Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Family Christmas highlights
Friday, January 06, 2006
Gregory Wilska – Truly a Man of Mystery
(Editor's Note: This work, the first installment in the "What the Hell Do They Do, Anyway?" series, was penned by Matt Spillane, who assures me that the Bush Administration did not eavesdrop on the conversation detailed in the paragraphs below and did not send an emissary to Family Christmas to steal the recipe for Sugared Kielbasa.)
When I rendezvoused with Gregory Wilska for this intelligence de-briefing, it was not in a DeepThroatesque darkened parking garage… although it was pretty darn close. Shrouded in the cover of night we convened by a smoky fire, pondside, outside of a quaint farmhouse somewhere in upstate New York.
How I ended up there was still a blur, but I knew it had been against my will. Hours earlier I had been tossed roughly inside a dark SUV by a stocky Italian with a swarthy complexion and had been restrained by a constricting lap/shoulder belt combo. I was not the only prisoner. As I stole furtive glances in the rearview mirror I spied two young ladies similarly strapped to the back seat. Both were upset- the one referred to by our captor as Isabella cried and demanded water- the other, Mia, peeped not a word but made constant grunting noises as she struggled mightily to free herself of her restraints.
Had I been a better man, I would have fought for my fellow prisoners during our ordeal, and sought to protect them, but after later being gorged continuously with food for what seemed hours in the farmhouse, I confess that my most base survival instinct won out-- it truly became “every man for himself.”
As I stumbled out of the farmhouse into the dark, seeking to escape the pervasive aroma of kielbasa drowned in brown sugar, I saw him. Gregory Wilska, bundled in winter clothes huddled over the glow of the fire, alone. As I slipped over the fresh coat of falling snow towards him, he sense my approach, turned to me, and nodded cordially.
“Mr. Spillane.”
At that moment, I realized with stunning clarity that this was no chance meeting. I had been expected. I sat down next to Mr. Wilska and watched him nudge the glowing embers with an impromptu poker. The fire purred its approbation.
I thought hard how to subtly direct the conversation towards Mr. Wilska’s employment. It had to be delicately probed, I knew. There were the longstanding whispered jokes about his being employed by the CIA. This rumor had only been buttressed by his Washington D.C. domicile, and his travel schedule which could only be described as constant. What job could otherwise possibly allow an employee to take so much time off for travel? My own secret suspicion was that he was an air marshal.
Subtlety, however, was never my strength. I blurted, “Greg, what do you do for a living?”
A trace of an amused smile creased light wrinkles in his thirty-something year old visage. “What do I do for a living?”
I broke down under his laser-pointed interrogation. “Well, it’s just that nobody really knows what you do,” I stammered. “They think you’re in the CIA. I don’t. I think you’re an air marshal. You know, because of the traveling thing, and the airport fetish. And Emily, well she told me I had to get an answer from you and write about in the family blog. And well… are you in the CIA?” My voice petered out in a whimper. Muscles were taught as I waited expectantly for him to transfix my heart with the hot poker, or reach across and snap my neck, or send me crashing through the pond ice not to be found until spring thaw.
But surprisingly, none of these horrid ends befell me. “I see,” he said calmly. “Well, what would you like to know?”
“If you had to sum up your job in five paragraphs or less, how would you do it?”
“Hmm.” Mr. Wilska seemed perplexed. “Well, I work for a consulting firm.”
This was indeed a very short paragraph #1. I made quotation marks out of my index fingers and middle fingers. “You’re a ‘consultant’. Emily’s going to want a little more than that nebulous job description.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose she would,” was his embarrassed mea culpa. “Well, at this consulting firm, I work in ‘competitive intelligence’."
“You’re a Competitive Intelligence Agent!?” I exclaimed. My God, the rumors had been true.
“I don’t work for the CIA,” Mr. Wilska protested.
“No, no, no. Of course you don’t work for the CIA. You are the CIA.”
“My department, the Competitive Intelligence Department, consists of six people."
“CID. That sounds even more ominous,” I marveled.
“The firm employs over 15,000 people. Obviously, I work on a very small team.”
A small hit team, extraction team, black ops team, I thought.
“My team researches the public domain to find out what our competitors are doing. We do research on Boeing for instance.”
“What kind of research?
“Well, we have access to Westlaw, Lexis, and other paid research services. We pull up any information that we can find on our competitors’ business operations, strategies, etc. Then we-- well, I--cull and synthesize that research, put it into a report and pass it off to my boss. He in turn briefs his bosses."
“Why Lexis and Westlaw? Lawyers use those. In fact I can’t even afford them for my practice. I have to use the free access at the law library.” [Matt, here's a possible use for all that money you save with your competitive coupon use.--Ed.]
“It is expensive. Lexis charges the firm something like $600,000.00 per year for a mass subscription. But to answer your question, we review caselaw that involve our competitors.”
“So, you are a spy?”
“Competitive Intelligence Officer.”
