Vibram FiveFingers Part 1: The Adjustment Phase

Leading up to my trip abroad, I came across an article on Wired.com reviewing the Vibram FiveFingers: http://www.wired.com/reviews/product/pr_vibram_fivefingers_kso. For some time I've been interested in running shoes; they're usually sinfully ugly and bulky, any genuine innovation in this space beyond adding a Nike-esque set of springs in the heels is welcome. Vibram finally came up with something new that in fact harkens back to something old: running barefoot.

The article caught my attention particularly for the reason that I would soon be travelling, and lugging around a massive set of running shoes is not that an attractive a proposition. The FiveFingers are very compact and require no socks, thereby clearing luggage space for all manner of junk acquired on a trip to Australia and Southeast Asia. The only major drawback is that the FiveFingers get a lot of weird looks and they take some adjusting.

And oh, do they take some adjusting. I picked them up just before I left from the lone store in San Francisco that actually carries them. They got their break-in on the treadmill at the gym and the instant result was calf agony. Generally speaking, my calves are in good shape, but after about two mile's worth of running in the FiveFingers it felt as if my calf muscles had completely seized up. I place a lot of trust in my body—aside from my hair follicles—and let the lactic acid clear over the next day or so. Given sufficient time, I figured my calves would adapt to the new gait imposed by the shoes. The next day I took the FiveFingers to the gym again in an effort to build up the leg strength. Gradually I got there, but that's when the next phase of adaptation set in.

Something clearly spelled out by people familiar with the FiveFingers is that they will stretch the tendons in your feet. Moreover, there are muscles in the foot that don't get worked in the same way when using standard running shoes as when using the FiveFingers. There's a whole lot more going on when essentially getting around in bare feet, and the result is a lot of discomfort. I followed the rules and slowly built up the mileage. While on the trip to Singapore and Jakarta, I dutifully squeezed in a couple of miles a day, providing my feet with ample time to explore what it takes to run in the FiveFingers. My arches ached after each workout, but it felt like something good was happening so I persisted. Towards the end of my week in Jakarta I felt confident of upping the mileage, so when I lobbed back in Sydney I took on what is perhaps my favourite run in the world: the Bondi to Coogee run.

The Bondi to Coogee run clocks in at about the 7 mile mark, I think—I've never measured or timed it but that's what it feels like to me. Slipping on the FiveFingers I took to the trail yesterday. I felt strong, full of energy. The miles slipped past and at each potential turnabout I forged ahead, reminding myself at each point that the run is an out-and-back, and that each mile I run on the outward bound leg is the same number I'll have to run on the way back. But I felt good so I did it.

During the latter third the foot soreness kicked it. Unlike most running injuries I've encountered in the past, the pain wasn't something that felt catastrophic; rather it felt like the strain or tightness one might feel in the quads after a long period of disuse. It was obvious that I'd finish the run well, but the next day would be full of agony.

And that's what happened. I awoke this morning with feet that burned slightly above the arches. Placing my full weight on them was difficult but possible, and after an hour or so of ambling about I felt much better. I'm confident that I'll eventually reach an adequate point of comfort, but for the time being I'll have to contend with more tendon and muscle stretching.

Tomorrow I'll head out for another run, althought this time I'll peg the mileage back a little. The lungs are willing but the feet are week.

Lunch at the Hawker Stand

The week in Singapore has largely gone well; the weather has remained consistently steamy and the need to wear undershirts has never quite been so critical. Amongst the facets of Singaporean life that have become most clear are the following: the country is run like a corporation and there's little else to do here other than go shopping and eat. The latter point is not necessarily intended to disparage Singapore, the country is a tiny island and there are only so many ways to create entertainment in such a confined area. To that end, Singapore has decided to make air conditioned malls its primary attraction—and, of course, its hawker stands.

