Part of a rotator’s job is a PGP - Personal Growth Program. I had to submit one in my early days as a rotator when I did not quite know what it was all about. Bjorn suggested that I ask for a maximal amount of time and money and list items that I really care about. In the end I focussed on my ideas for an octagonal fly-fishing rod. Finessing the design, testing it in local and foreign bodies of water was the bulk of my PGP. I was relived when the plan was quickly approved and I completely forgot about it.
Now many months have passed and one day I am called to the Human Resources office.
“How is your Personal Growth Program coming along?” is the first question.
I am caught off-guard and confused, “Personal Growth Program?”
The Human Resources Officer glances at the paperwork, “Octagonal fly-fishing rods?” he reminds me.
“Oh, yeah,” I finally connect the dots, “it is dormant I am afraid, too much work.”
“You are not growing?” he asks with concern.
“I am growing, I am growing,” I assure him resolutely, “just in a different direction.”
“So it is an undocumented personal growth,” he states matter of factly and makes a note in his ledger. For some reason it does not sound any different as if he has just discovered that I have a tumor.
I am suddenly in hot water and it is time for a retreat. “Well, I have been working on these octagonal rods a little,” I backtrack, “and I should be able to have something to show for it soon.”
“This is better,” the Human Resources Officer smiles encouragingly, “are you ready with a prototype?”
“Some assembly is required,” I say in a wooden voice as if reciting from IKEA instructions.
“Excellent,” he says excitedly, “we would not want to impede your personal growth, this program is for your benefit. Have you thought about testing your rods?”
"Will this torture ever end?" goes through my head as I try to stay cool. “Potomac?” I answer with hesitation.
“Potomac?” the Human Resources Officer repeats with dismay, “Show me some growth man! Where do you really want to take it.”
“Galapagos? Orinoco? Sea of Cortez?” I rattle the names blindly wishing the man to leave me alone.
“Now, that is the spirit!” he gets excited, “and you are still within the budget.”
When I leave Human Resources several hours later I have bookings for three fishing trips and near certainty that Gypra is going to get me.
“Remember, Galapagos is catch-and-release only,” my torturer yells after me through the length of the corridor.
End of the fiscal year starts in the early summer and it is a period of considerable activity. Just before the final spending deadline the Command Center regurgitates massive amounts of money and we scramble to spend them before they get yanked away. This is an opportunity to accessorize lavishly as long as proper justification can be provided.
Last year we acquired top of the line color laser printers and used them to print scratch paper for panelists. The pages were blank but the margins were adorned with motivational logos such as “Go reviewer go” or “GSA rules” written in fancy font with every letter of a different color.
This year we are getting 3D printers and everybody is excited about it. In our requests we claimed that 3D printing can be used to make office items such as staples, pencils and so on but this turned out to be the tip of an iceberg. Within days after installing 3D printers a colleague managed to print an entire proposal after a marathon 12-hour programming session and many hours of printing. The 3D printer first printed the pages themselves and then in a most delicate fashion blasted the letters onto them. The whole Mathematics Unit watched the process for hours! For once the mathematical sophistication of the subject matched the extreme fragility of the medium and indeed the printout did not survive the first reading. But it was only a temporary setback that opened a back road to clay tablets of Bronze and Iron Age. Finally the pipe dream of completely paperless office was at hand and in a matter of weeks Mathematics Unit switched entirely to using modern incarnation of a clay tablet!
Right on time! The last panel of the year received their conflict of interest rules, now nicknamed the Code of Hammurabi, elegantly 3D printed on handy two-pound 8.5 by 11 tablets!
There are only several dozen proposals left and a little bit of money to fund some of them. We plan to gather together to discuss priorities and make the final decisions. Bjorn calls the meeting and explains the process.
“This is an opportunity to broaden and extend our funding portfolio,” he begins, “and these are our primary objectives. We call this final phase of the funding process Gentrification.”
Broadening is clear, the entire Government Science Agency is buzzing about broadening participation more or less non-stop.
“What about extending?” I dare to inquire.
“I am glad you asked,” Bjorn pauses to organize his thoughts.
“Do you know what is more addictive for an university professor than synthetic opiates?” he asks. We keep quiet unsure where this is going.
“Government Science Agency funding,” he answers, “and our program nurtures a number of these unfortunates. Extension is a way to alleviate the shock resulting from a withdrawal of funding," he concludes.
“Unlike real drugs external funding does not kill you but rather it extends your scientific life beyond what Nature intended.” He pauses briefly as if struck by a thought, “It can probably even bring up the dead.”
