We had to do sexual harassment training last week. Three hours' worth of "don't grab co-workers' naughty bits"; "don't send e-mails of naughty bits"; "don't let anyone overhear you talking about naughty bits." You get the idea.
Today's modern office environment is about as sterile as a microchip lab, a situation spawned by expensive lawsuits and overstaffed Human Resources departments.
I've heard stories about the old days from my mother-in-law, Carole, an attractive woman who could be Barbara Eden's twin sister. Carole worked for Argus Publishers and a few key aftermarket players including Recaro and EMPI. Did harassment happen back then? You bet. But Carole's generation was more adept at office politics. They were a lot tougher back then. They had to be.
So we sat there watching inane videos of stupid people waving their naughty bits at uninterested co-workers. Honestly, humans this out of touch with normal behavior should be removed from the gene pool. I realize these films were exaggerated for effect, but still, I've seen real-life stuff pretty close to this. You people need a hobby.
Which brings us to cars. I doodled while H.R. droned on.
The thought of sketching boobies or people in compromising positions never occurred to me. I have hobbies. They're cars and planes.
And then I thought about our office, a mishmash of lowrider-types, good-ole truckin' boys, hard-core off-roaders, and the Japanese import and Euro-trash crowd. Despite a near 50/50 male-to-female staff, no one here seems overtly interested in sexual shenanigans. If they do, it sure as hell isn't happening here. And it's not like we don't have good-looking people working here, because we do. They're just more interested in sharing their love of automobiles than sharing each other's naughty bits.
Once again, cars have saved the day. Without them, our office might fall into anarchy, the e-mail system would collapse, H.R. ranks and lawsuits would swell.
I visited a buddy's office last month. It was one of those barren "cube farms," something straight out of Office Space. They manage service contracts or insurance claims or something like that. The place was dead quiet save tapping keyboards; the air was thick with oppression. As usual, I was excited and profane. My R32 was parked outside and I couldn't wait for my bud to check out the new cams, exhaust, software and intake I'd installed. Several "prairie dogs" popped their heads over cube walls. Apparently, I said the F-word. I think they were dialing H.R. as I sped off.
No, we can't all work for car magazines, but there's more to this job than just driving cars. I can't think of what else right now but I did manage to pen another doodle. And it's SFW (Safe For Work).