On more than one occasion I've made the right decision to ditch the comforts of a climate controlled restaurant for a hawker vendor. The food is usually of a better quality and the price clocks in at about a third of what one would pay at a place more attractive to pampered western tastes. Nonetheless, a few of the people travelling with me on this trip continue to shun the more authentic experience in favor of comfort. So be it, they can have their trip and I'll have mine. For example, take yesterday's lunch. We had a few minutes on our hands prior to visiting the SingTel offices near Orchard Road. On a nearby street lay a strip of restaurants capped at the end with hawkers. We strolled the length, surveying what each place had to offer: Thai, curries and supposedly good Japanese food. Then we reached the hawkers. Kway teow, laksa and murtabak, they had pretty much everything I wanted to consume. While my enthusiasm for planting my backside on a plastic seat in the midday heat as I slurped down a bowl of laksa was evident, it wasn't shared by the rest of the group. "We're going to go to the Japanese place," they said, "we don't think we can handle being outside."

"Fair enough," I replied, "but I'm going to eat here." They left me alone. Was I unhappy that I'd been ditched? Not a bit. For $3 I snagged a bowl of laksa and relished every minute of it. The clams swam in a perfectly spiced coconut milk gravy while I did my utmost to stop the noodles from whiplashing the sauce onto my white shirt. I failed in my efforts to remain clean but accepted the orange marks an occupational hazard. The meal met every expectation.

Once the meal was done I went in search of the rest of the group but couldn't find them. I had no idea where they'd gone. As we reconvened after lunch we traded tales of what we ate. It turns out the rest of group chose the Thai place instead of the Japanese restaurant. The service was sluggish and the food was expensive and of poor quality. Somewhere inside me a vindicated voice shouted "yes!".

In Singapore Part 1

I made it to Singapore today. The flight from Sydney was pretty uneventful, and that's the way flights should be.

Just after I rolled into the hotel I heard one of my classmates call out to me. She and another classmate on the trip were planning to visit the night safari, which on the surface seemed like a cheesy thing to do, but as it turns out, it's actually pretty interesting. Singapore's done a good job of arraying a pretty broad selection of Asian beasties, ranging from rhinoceroses to leopards. Sure, the price isn't exactly cheap (S$32 for the tram tour) but it's ultimately worth the dosh.

Tomorrow morning's schedule is free; we don't have to be anywhere until 1pm, whereupon we'll be visiting a local law firm. Great, bring on the lawyers.

Right now I'm knocking off my third can of Tiger beer. There's a 7-11 over the road selling six packs for about S$15. That's a fair price and it sure beats the hotel's minibar.

It's Good Friday! Let's Bake!

So as an expat Australian I'm forced to suffer certain indignities. One such transgression is the criminal absence of hot cross buns from the store shelves in the week leading up to Good Friday. Now I'm hardly a religiously observant man, but when Easter comes around I want my fucking buns! It's like Christmas without the Christmas pudding. It's just not right. Cats would chase dogs and we'd be living in Bizarro world.

Right now, stage one is complete. The dough has been mixed and risen once. The individual buns have been placed in the pan and are now slowly rising, ever so gradually puffing up via the miracle of chemistry into their final fluffy shapes. More to follow...

Mitch McConnell vs Pan's Labyrinth

Something's been on my mind ever since both the success of Pan's Labyrinth and the emergence of Mitch McConnell on the national political stage: Mitch reminds me a hell of a lot of the saggy-skinned, kid-eating monster from the afore mentioned movie. Check the pictures.

And then there's the monster from Pan's Labyrinth. Who can tell them apart?

More On the Transfer

Last Tuesday I had the interview to transfer to the full time program. Unlike interviewing to gain acceptance the first time around, this little exercise in self-indulgent blather about oneself was much less nerve wracking—much more a general chin-wag. All told I think it went well, although if I did what I was supposed to do and impressed the person with whom I interviewed, I'll be left having to make a decision and that's not something I'm necessarily looking forward to doing.