You’re a spy, I thought to myself.
“If you knew someone who got fired from another firm, or left, can you talk to them and pick their brain?"
“No. We’re not allowed to let anyone know what we do. The firm doesn’t want to give other firms a red flag that we’re investigating them. So we can only use public records for research sources.”
“You’d get in trouble if you mined your own sources- -a fired employee, for example?”
“The firm would not approve, and it would not be pleased.”
“Why Boeing? It doesn’t do consulting. It builds planes. How could Boeing be considered your firm’s competitor?”
Mr. Wilska nodded. “Boeing builds computer guidance systems. Therefore, it is a competitor.”
“Your firm builds computer guidance systems?” I asked, confused.
“Yes. My firm builds computer guidance systems.”
“I thought it was a consulting firm?”
“It is.”
“I don’t get it. Your firm doesn’t consult. Your firm builds things. You’re a manufacturer.”
Nonplussed, Mr. Wilska responded, “We have clients, like the US Air Force, who need computer guidance systems. We try to convince them that we are the ones who can help them fill their needs.”
Mr. Wilska’s a cog in military industrial complex , I thought. He killed Kennedy.
“In short, the firm consults with its clients to help them maintain their computer guidance systems.”
“And you spy on other companies trying to do the same thing,” I said. And kill Presidents, I thought.
“Exactly.”
“Emily will be pleased.” Pause. “One more question. What’s the name of your firm?”
Mr. Wilska peered at me from behind his glasses. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
At this point, I knew the interview was over. I feigned the need for more kielbasa, stood up, and excused myself, escaping perhaps my most daring interview yet.
Epilogue.
On January 5, 2006, Ariel Sharon suffered a second major stroke just hours before being operated on to repair a hole in his heart--the condition which reportedly has been linked to the first stroke. A witness on the scene in Israel reportedly saw a somewhat balding bespectacled man in his thirties sitting in the waiting room near Sharon’s heavily guarded room playing with a Hess model truck. During the twenty-four hour period prior to this medical event, Gregory Wilska was unaccounted for.
When I rendezvoused with Gregory Wilska for this intelligence de-briefing, it was not in a DeepThroatesque darkened parking garage… although it was pretty darn close. Shrouded in the cover of night we convened by a smoky fire, pondside, outside of a quaint farmhouse somewhere in upstate New York.
How I ended up there was still a blur, but I knew it had been against my will. Hours earlier I had been tossed roughly inside a dark SUV by a stocky Italian with a swarthy complexion and had been restrained by a constricting lap/shoulder belt combo. I was not the only prisoner. As I stole furtive glances in the rearview mirror I spied two young ladies similarly strapped to the back seat. Both were upset- the one referred to by our captor as Isabella cried and demanded water- the other, Mia, peeped not a word but made constant grunting noises as she struggled mightily to free herself of her restraints.
Had I been a better man, I would have fought for my fellow prisoners during our ordeal, and sought to protect them, but after later being gorged continuously with food for what seemed hours in the farmhouse, I confess that my most base survival instinct won out-- it truly became “every man for himself.”
As I stumbled out of the farmhouse into the dark, seeking to escape the pervasive aroma of kielbasa drowned in brown sugar, I saw him. Gregory Wilska, bundled in winter clothes huddled over the glow of the fire, alone. As I slipped over the fresh coat of falling snow towards him, he sense my approach, turned to me, and nodded cordially.
“Mr. Spillane.”
At that moment, I realized with stunning clarity that this was no chance meeting. I had been expected. I sat down next to Mr. Wilska and watched him nudge the glowing embers with an impromptu poker. The fire purred its approbation.
I thought hard how to subtly direct the conversation towards Mr. Wilska’s employment. It had to be delicately probed, I knew. There were the longstanding whispered jokes about his being employed by the CIA. This rumor had only been buttressed by his Washington D.C. domicile, and his travel schedule which could only be described as constant. What job could otherwise possibly allow an employee to take so much time off for travel? My own secret suspicion was that he was an air marshal.
Subtlety, however, was never my strength. I blurted, “Greg, what do you do for a living?”
A trace of an amused smile creased light wrinkles in his thirty-something year old visage. “What do I do for a living?”
I broke down under his laser-pointed interrogation. “Well, it’s just that nobody really knows what you do,” I stammered. “They think you’re in the CIA. I don’t. I think you’re an air marshal. You know, because of the traveling thing, and the airport fetish. And Emily, well she told me I had to get an answer from you and write about in the family blog. And well… are you in the CIA?” My voice petered out in a whimper. Muscles were taught as I waited expectantly for him to transfix my heart with the hot poker, or reach across and snap my neck, or send me crashing through the pond ice not to be found until spring thaw.
But surprisingly, none of these horrid ends befell me. “I see,” he said calmly. “Well, what would you like to know?”
“If you had to sum up your job in five paragraphs or less, how would you do it?”
