Another Petty Tyrant. Damn.

A while back I introduced two of my clients, one who does e-commerce and another who, as part of her business, builds web sites based upon this here WordPress contraption. I’d explained in clear terms to the chief excremental orificer of the first why I consider it a monumental mistake to use WordPress in their application, but he insisted that it had to be so I introduced the two. I’d never had an ounce of trouble out of the first client, and I am impressed with the work of the second, so it seemed a good way to do them both a good turn and improve my karma.

I now regret doing it. I had no idea that the chief excremental orificer guy was a raging, control freaking, power playing asshole. I rarely deal with him, as I usually talk to his office manager who’s always been cheerful and pleasant with me — she’s sent me pictures of her dogs, even. The guy has never got out of line with me, and nothing he’d done until recently had ever struck me as remarkable enough to deserve even a mental note.

A little musical interlude:

That show took place while Amethyst and I were busy falling madly and permanently in love not so very far away. I didn’t mind missing that show. :)

My web site building client is a dear girl who doesn’t realize how great she is, and I can’t help but mentor her from time to time because she’s about a year younger than my eldest and never intended to go into business for herself. She was hired into the business as an employee, and then some time later her employer just walked out. He literally just removed his personal possessions from his desk and headed for the door, and when she expressed her very natural chagrin he told her that if she wanted the business it was hers to do with as she pleased. It wasn’t exactly a gift. It was less like inheriting a mansion and more like inheriting a painful chronic skin condition. To make matters worse, she’s got some trusted advisors who just haven’t got what it takes to heed Jimmy’s words, “Don’t try to describe the ocean if you’ve never seen it”. It’s not at all uncommon. I hear from people all the time who believe themselves qualified to offer me free business management consultation, and if I ever encounter one who’s not entirely full of shit I’ll be glad to receive it. My young client, a well meaning and big hearted woman, has even offered me some of the stuff she’s got from her trusted advisors as though it’s sage wisdom. I guess I come across as one who needs lots of advice.

She counseled me quite some time ago that my No Asshole Rule is unwise. She explained that, pragmatically, I am in business to make money and that should be my focus; it shouldn’t matter at all to me how easy it is or isn’t to get along with someone. It should be enough that their checks clear. I suppose that’s true if you run a liquor store or a car lot, but in this line of work it’ll eat you alive. I gave her an example: Suppose I’ve two clients, each of whom has an eight billable hour project. Client A is easy to get along with and his only interest is in conducting mutually beneficial business, so I’m going to commit about two hours of overhead to the preliminaries, eight more to the actual work, and at the end of my long work day he’s going to tell me to go ahead and bill his card. Get in, get done, get out, just like sex. Client B is an asshole client and is going to play asshole client games, so I’m going to have to devote 16 hours of overhead and three entire days for the same eight billable hours. I know that sounds exaggerated, but in fact it’s fairly average for the leverage asshole clients exert. Everything takes at least three times longer than it should.

Pragmatically, Client A delivers 140% greater return on investment than Client B. I’d be a fool to not tell Client B to go fuck herself on a fire hydrant.

Unfortunately, my e-commerce client jumped right in and proved my point for me. They pulled every asshole client trick in the book on her, up to and including verbal abuse. She caught verbal abuse not just from chief excremental orificer but from his underlings, as well. By the time it was over she had paid out more to her contractors than she was paid for the project. Though she’d delivered more than the contract stipulated the e-commerce client had been using the fictional shittiness of the site as an excuse to push her around so they couldn’t just deploy it as it was and had to bring in another web designer to “finish” it.

Being really very good at this business stuff, they knew that the very best place to find a highly qualified and successful web designer was the local community college where people who fit that description teach to bag peanuts instead of working to bag billable hours. Makes sense, right? What’s that they say? Those who can, teach, and those who can’t, get jobs in law enforcement. No, that’s not it. Oh, yeah: Everything’s better with Blue Bonnet on it. Oh, no, that’s not it either. You probably know the thing I’m talking about.

I remember a time when I was transitioning from my former career to this one, when a junior electrical engineer who was about three years out of college asked me a question and couldn’t understand my answer. I sat down with her and worked her forward from what she knew, which took about 20 minutes. Near the end of it, she asked, “Why didn’t they teach me this in school?”. All I could think of to say was, “They already had your money”.

That’s what it is: Those who can’t, teach.

The big blow up happened in May, and I moved the e-commerce client’s site to their own server and off of my web design client’s server then. On Monday the e-commerce client’s office manager asked me to make the development site live, and after reconfirming with her and confirming with the highly qualified and successful community college web design instructor that it was the right thing to do, I deployed the site.