The problem is that I kind of like my current predicament; I've got oodles of time on my hands to dive into my studies and I feel a strong connection with the rest of my class. Switching to an all day, full time regimen will ruin both of those little comfort spots. The playing field will be levelled and I'll no longer be the sole person in class who's done the homework and researched the cases.

Then there's the prospect of actually finding meaningful employment once again. After taking the last week or so off to focus squarely on annihilating the exams I sat last Saturday, I cast a couple of applications out into the ether today. There's no reason to believe that they'll illicit a response any different to what has transpired in the past: silence. You know, were it not for all the pressure of study I'd probably be quite depressed right now.

And when is that ridiculous Selective Service status letter going to arrive? I can't keep paying for this education out of pocket like I've been doing. It's killing me.

Going Full Time

It's been seven months and something has to give. Since June I've been on the warpath, searching for a better way to fill the hours between 8am and 5pm without any luck. In fact today I uncovered a job opening at Adobe. With the help of an inside operative I discovered the status of the job: an offer was about to be extended and the person was going to take it. This is a common script, one that has played out for me over and over in the wake of my layoff.

So what's next? The MBA studies have keep my brain afloat and lent purpose to what might otherwise have been very aimless and purposeless days. Perhaps it's time to embrace that frame of mind to its fullest extent. Perhaps it's time I jumped off the weekend MBA train and went full time. It's something I'm seriously considering.

Honestly, I'm doing more than considering it—I'm going to do it; apply that is. Around five transfer spots are made available each year for evening and weekend students who for whatever reason would like to make the hop. Don't think of it as a sure shot, it's not. The transfer requires the completion of forms describing the reason for the request, explaining in detailed terms exactly what the prospective full time student might bring to the program. While the powers that be are considerate enough for forgo another round of GMAT examinations (rejoice!), the process is tantamount to a re-application. But I'll do it.

I'm not actually required to accept should I be offered the transfer, but at this juncture I'd probably take it. The tuition fees are significantly cheaper—I could claim in-state rates—I'd be out faster and the career launchpad provided by the program that much more lifting. With the rate at which I'm not finding any interest in my resume that last point is amongst the most attractive. Watching my limited funds dwindle away is far from pleasant. Retreating to the cloisters while the current financial tempest wreaks its havoc might be exactly what I need.

The Seventh and Deadliest Sin

I guess I'm allowed to swell with pride every once in a while.

I had the chance today to catch up with one of my former direct reports. He was laid off at the same time as me. Although nobody could ever actually prove this in a court of law, anyone considered to be loyal to my former manager was excised as part of the layoffs. This former direct report was one such person. We'd worked together for about 10 years. I'd in fact played a strong hand in hiring him back in 1998. He's good guy.

For Rocko—as we'll call him—luck appears to be swinging his way. After wandering for seven months in the unemployment wilderness he's throw himself at the depressed and depressing job market only to find that he's got a potential taker: Adult Friend Finder. It's basically a prostitution service with a bit of an extramarital twist thrown in for good measure. The good news is that they're hiring and Rocko's due to front up for an interview on Tuesday. He asked me to provide a reference and I'll be geniuinely honoured to do it.

You see, I get a kick out of doing that sort of thing. Another one of my former direct reports, who for identification purposes shall be referred to as Carne Asada, recently landed a web analyst position with the 9th Circuit Court in San Francisco. Carne Asada was assigned to my corporate care back in about 2002. With no college degree under his belt he'd been performing what amounted to clerical duties at the old company. He was a blank slate but he showed aptitude and enthusiasm and those characteristics are what I think really count.

Did he want to go down the path of becoming a back-end developer? Not really. How about front-end? No, not particularly. Ultimately Carne Asada took the path of web usability analysis and the kid's pretty darn good at it. He led the charge at the old company, shoving the web interface kicking and screaming out of the nineties and into the not-so-nineties. But let's not get ahead of ourselves, the site still needed a lot more work.