Why would letting them go be so bad - I wonder quietly and I feel ashamed of my selfishness. Yet the purpose of extending does not seem to serve real scientific goals. Bjorn reads my mind and decides to elaborate. “Let me put it in context,” he starts, “would you fund Sir Isaac Newton?”
“Isn’t he dead for almost 300 years?” I answer with hesitation immediately sensing that this petty ruse will not work.
“What difference does it make?” Bjorn says impatiently, “Haven’t you been watching the Game of Thrones? He can be back in a flash!”
“The point is,” he calms down a bit, “that our database has only two possible outcomes: funded or declined. Deceased is not a valid choice.”
“So would you decline Sir Isaac Newton?” he repeats slowly for added effect.
I am short of breath at the thought of being in such awful predicament, “but Sir Isaac Newton is not applying,” I gasp.
“Not in this fiscal year,” Bjorn answers cautiously.
We chat some more and Bjorn is getting more gloomy and despondent by the minute. “Newton is coming” he finally whispers as if anticipating an incoming doom of the final battle for the government funding between the living and undead.
As I depart I am overwhelmed with dread at the thought of a sleepwalker army of the greatest mathematicians of the past three millennia obliterating our program’s budget with their gargantuan funding requests.
In the mid-summer the workload becomes lighter and I decide to attend a conference. My talk is on Friday morning so I decide to fly on Thursday evening. I log on to our new fangled travel system to make the arrangements and I quickly find a perfect connection. Alas things are not working and I am unable to make a reservation. In desperation I decide on a pricey option and call a human agent.
“I am trying to book a direct flight to Atlanta for the early evening,” I describe my predicament.
“Direct flight?” the agent repeats with amusement, “this is not possible."
“What is not possible?”
“A short flight involves two pilots, three flight attendants and two gate employees, a total of 7 US based jobs,” the agent explains, “two flights involve 14 US based jobs and so on.”
I have a glimpse of where it is going so I stay quiet.
“As a measure to stimulate the economy we no longer offer direct flights for government employees,” the agent concludes cheerfully.
“Who came up with this diabolical plan?” I burst out angrily.
“We do have a forward research unit operating from Trump University,” the agent answers with a certain degree of pride.
“And what about my job and my time?” I moan helplessly unable to take it all in.
“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,” the agent says with indignation and hangs up.
It is late summer and my tour of duty at the Government Science Agency is coming to an end.
I come to Bjorn’s office for the farewells and I can’t tell whether he is happy to see me go.
“It is funny,” I start small-talk, “that I never asked you about our program’s philosophy.”
“It is never too late,” Bjorn perks up, “Are you interested in poetry?”
“Huh??”
“Exactly,” Bjorn sighs as if I confirmed his worst suspicion.
“Look at this,” he points at the frame hanging behind him on the wall.
I focus my eyes and read the following four lines:
I cared nothing for all my crews,
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
“What is this?” I ask without much understanding.
“This is what you are looking for, our program guiding spirit and operating procedures,” Bjorn says patiently.
“Flemish cotton?? Is this a joke?” I feel that he is making a fool of me.
“This is poetry,” Bjorn explains patiently, “you appreciate the form and reach out for the meaning.”
I keep quiet unsure what to say.
“Ok,” Bjorn begins slowly, “let me parse it for you.”
“The first line speaks about leadership,” he starts, ”when your lineage goes back to Newton and possibly to antiquity you need a pair ,” he pauses briefly, "of strong hands guiding the program,” he adds for political correctness.
I glance at him sideways and suddenly notice his regal posture and a trace of halo around his head.
“But caring nothing about the crew?” I ask meekly.
“Tough love it is, yesss,” he speaks in Yoda-voice removing all doubts.
“Hmm,” I decide not to argue, “what about the English cotton?”
“You have to understand that this was written a long time ago,” Bjorn says with exasperation, “what matters is that we are not picky as long as the brand is good.”
Finally I am getting the hang of it. Indeed our program has considerable preoccupation with strong credentials, top schools and mainstream topics.
“So the third line is about panels and reviewers?” I venture a guess.
Bjorn smiles with delight, “and the uproars?” he checks me out.
“Is it when you have complex and symplectic people in the same room?” I follow my intuition.
“Right on! Or commutative and non-commutative ones or Bayesians and frequentists,” Bjorn exclaims.
“And the last line?” I ask already knowing the answer.
“This is about the Mathematics Unit management. They let me do as I please as long as no feathers are ruffled.”