Then I spent the rest of the evening pulling the head from the ass of the highly qualified and successful community college web design instructor. The questions she asked indicated a shocking lack of knowledge and experience, and the mistakes I found confirmed it. The cherry on the top was when she tried to make out like it was my fault that her work didn’t work. The flesh of my proboscis remained unscathed because the time I spent dealing with her was all billable. Also, I don’t particularly care if I lose this client or not.

Thursday night I was Cc’d on an email message from the chief excremental orificer to the highly qualified and successful community college web design instructor, which was also Cc’d to all of the underlings who’d joined in helping the CEO to abuse my other, good client. He expressed his grave disappointment that there had been no beta site “so we could work out the structure”. Seems to me the structure was worked out long ago, and the beta was the site that I moved from my other client’s server to theirs back in May, publicly accessible to any who knew the URL, and upon which his own people logged in regularly — I receive email every time someone with administrative privilege logs in. He went on to say, “Please tell me that you will be able to work on these difficulties promptly. If not will will it be possible to go back to our old web site until this
has been beta tested and accomplish a proper representation of our company?”

They pulled the same shit on my other client, approving designs and then rejecting the prototypes wholesale, demanding changes and add-ons after a prototype finally gained approval, all the usual asshole client tricks including monopolizing her time. The damned beta was there and the client company knew it, and the client company made the deployment decision. But once again the site is suffering intolerable shittiness? Nah, that’s not it, not it at all. It’s just plain old assholery, the same shit they’ve pulled before. The CEO’s message read like a thinly veiled public shaming.

I replied to the Cc’d message saying that I could easily enough revert to the old site and the cost would be $x. The CEO replied quickly, saying among other things, “I think the best path is to improve our current site as rapidly as possible”. I replied, saying that if there is anything I can do to assist I’ll be happy to do so. To that he said: “… we will employ our resources to make the site effective for our business”. Hmmm… I’ll bet a dollar that the community college woman quoted a fixed price, too. Those who can’t…

A bit later another email message came in from the guy. He wanted to know if it would be “possible to have the old site available so that we can redo articles etc. that are recorded there”. Well, yeah, anything’s possible, but the software their old site is based upon actually makes WordPress look good by comparison and is damnably difficult to move from one host name to another so I can’t quote a price. His response: “If having the old site available is any trouble at all I am not interested”. Okay, that settles it: He doesn’t want to spend any money. He just wants to make people jump.

I have a feeling that we are soon to part company. The guy hasn’t been an asshole to me yet, but if my read is correct it’s just a matter of time because he’s on a streak and is getting his nut by pushing people around. I’d be quite happy to become his next target and my only regret would be being unable to be there in person for it. I might just be a very sick bastard, but one of my great joys in life is slapping petty tyrants down in full view of those they’ve tormented.

On the up side, my good client now understands pragmatism, the folly of quoting fixed prices, and has incorporated much of my No Asshole Rule into her standard contract. These are all good things, but I regret being involved in creating the situation that necessitated her education.

More Better.

In the midst of all of this “processing” I contemplated what it might be that I wanted most as a child and never got. I just let my mind go wherever it wanted to go, and soon found myself envisioning something I found interesting: My present old man self met my young self at the door of the first grade classroom, and said, “C’mon, little guy, enough of this. Let’s you and I move to Colorado and never come back here again”. I’m amazed at the power of that visualization. I’ve been at peace and happy, increasingly happy, ever since. At the rate I’m going irrational exuberance will be upon me any day now.

 

Breakthrough? Or just broken?

I’ve been terribly distracted in the aftermath of the death of the one I call my father for want of a more fitting and non-vulgar term. Until about two hours ago I couldn’t figure out what the distraction was — it was like there was a fact hiding in this thing I generously refer to as my mind, and until I figured out where it was hiding I couldn’t know what it was. It was very frustrating. Then the magic happened and I suddenly knew what it was.

Long story short: Though I detest psychobabble it provides a useful metaphor: My inner child has been standing there with his fists up for his whole life, unable to cry because every time he’s shown weakness he’s been beaten for it. I’ve long had the need to mourn the child I was never allowed to be but the tough little fucker wouldn’t allow it. My job now is to convince the little guy that I’ve got his back and no one’s ever going to hurt him again. I guess that’s going to require a bit of wallowing in self pity for a while.

Ya know, I’m really sick of having to repeatedly defuckerize my head. It feels like this might be the last time it’s necessary, but who the hell ever really knows a thing like that?

Either way, this feels like a very positive development. One can always hope, eh?