At any rate he was pretty good, but he had no college degree. The lack of a degree was always going to present a professional barrier, so I urged him to undertake a certification program offered by Human Factors International. He nailed the exam and got the cert.

Like the rest of us he got the chop back in June and I was kind of worried about how things might work out for him. I needn't have been too concerned. I provided a reference for him with the 9th Circuit and he's just wrapped up his first week. It makes me proud; proud in a kind of paternal sort of way. I had a long-term impact on someone else's life and that gives me the warm fuzzies. I'll gladly do the same for Rocko. Sure, he wasn't as much of a protege of mine as Carne Asada—I started managing Rocko much later in the game—but I derive an immense sense of pleasure from helping other people succeed. In light of that management's probably the right game for me.

Moreover, what goes around comes around. Even though I'm still thrashing in the open waters of unemployment, there might soon come a time when one of the people whom I helped to find work is in a position to return the favour. Should it come I won't refuse it. It's a tired old cliché, but you really do reap what you sow.

Wish me luck in my operations mid-term tomorrow.

How Many Recruiters?

Here's a cultural subset who've become a somewhat regular part of my life since being given the chop at work: recruiters. They're a strange breed, collecting resumes and frantically doing whatever they can to add that one extra contact to the LinkedIn profile. Some are good. Some will take the time to actually read a candidate's resume and attempt to come to a set of reasonable conclusions about what that person has done and most likely wants to do in the future. They're kind of rare. The majority simply run a few quick keyword scans, leap at any matches, no matter how tenuous, and start making calls.

Well I'm glad they call. It's good for the ego. When the days at home alone grow long it's kinda sorta nice to get someone on the other end of the line asking if you're interested in a position, even if it's something that's totally orthogonal to your current career direction. At least you feel loved.

Well, this morning I received a call about a web development manager position. The scenario went something like this.

The phone rings. It's not a number I recognise but it might be about a job. I answer.

"Hello sir, is now a good time to talk?"

The voice is accented and female. By the sine curve intonations my guess is that she's calling from India. A lot of recruiting companies are now located there and use IP phones to obtain US-based area code phone numbers. I think that's a decent strategy. I really don't care where the recruiters are calling from. All that matters is whether or not they've done any work before they call.

"Sure, now's a good time."

"I wanted to find out if you're interested in a web development manager position in Mountain View, California."

Ah, yes, the Mountain View job. I know all about this job and how to end the call quickly.

"Is this position at a company called Skyfire?"

"Yes, sir, it is."

You see, most recruiters don't like to tell you which company they're representing when they first call you. For whatever reason, the big reveal isn't executed until some further sign of commitment has been made. But in this case I knew what was coming my way.

"Yeah, I thought so. My resume was sent to them a couple of days ago by another recruiter. They took a look at it and apparently thought that my skills tend too far towards management. They wanted someone with a more hands-on coding background."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry. They're well within their rights to pick and choose."

These conversations are pretty commonplace. More to the point they've happened nearly a dozen times over the past week. Skyfire, is a company that produces a mobile web browser—I used it for a while on my shitty, old Windows Mobile 6 phone while it was in beta—that tries to bring a fully-fledged browser experience to handheld devices. It's actually not a bad product. The company might actually have some legs. They're obviously on a bit of a hiring spree and in order to meet their needs they must have reached out to every recruiting firm in the San Francisco Bay Area and beyond. Within the span of a day I fielded multiple calls and emails all asking the same thing, all pushing the same position. Therein lies the sad jaundice of our ailing economy. When every starved, bony-ribbed lion pounces on the lone carcass in the desert, fighting for the scraps, you know that times are tough. Skyfire is one such carcass.

At any rate, they didn't care for me so what does it matter? I'll must mosey along and seek love elsewhere. Any takers?