“Amazing, just amazing,” I marvel, “who wrote this poem and how is it called?”
“It was written by Arthur Rimbaud” Bjorn answers, “and the title is The Drunken Boat.”
Now many months have passed and one day I am called to the Human Resources office.
“How is your Personal Growth Program coming along?” is the first question.
I am caught off-guard and confused, “Personal Growth Program?”
The Human Resources Officer glances at the paperwork, “Octagonal fly-fishing rods?” he reminds me.
“Oh, yeah,” I finally connect the dots, “it is dormant I am afraid, too much work.”
“You are not growing?” he asks with concern.
“I am growing, I am growing,” I assure him resolutely, “just in a different direction.”
“So it is an undocumented personal growth,” he states matter of factly and makes a note in his ledger. For some reason it does not sound any different as if he has just discovered that I have a tumor.
I am suddenly in hot water and it is time for a retreat. “Well, I have been working on these octagonal rods a little,” I backtrack, “and I should be able to have something to show for it soon.”
“This is better,” the Human Resources Officer smiles encouragingly, “are you ready with a prototype?”
“Some assembly is required,” I say in a wooden voice as if reciting from IKEA instructions.
“Excellent,” he says excitedly, “we would not want to impede your personal growth, this program is for your benefit. Have you thought about testing your rods?”
"Will this torture ever end?" goes through my head as I try to stay cool. “Potomac?” I answer with hesitation.
“Potomac?” the Human Resources Officer repeats with dismay, “Show me some growth man! Where do you really want to take it.”
“Galapagos? Orinoco? Sea of Cortez?” I rattle the names blindly wishing the man to leave me alone.
“Now, that is the spirit!” he gets excited, “and you are still within the budget.”
When I leave Human Resources several hours later I have bookings for three fishing trips and near certainty that Gypra is going to get me.
“Remember, Galapagos is catch-and-release only,” my torturer yells after me through the length of the corridor.
Back to Bronze Age
End of the fiscal year starts in the early summer and it is a period of considerable activity. Just before the final spending deadline the Command Center regurgitates massive amounts of money and we scramble to spend them before they get yanked away. This is an opportunity to accessorize lavishly as long as proper justification can be provided.
Last year we acquired top of the line color laser printers and used them to print scratch paper for panelists. The pages were blank but the margins were adorned with motivational logos such as “Go reviewer go” or “GSA rules” written in fancy font with every letter of a different color.
This year we are getting 3D printers and everybody is excited about it. In our requests we claimed that 3D printing can be used to make office items such as staples, pencils and so on but this turned out to be the tip of an iceberg. Within days after installing 3D printers a colleague managed to print an entire proposal after a marathon 12-hour programming session and many hours of printing. The 3D printer first printed the pages themselves and then in a most delicate fashion blasted the letters onto them. The whole Mathematics Unit watched the process for hours! For once the mathematical sophistication of the subject matched the extreme fragility of the medium and indeed the printout did not survive the first reading. But it was only a temporary setback that opened a back road to clay tablets of Bronze and Iron Age. Finally the pipe dream of completely paperless office was at hand and in a matter of weeks Mathematics Unit switched entirely to using modern incarnation of a clay tablet!
Right on time! The last panel of the year received their conflict of interest rules, now nicknamed the Code of Hammurabi, elegantly 3D printed on handy two-pound 8.5 by 11 tablets!
Newton is coming
There are only several dozen proposals left and a little bit of money to fund some of them. We plan to gather together to discuss priorities and make the final decisions. Bjorn calls the meeting and explains the process.
“This is an opportunity to broaden and extend our funding portfolio,” he begins, “and these are our primary objectives. We call this final phase of the funding process Gentrification.”
Broadening is clear, the entire Government Science Agency is buzzing about broadening participation more or less non-stop.
“What about extending?” I dare to inquire.
“I am glad you asked,” Bjorn pauses to organize his thoughts.
“Do you know what is more addictive for an university professor than synthetic opiates?” he asks. We keep quiet unsure where this is going.
“Government Science Agency funding,” he answers, “and our program nurtures a number of these unfortunates. Extension is a way to alleviate the shock resulting from a withdrawal of funding," he concludes.
“Unlike real drugs external funding does not kill you but rather it extends your scientific life beyond what Nature intended.” He pauses briefly as if struck by a thought, “It can probably even bring up the dead.”
Why would letting them go be so bad - I wonder quietly and I feel ashamed of my selfishness. Yet the purpose of extending does not seem to serve real scientific goals. Bjorn reads my mind and decides to elaborate. “Let me put it in context,” he starts, “would you fund Sir Isaac Newton?”
