Yeah, right.
In case you've been wondering about some of the cryptic names that appear in the log or elsewhere on this site, this is as good an explanation as you're going to get.
The Code Warrior also serves as sysadmin. He does other things — listens patiently to the same old management bleats, stares in disbelief at my annual vacation request, even occasionally gets to program. Mostly, if I have to whine about something, I have to route it through him.
Trini is our hardware guy, except that, well, she's a girl. Not that this makes the slightest bit of difference; she knows her way around a motherboard, and takes no crap from recalcitrant software, of which we have an abundance.
El Jefe occupies the biggest desk in the farthest corner, and signs the checks. He clearly loves his work, and is dedicated to the proposition that to get the maximum value from our customer base, it is necessary to think like them, a notion that, in my view, is in desperate need of reconsideration. To give credit where credit is due, he knows that these people are dimbulbs, and will say so when confronted with a particularly blatant example thereof. He also has little patience with the Governing Body, which is eminently understandable.
The Prince has a curious position. Technically, he works under the direction of El Jefe, but as the one remaining representative of the Founding Family, he is theoretically capable of exercising some form of power of his own. Think of him as the practical equivalent of Bill Ford. The Prince thinks the Governing Body is a band of malcontents and ne'er-do-wells, an opinion I endorse.
The Douchess runs distribution. She is irritatingly ebullient and is utterly convinced of her cleverness: told that we would not run her jobs on Friday, she came up with the idea of queueing them up Thursday after hours, hoping to leave my department with a fait accompli. There are only a handful of people I would actually throw into a burning building, and most of them have credentials like this.
The Governing Body isn't actually at 42nd and Treadmill, but rules from a far-off land where sycophancy and greed compete for Motivation of the Month. They do, in fact, write the rules, and interpret them in whatever way seems to bring in the maximum number of dollars and/or complaints from those who must comply with them. Individually, its members occasionally seem to be almost human; collectively, well, I'd rather deal with the Borg.
The Industry comprises all of us subject to the rules and regulations and whims of The Governing Body. How big it is, precisely, is hard to determine, though I do know that we have nearly a quarter-million names on our mailing list, some of which belong to people who are still alive.
Nova H. is a petroleum engineer. No, really. Owns an oil company, even. Independent as a hog on ice, and can wear four-inch heels, but won't. I don't recall if it was her first or her second husband whom she shot. The chap who became her third, or maybe it was her fourth, didn't get shot.
There is little I can say about She Who Is Not To Be Named. In fact, that was just about it; my fumbling words could not possibly do her justice.
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Copyright © 2002-07 by Charles G. Hill