“Hmm.” Mr. Wilska seemed perplexed. “Well, I work for a consulting firm.”
This was indeed a very short paragraph #1. I made quotation marks out of my index fingers and middle fingers. “You’re a ‘consultant’. Emily’s going to want a little more than that nebulous job description.”
“Yes, yes. I suppose she would,” was his embarrassed mea culpa. “Well, at this consulting firm, I work in ‘competitive intelligence’."
“You’re a Competitive Intelligence Agent!?” I exclaimed. My God, the rumors had been true.
“I don’t work for the CIA,” Mr. Wilska protested.
“No, no, no. Of course you don’t work for the CIA. You are the CIA.”
“My department, the Competitive Intelligence Department, consists of six people."
“CID. That sounds even more ominous,” I marveled.
“The firm employs over 15,000 people. Obviously, I work on a very small team.”
A small hit team, extraction team, black ops team, I thought.
“My team researches the public domain to find out what our competitors are doing. We do research on Boeing for instance.”
“What kind of research?
“Well, we have access to Westlaw, Lexis, and other paid research services. We pull up any information that we can find on our competitors’ business operations, strategies, etc. Then we-- well, I--cull and synthesize that research, put it into a report and pass it off to my boss. He in turn briefs his bosses."
“Why Lexis and Westlaw? Lawyers use those. In fact I can’t even afford them for my practice. I have to use the free access at the law library.” [Matt, here's a possible use for all that money you save with your competitive coupon use.--Ed.]
“It is expensive. Lexis charges the firm something like $600,000.00 per year for a mass subscription. But to answer your question, we review caselaw that involve our competitors.”
“So, you are a spy?”
“Competitive Intelligence Officer.”
You’re a spy, I thought to myself.
“If you knew someone who got fired from another firm, or left, can you talk to them and pick their brain?"
“No. We’re not allowed to let anyone know what we do. The firm doesn’t want to give other firms a red flag that we’re investigating them. So we can only use public records for research sources.”
“You’d get in trouble if you mined your own sources- -a fired employee, for example?”
“The firm would not approve, and it would not be pleased.”
“Why Boeing? It doesn’t do consulting. It builds planes. How could Boeing be considered your firm’s competitor?”
Mr. Wilska nodded. “Boeing builds computer guidance systems. Therefore, it is a competitor.”
“Your firm builds computer guidance systems?” I asked, confused.
“Yes. My firm builds computer guidance systems.”
“I thought it was a consulting firm?”
“It is.”
“I don’t get it. Your firm doesn’t consult. Your firm builds things. You’re a manufacturer.”
Nonplussed, Mr. Wilska responded, “We have clients, like the US Air Force, who need computer guidance systems. We try to convince them that we are the ones who can help them fill their needs.”
Mr. Wilska’s a cog in military industrial complex , I thought. He killed Kennedy.
“In short, the firm consults with its clients to help them maintain their computer guidance systems.”
“And you spy on other companies trying to do the same thing,” I said. And kill Presidents, I thought.
“Exactly.”
“Emily will be pleased.” Pause. “One more question. What’s the name of your firm?”
Mr. Wilska peered at me from behind his glasses. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
At this point, I knew the interview was over. I feigned the need for more kielbasa, stood up, and excused myself, escaping perhaps my most daring interview yet.
Epilogue.
On January 5, 2006, Ariel Sharon suffered a second major stroke just hours before being operated on to repair a hole in his heart--the condition which reportedly has been linked to the first stroke. A witness on the scene in Israel reportedly saw a somewhat balding bespectacled man in his thirties sitting in the waiting room near Sharon’s heavily guarded room playing with a Hess model truck. During the twenty-four hour period prior to this medical event, Gregory Wilska was unaccounted for.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
What the hell do they do, anyway?
It's happened more times than I can count: someone asks me what Greg does for work, and I nervously stammer, "Ummm, errrr, something with computers or research or something. I think. But maybe not." Eric noticed the same thing, and also realized he had no idea what various other family members (Michael, Sharon, John Tomedi, and Brian, to name a few) actually did. "I mean, I sell books," Eric said. "That's pretty straightforward. But what do these people do?"
To the rescue, then, is this occasional feature: What the Hell Do They Do, Anyway? We'll take a hard-hitting look at how our more mysteriously employed family members earn their paycheck. The first installment will be penned by Matt Spillane (who we think has a fairly easy-to-understand job); look for it in the next few days.
Is there a Fam member you'd like to see grilled--er, profiled--in this column? E-mail me or leave a comment and let me know.
To the rescue, then, is this occasional feature: What the Hell Do They Do, Anyway? We'll take a hard-hitting look at how our more mysteriously employed family members earn their paycheck. The first installment will be penned by Matt Spillane (who we think has a fairly easy-to-understand job); look for it in the next few days.
Is there a Fam member you'd like to see grilled--er, profiled--in this column? E-mail me or leave a comment and let me know.