“Isn’t he dead for almost 300 years?” I answer with hesitation immediately sensing that this petty ruse will not work.
“What difference does it make?” Bjorn says impatiently, “Haven’t you been watching the Game of Thrones? He can be back in a flash!”
“The point is,” he calms down a bit, “that our database has only two possible outcomes: funded or declined. Deceased is not a valid choice.”
“So would you decline Sir Isaac Newton?” he repeats slowly for added effect.
I am short of breath at the thought of being in such awful predicament, “but Sir Isaac Newton is not applying,” I gasp.
“Not in this fiscal year,” Bjorn answers cautiously.
We chat some more and Bjorn is getting more gloomy and despondent by the minute. “Newton is coming” he finally whispers as if anticipating an incoming doom of the final battle for the government funding between the living and undead.
As I depart I am overwhelmed with dread at the thought of a sleepwalker army of the greatest mathematicians of the past three millennia obliterating our program’s budget with their gargantuan funding requests.
Travel woes
In the mid-summer the workload becomes lighter and I decide to attend a conference. My talk is on Friday morning so I decide to fly on Thursday evening. I log on to our new fangled travel system to make the arrangements and I quickly find a perfect connection. Alas things are not working and I am unable to make a reservation. In desperation I decide on a pricey option and call a human agent.
“I am trying to book a direct flight to Atlanta for the early evening,” I describe my predicament.
“Direct flight?” the agent repeats with amusement, “this is not possible."
“What is not possible?”
“A short flight involves two pilots, three flight attendants and two gate employees, a total of 7 US based jobs,” the agent explains, “two flights involve 14 US based jobs and so on.”
I have a glimpse of where it is going so I stay quiet.
“As a measure to stimulate the economy we no longer offer direct flights for government employees,” the agent concludes cheerfully.
“Who came up with this diabolical plan?” I burst out angrily.
“We do have a forward research unit operating from Trump University,” the agent answers with a certain degree of pride.
“And what about my job and my time?” I moan helplessly unable to take it all in.
“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country,” the agent says with indignation and hangs up.
Le Bateau Ivre
It is late summer and my tour of duty at the Government Science Agency is coming to an end.
I come to Bjorn’s office for the farewells and I can’t tell whether he is happy to see me go.
“It is funny,” I start small-talk, “that I never asked you about our program’s philosophy.”
“It is never too late,” Bjorn perks up, “Are you interested in poetry?”
“Huh??”
“Exactly,” Bjorn sighs as if I confirmed his worst suspicion.
“Look at this,” he points at the frame hanging behind him on the wall.
I focus my eyes and read the following four lines:
I cared nothing for all my crews,
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
“What is this?” I ask without much understanding.
“This is what you are looking for, our program guiding spirit and operating procedures,” Bjorn says patiently.
“Flemish cotton?? Is this a joke?” I feel that he is making a fool of me.
“This is poetry,” Bjorn explains patiently, “you appreciate the form and reach out for the meaning.”
I keep quiet unsure what to say.
“Ok,” Bjorn begins slowly, “let me parse it for you.”
“The first line speaks about leadership,” he starts, ”when your lineage goes back to Newton and possibly to antiquity you need a pair ,” he pauses briefly, "of strong hands guiding the program,” he adds for political correctness.
I glance at him sideways and suddenly notice his regal posture and a trace of halo around his head.
“But caring nothing about the crew?” I ask meekly.
“Tough love it is, yesss,” he speaks in Yoda-voice removing all doubts.
“Hmm,” I decide not to argue, “what about the English cotton?”
“You have to understand that this was written a long time ago,” Bjorn says with exasperation, “what matters is that we are not picky as long as the brand is good.”
Finally I am getting the hang of it. Indeed our program has considerable preoccupation with strong credentials, top schools and mainstream topics.
“So the third line is about panels and reviewers?” I venture a guess.
Bjorn smiles with delight, “and the uproars?” he checks me out.
“Is it when you have complex and symplectic people in the same room?” I follow my intuition.
“Right on! Or commutative and non-commutative ones or Bayesians and frequentists,” Bjorn exclaims.
“And the last line?” I ask already knowing the answer.
“This is about the Mathematics Unit management. They let me do as I please as long as no feathers are ruffled.”
“Amazing, just amazing,” I marvel, “who wrote this poem and how is it called?”
“It was written by Arthur Rimbaud” Bjorn answers, “and the title is The Drunken Boat.”
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