whereabouts of a significant portion of his right antler are enduring mysteries. The date, as has been noted by several of the over-educated, under-paid regulars from the nearby Penguin Press offices, is the day Hemingway shot himself. No regulars seriously consider the possibility of a connection between Hank's mysterious date and the death of Hemingway, but the coincidence still gives Hank a sort of doomed grandeur.

    The make over, such as it was, failed to attract the quality and, slowly but surely, the bar settled back to it normal rhythms.

    About a year ago, Hank returned to his silent vigil above the heads of the boozers. The bar held a party for him.

    Dan and I got there around 8:00. We ordered some beers and started to vent.

    As weird as the lay-offs and restructuring have been for me, they've been much harder on Dan. On the surface, it was a big jump for him. He got promoted (as did Dr. Zaius, though where this was due to her professional or carnal achievements, I could hazard to guess). Unfortunately, his new position puts him in charge a depleted and demoralized staff that, because of the oddity of the org chart, is completely clueless about what it is they supposed to be doing. His position is, currently, AVP of Listening to People Bitch and Moan. He had much to vent about.

    One beer in, Jeff, one of the workers in sector 7G, stopped by. Turns out he was there with his sister and a bunch of her friends. She was in town and they were headed off soon to celebrate her birthday at a restaurant nearby.
    "That's her." He pointed to a young woman sitting at a table with a few other folks.
    We raised our glasses and said happy birthday. She waved back.
    "That's your sister?" Dan said.
    "Yep."
    "Wow."
    "What? Did you just say 'wow'?"
    "Well, yeah. I mean, she's a cutie."
    "Alright now."
    "Where are you going later?"
    "You're not invited."
    "How come you're not pretty?"
    "People think I'm pretty."
    "Is your mom hot too?"
    "In fact, you're never invited to anything ever again."

    Later, after Jeff and company had split, we got back to our gripe session, though now we'd gone from specifics to the more general and satisfying topic of what's wrong with the company as a whole. The problem is pretty much always the same: the whole place is run by idiots and if they'd just do things my way, we'd be in the catbird seat. I've worked at several companies and, after enough beer, I've found that I can spot this exact same problem in all corporate structures, most governmental institutions, a shocking number of religious organizations, and pretty much any gathering of more than 20 people.

    I was, if I recall correctly, saying something along the lines of, "If I hear Carl mix up his military and sports metaphors one more time I'm going to . . ." when Carl, the President of the division, walked up and slapped me on the back.
    Carl is a tall guy. I'm sure he was solidly built in his youth, but years of life atop the corporate ladder have given him a soft middle and a rounded face. He wears glasses, has close-cropped hair. He's partial to wearing sports jackets over polo shirts. He wears a gold watch that is a link to big around his wrist, so it flops around slightly when he gesticulates.
    He was standing with a young man – white shirt, dark tie and slacks – we'd never met before. He mentors to young African American men entering the world of corporate management. This was, I guess, one of his acolytes.
    "Look at these guys. I'm just leaving and they're just walking in. That's dedication."
    We didn't correct the mistake.
    He talked with us for a few minutes, managing drop into conversation a mention of parachuting behind enemy lines in order to get within field goal distance, then he split.

    "You think he heard anything."
    "You're really loud."
    "We've got to check these joints before we order drinks. They let anybody in these days."