Look what the Post did with the layout of my latest review (I wrote about 
Cubed: A Secret History of the Workplace, by Nikil Saval). Nifty! And slanty. The online version might be a little easier to read.
What did I think of the book? It’s well and dutifully researched, stylishly written, and ultimately something of a grind, like a job you just have to keep showing up for.
We don’t spend time in cubicles because we love them. How did we come up with such an unnatural arrangement? To find out, Saval roams through 200 years of American history, architecture, design, management literature and pop culture.
I did learn a lot. (When did that become a negative thing to say? I mean it positively.) And writing the review gave me a chance to compose a little hate-song to that few square feet of cubeland I call my own:
I don’t much like my cubicle. I have papered it with postcards of the pyramids, cartoons that amuse me, words to live by, colorful drawings by my children, magazine photos of the artist Doug Aitken’s nature-filled Los Angeles abode, even a calendar with cute rescue animals. Nothing hides the fact that my workspace is a box covered in grayish-beige fabric whose hue is the chromatic equivalent of depression.