 

Miss Awesome Knows

Just a few moments ago I asked Miss Awesome to ‘splain at me what was different in the world today. I do that from time to time because aside from Amethyst Autumn is the best friend I’ve got and, strange as it may seem, I trust her judgment.

She looked around from her perch there in my office window and said, as near as I can tell, “Well, the yard is green now where it was white just a couple of months ago, and the birds who were absent then are now in the branches of the trees in the back yard chirping. Oh, and there are hummingbirds too, but I can’t figure out what the hell they’re up to. They seem to be fighting about who gets to be alone at the four station feeder, when it would easily support four of them if they could just figure out how to get along”.

Then she turned back to look out through the office window where there are often deer, and skunks, and bobcats, and who knows what else, and this time of year birds to look at, and was happy. The wind chimes up on the deck where tinkling their cheap ass Made In India tones, and all was right in her world.

I think she knows more about surviving life on Earth than I do.

 

Thoughts On My Father’s Death

I’ve long wondered if I would feel as I expected I would feel upon hearing the news of my father’s death. I feel as I expected I would.

My experience of the man was limited to his embodiment of his mental disorder. There was never in my lifetime anything more to him. Everything about him was a fabrication, an elaborate lie that he struggled to maintain in some manner self-consistent enough that it would not collapse under the weight of cognitive dissonance. The identity he projected for the world to see was fabricated, and his knowledge of others consisted entirely of the lies he told himself about them — people were, to him, whatever he needed them to be in order to maintain the consistency of his fantasy self image.

My role in his life, in fact for all of my “family of origin”, was to be the scapegoat. The traits my father possessed and despised, he disowned and projected upon me. Once disowned, no longer associated with his view of himself, and instead components of his view of me, he could safely express his hatred of them with no trace of self loathing to weaken his narcissistic fantasy. As a very young child I was often confused by this; I would hear his descriptions of me and find no evidence anywhere outside of the family home that I was even remotely similar to the person he described. As an older child I wasn’t so much confused as I was convinced that one of us was bat shit insane. For a time I wasn’t sure which of us it might be, because while I was unshakably convinced that I was none of the things he described me as being, my mother (also the embodiment of disorder) quite vocally agreed with him and my sister’s actions were consistent with the supposition that she believed me to be all of those things, too.

I’ve written a few times about my childhood fantasy of The Dope Fairy, a beautiful and sweet young woman I would meet at the pleasantly appointed insane asylum where I would eventually end up. It was because of my self perception being so completely at odds with who and what my family told me I was that I was convinced that if I weren’t crazy already I soon enough would be. I was really looking forward to meeting The Dope Fairy, too. She would greet me every day at my favorite place under an expansive shade tree and give me pills that would make life seem very pleasant. The other earnest professionals who worked there would somehow magically defuckerize my head and I would go on to live a happy life in which no one told me I was despicable and the world would for the first time in my life make sense.

I sometimes wish it could have worked out that way. As it stands, the world has never made all that much sense to me and it’s only getting more nonsensical with each year that passes. There are still those about who would gladly tell you that I’m a despicable bastard, too. So it goes.

I would later come to learn that it was never me, the person I am, whom my father hated. That’s an important distinction for the offspring of a pathological narcissist to make: It is not me who is hated because I am not known to the narcissist. Not known at all. I just happen to be the victim upon whom the narcissist has projected his own most hated traits, and not because I deserve to be that victim. It’s also a very dangerous distinction to make, because the fact that it is not me who is hated doesn’t matter at all if I expose myself to and so can be harmed by the narcissist. Does it matter if it’s truly you the narcissist hates if he’s conspiring in a plot to murder you? Not in the least does it matter. Your very real self will die right along with the narcissist’s disowned traits.

Yes indeed, just five and a half years ago my father was indeed conspiring with my mother to kill me, and Amethyst, too. He wouldn’t do the killing himself, but he was very much an active and willing participant in the plot and did his part to set up the conditions for it.

I never had a father. All I had was the embodiment of a mental disorder. But he was the embodiment of a mental disorder that wanted to see me destroyed and worked to bring about that end many times and in many ways over the years. He caused and participated in causing great harm to people I love in the quest to destroy me. His death was the one and only thing that could guarantee that he would never harm another again, and for that reason I am very happy to know that he is dead.

Though he did a lot of harm in his long quest to destroy me, he failed to accomplish his ultimate goal and is now on his way to a hole in the ground or an incinerator. Good riddance, old man. I’ve won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

End Of Story

Last night, just out of curiosity, I unblocked The Princess’s email address and sent her a message telling her that anything she has to say can be said via email. She replied a few minutes ago: The old man is dead.

We’re going to pop a cork on a bottle of champagne this evening. One down, one to go.