Anatomy of the Day of an Unemployed Man Part 1

Being unemployed can really suck. The bank account is ever dwindling as the sum total of your life's work slowly ebbs back out into the economy from which it came. Unemployment checks help stem the losses but there's an itchy feeling under the skin that receiving a dose of cash injection from the EDD tends to leave. I think it's got something to do with the stigma of being a leach on society. Sure, I know, I put into the system for over a decade so it's only fair that I be allowed to draw something back out, but it's still not the sort of thing that generally boosts one's ego. Quite the opposite, in fact. It would be a mark of shame if only there weren't so many others drawing from the same communal largesse.

Nevertheless, my impecunious predicament is gradually spiralling downward, compounded by a bleak job market punctuated by layoff after layoff after layoff. Like I mentioned, I've got plenty of friends in the EDD club. Despite the overall shittiness of the employement landscape I've thus far remained resolute in my efforts to find work. Word to the wise, the resolve is beginning to crumble, but that's a separate post.

So how do I go about accomplishing this commendable goal of rejoining the work force? How does an unemployed man's day get filled? Surprisingly easily. Shaking off the effects of a night's sleep interrupted repeatedly by feline shenanigans usually starts at about 8am. Then there's more coffee from the magical siphon and the "productive" part of the day begins. Honestly it's productive. There's less Guitar Hero involved than one might think.

A good chunk of my morning was spent tracking tailoring my resume for a job I found posted on McAfee's site. The job involves serving as a Web Marketing Manager; a role similar to what I did at my former place of employment. I could probably run rings around the job, but that's now what really matters. What matters is getting access to the right people. Submit the resume without any target softening at the intended company and it disappears without any word or trace. Trust me, this is how the job market currently works. Fortunately a former direct report of mine, someone whose career I had a strong hand in developing, picked up a contract job there about 6 months ago. He's my mole in the organization. I'm relying on him to ensure that my cover letter and resume find their way to somebody who might actually care.

But there's a snag, and it only dawned on me when I was at the gym a little earlier this evening. The cover letter is a revision of a cover letter I used for a cold-call job submission at Hotwire, a job for which I actually received a kindly worded "piss off, you suck" response. Even getting a "no" from a submission should be chalked up in the success column. Ninety percent of the time I don't even get that. The snag in this instance is that I forgot to change the reference to Hotwire in the first paragraph. Visions of the recruiter or hiring manager barged into my brain. His or her eyebrows twist and furrow while my hopes of gainful employment are tossed into the "not on your life" pile. Quickly phoning my mole I discovered, as I expected, that he'd not really done much to shop the thing around, so time was on my side. I've got the chance to put the right name in the letter.

To be honest I don't expect anything to come of my efforts. Just last week I went through the depressing agony of finding a job at Apple that was appropriate for my background. Kicking my intelligence network into full gear I wheedled my way into a phone screen—which went exceptionally well—only to be told via email, after a too-long wait for a good response, that the hiring manager was opting for an internal candidate. "He quite liked you," the email read, but that doesn't really count for much when there isn't a job hanging on the end of that stick. The hiring manager got a "gee, you're a nice guy, perhaps you'll give me a job later" email that will never illicit a response. It's good to feel loved.

These experiences temper my expectations, and with McAfee it's no different. They lack the glamour of Apple. They lack the Jonathan Ive shininess and rabid fan base, but they're hiring and they've got a revenue stream. Perhaps they'll take me on.

How else does a bum pass his day? Getting his homework done. I'm taking two classes for this supposed part time MBA that's bleeding me about $4,000 per month. One of which is Operations. Unlike the rest of my class mates I've got ample time to study the living shit out of the subject. People want me in their study groups since they sleep assured at night that when they show up for the meeting the next day they can feel confident that at least one of the team members has made some decent headway with the problem sets. My GPA rises up in testament to the power of having more time than the rest: 3.925. There's plenty of time for that number to drop. And in the meanwhile, as the layoff announcements keep flooding in, the ranks of students suddenly exposed to too much time continues to swell. I'm not so lonely anymore.

