I am a programmer.

More than that, I am a hacker, in the classic sense of the word. The modern association is with an individual who breaks into computer systems, writes viral code, and otherwise acts with malicious intent upon the unwary denizens of the Metaverse. I, however, prefer the more classical definition which dates as far back at the 1960s and describes a hacker as: a person who enjoys exploring the details of programmable systems and how to stretch their capabilities; one who programs enthusiastically or who enjoys programming. (Incidentally, "cracker" is the preferred term for an intruder, criminal, or honkey). Some of you may have glossed over all of that with a catch-all term like nerd or geek. It is for you poor individuals that I feel only pity. I will try to write simple sentences from now on so as to not overtax your fragile little minds.

I bring up this point not as an introduction to some self-glorifying post about my programming 133tness (though I did write this sweet class definition earlier this week that totally owns!) but rather as background information which, believe it or not, is pertinent to what I'm about to offer a diatribe on. That subject: meetings.

I suffered through two meetings this morning at work which, I can honestly say, is about four more than the number of meetings I wanted to attend. In all fairness, I was due. I had managed to skip out of two other meetings the week before, offering up plausible excuses for my lack of attendance ("My houseplant died" and "I was busy delivering twins" respectively). Today I didn't want to tempt fate and so I reluctantly plodded my way to the conference room, dead man walking, praying to God that He invoke a plague of frogs, locusts, or similar Biblical disaster to spare me.

Go figure, I didn't see one single frog, locust, or apocalyptic horseman this morning.

The first meeting held my attention for about twenty minutes after which I began feeling a strange itchy-burning sensation throughout most of my body. It is a sensation I've had many times before and is, I believe, a result of my soul trying to claw its way out of my still living body so as to not have to endure the rest of the experience. I was trapped and bored. For awhile I feigned interest in the topics being discussed while mentally recalling the highlights of last night's TiVo viewing. When my name was mentioned, I smiled, not because I was acknowledging what was said, but because I was remembering Dave Chappelle as Lil Jon. When someone at the meeting asked if I agreed (to what, I don't know), I couldn't help but reply "Yeaaaaaaah!" followed quickly by "Okkaaaayyy!" I think I did a pretty good job of showing a full range of emotions as I sat there, from frowning when I realized my morning cup of cocoa was exhausted, to pensive concentration as I desperately tried to recall the name of the hamster that died on the Simpsons in the "Who Shot Mr. Burns?" episode.

"Superdude!" I yelled out ecstatically when I finally pulled the name from the vault. My colleagues were understandably surprised. "That...guy...is," I fumbled, trying to explain my outburst. "The one you mentioned...a moment ago...is a super...guy. Dude. Person." Not that too many people actually noticed. A quick glance around the room revealed numerous stifled (and open) yawns and more than one pair of eyelids engaged in a fruitless battle against drowsiness, the lengths of the closed portion of their blinking increasing exponentially with time until sleep overtook them or a sudden jolt jostled them to uncomfortable consciousness. I finally made my escape as lunchtime approached, leaving behind a dreadful ensemble made up of those unable to reasonably excuse themselves from their own masochistic trappings.

Needless to say, I didn't look back.

I was barely able to escape the carnage myself, and any pause in my step or hesitation would have spelled my doom. Imagine if you will that scene in Labyrinth when Jennifer Connelly gets her first taste of a group grope as she's falling down the pit full of hands. Or, better yet, when Jesus is surrounded by the lepers, a sea of desiccated hands reaching out for him and generally getting all up in his grille. Not the Biblical account, mind you, but the Andrew Lloyd Webber version. The various departmental representative were on their knees moaning about how they were bored and in need saving and I was all like, "Heal yourselves!" in my best Ian Gillan from Deep Purple impersonation.

Okay, so, perhaps I exaggerated a little. They weren't the worst meetings I've ever attended but my point is this: I'm a programmer. I don't do meetings. I program. I don't wear a suit. I wear baseball caps and t-shirts emblazoned with the likeness of Trogdor or phrases along the lines of "Practice Safe Hex" and "Rogues Do It From Behind." I don't spend my days worrying about procuring funding, timetables, and resource management. I spend my days making a computer my bitch. For Godsake, more people know me by my gamer tag than my real name.

So, management, please let us programmers be. We aren't interested in power lunches or organizational meetings. We don't want to network unless it involves a Cisco router. We want to sit in our little offices and cubicles and crunch bits like the good little code monkeys we are, blissfully unaware and uninterested in office politics, corporate policies, or customer relations. And for your own sake try reading a manual sometime--loading paper into a printer isn't rocket science, you know.

I took some notes during my meetings today. Have a look.

Tags: Humor, Life, Ramblings, Work