Urgently Needing Roots

For any Australian this sort of thing is both unfortunately and funny. In the Australian vernacular "root" has a meaning directly analogous to "screw" in the American vernacular. So the plumbing section of the yellow pages takes on a whole new dimension if you know your way around Aussie slang. Gems such as Mr. Rooter, Super Rooter and the above depicted Urgent Rooter just leap of the page and swim around inside the reader's imagination. Rooter Bong on the other hand just defies explanation.

Bruce Beresford's 1981 film, Puberty Blues, does a great job of putting the word in context. Scoot forward to 1:30 and take in the root reference, particularly relative to the mention of the panel van (and that's a whole different discussion).



And while we're at it, any Aussie can't look past this...


To help those a bit in the dark understand the humour, "coit" is an Australian slang term for one's anus.

Self Righteousness On the Back of the Car

I love a good dose of self-righteousness plastered across the back of a vehicle for all to enjoy. It must feel great to soundlessly roll around the hilly streets of San Francisco while the electric-hybrid motor does all of the heavy lifting. You can glance out of your window, hold your nose high and think to yourself, damn, I'm awesome! I'm driving a hybrid. Sure, if I really gave a shit about the environment or the funnelling of funds to those evil terrorists I'd give up driving a gas powered vehicle altogether and switch to biodiesel or just ride a bike but no, that's too much effort and would eliminate too much of the god-given convenience rightfully mine as citizen of the United States of America.

Let it go.

For some odd reason it really irks me that people feel compelled to fly their "I'm better than you" flags in the most cowardly ways possible. While darting about city streets who's likely to apprehend the hybrid driver and attempt to engage her in a debate about the merits of her decision to still consume gas while hypocritically splitting hairs about which gas powered vehicles Osama Bin Laden purports to love or hate? I think that's what shits me most about bumper sticker propaganda; the purveyor of the propaganda is rarely there to defend his position. You slap your statement in place that only people whom you've passed or who are behind you can actually see. And even if they did care to call you on your crap you're too neatly sequestered away in your hermetic coccoon to be reached. It's the very definition of passive aggressive behavior. And even if someone did you actually penetrate the defensive barriers you'd probably be petrified of the results.

Lay Off the Botox, Please!

Ladies, gents, everyone... Think carefully before you start jabbing syringes full of Botox into those ruffled furls of flesh on your forehead. Case in point: Laura Tyson.

Laura's an accomplished woman; former Dean of the Haas School of Business, former Dean of the London School of Business, blah, blah, blah. The list goes on. She's also a not-so-secret Botox fiend. Watch the following video and compare the degree of expression emanating from Laura's face versus Rachel's.



Those eyebrows don't move! They don't shift, edge or budge one angstrom left, right, up or down. Meanwhile, Rachel's facial expressions are going every which way, as is her style. Hang on, at about 30 seconds into the clip Laura's high arch brows tick up a touch, revealing for the first time a crack in her frozen countenance. And those Saint Louis Arch type brows... Always a tell-tale sign of a grand or 12 forked over to a scalpel wielder somewhere in one of the snootiest burghs around. Perhaps I'm simply too young at this point to fully appreciate just how youth-oriented our culture has become, but why do it? Getting loads of plastic surgery doesn't make the recipient necessarily look younger, it just makes the recipient look like she or he has had loads of plastic surgery. Like Sylvester Stallone's mum. Urrrgh! Looking at her gives me the willies.

It kind of looks like her face is made of putty, doesn't it? I wonder how much Play-Doh has been injected into those cheeks?

Now let's give credit where credit is due; Rachel Maddow is probably 10 or 15 years Laura's junior, so The Beauty Myth probably hasn't quite caught up with her yet. Or maybe Rachel's self esteem is a little more robust. Who cares? Just let those eyebrows roam. Set them free. Allow those furry caterpillars to crawl up and down. It does a face good, even a professorial one.