Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Hunting for pleasure

In spite of the fact that I’ve lived the last 28 years in the South, I never quite understood the lure of hunting. I get the part about how appealing it is to get up in the middle of the night to traipse around in the woods while wearing loud or unstylish clothing. In a way, I guess it’s not that different from what I do going off to my corporate job early every morning, if you substitute “cubicles” for “woods”. I understand the camaraderie of hanging out with fellow hunters, sitting for hours of uncomfortable silence in a tree stand and occasionally discharging high-powered firearms in random directions.

I just don’t get it why the guns have to be pointed at animals.

Don’t mistake me for one of those PETA types. I believe animals have absolutely no rights whatsoever other than to provide us with meaty flanks and maybe entertain us in the home, zoo or circus (though I’m not sure what goes on at a circus qualifies as “entertainment”). But I don’t see the point in searching the outdoors for them when most of their best traits can easily be found in a canned format on aisle 7 or sealed in plastic along the back wall of the local grocery store.

Actually, it’s not even the tastiest meats that are available in the wilds of the South. Here you’re largely limited to deer, possum, squirrels, rabbits and assorted birds, unless you’re lucky enough to stumble across an unguarded dairy farm. I sometimes see the deer gathered in the dark along the side of the road as I drive to work. They usually pause from whatever deer stuff they might be doing to watch me pass, then resume their wild life. Aside from the fact they’re usually clustered together like this, which makes me wonder if they’re talking about me or plotting some kind of deer terrorism, they’re not really that bothersome.

Squirrels (or as hunters say “squirrel”, as if singularizing them reduces the carnage) seem equally harmless. They’re running all through the trees in our yard and provide endless entertainment for our indoor pets watching through the windows -- “cat television”, as my wife calls it. When you see them in the road, they’re either so panicked by your approach that they can’t decide which way to turn, or else already run over. The other assorted fauna – badgers and groundlings and such – are completely inoffensive, unless you try to cook and eat them.

Some hunters will argue that they pursue the sport not only for the food and entertainment, but that they’re also acting to help control the wildlife population. I dislike the idea of a ten-point buck tumbling across the hood of my car and points-first into my lap as much as the next person. But there seem to be so many more humane options for population control. Maybe our would-be vice president has some ideas, considering her experience with ruminant control and birth control. We know abstinence doesn’t work, but maybe that field-dressing I hear so much about (which I assume involves modestly clothing the elk, moose and deer so they’re not so alluring to each other) could do the job.

With autumn now here, the hunting season in my state is heading into full swing. This was recently brought to my attention by ads in the local paper for outdoors establishments that sell the necessary tools of death. The “dates to remember” column was particularly disturbing:

Sept. 1 – First segment of dove season. Limit 15 birds per day. We turn these graceful birds into symbols of peace and for their cooperation in this sham, this is the thanks we give them.

Sept. 1 – Canada goose season. Daily limit 15 geese. They’re talking about the same huge creatures we see waddling through the park and defecating at will? They have to be hunted? To me, they don’t seem all that hard to find.

Sept. 15 – Archery season for deer. Later in the season comes “muzzleloader” deer season, eventually followed by “modern weapons” deer season. So first they wound them with arrows, then give them powder burns a few weeks later, then finally escalate to shoulder-mounted Stingers and laser-guided grenade launchers. Surely they can think of still more ways to kill deer. Hanging? Lethal injection? Beating them with a crowbar?

Oct. 12 – The start of National Wildlife Refuge Week. For one week, all is forgiven, and the animals are allowed to romp freely across the meadows. Just so they don’t get too comfortable, because next comes crow season and then quail season, both great opportunities for those who prefer eating feathers to meat.

I definitely sympathize with man’s inherent desire to master -- or at least hassle -- the natural world. The Bible tells us we’ve been given dominion over the Earth and all the animals and fish on it, and we have an obligation to handle this stewardship wisely. And I don’t see anything wrong with having a little fun at the same time by playing with archery equipment and muzzleloaders (whatever they are, though they sound like a blast). I guess maybe it’s just a matter of how you choose your weapon and your victims.

Personally, I find there’s nothing quite so relaxing and invigorating at the same time as experiencing this mystical place where civilization meets the wild. With the scent of my freshly mown lawn still hanging in the air, I enjoy the crisp sound of a newly opened bag of fire-ant poison. The smell of the pesticide blends with that of the grass as I stalk across the back yard in search of those rounded mounds of reddish dirt. When I locate one, I dip my old jelly jar lid into the granular mix and gently disperse it across the ant hill, watching with a sort of primeval sense of accomplishment as the doomed creatures fall prey to my caring but lethal stewardship.

In that moment, the hunter and hunted form a tandem as old as time. I brush furiously at my shoe to try to get them off of me.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere

I know I’m a little late to the party, but did you realize that this is National Clean Hands Week? This is not one of those cheesy designations by Congress, who as I write this is busy declaring National Wall Street Bailout Day. Instead, the week of Sept. 21-27 was chosen by the Soap and Detergent Association (SDA) to “encourage a healthy home, workplace and office” with the purchase and use of the cleaning products and oleochemicals made by their trade association members.

I discovered the existence of the SDA with the aid of a framed document posted at my workplace, titled “A Checklist for Washing Hands”. As I’ve written before, my company is big into standard processes so it only makes sense that such a list would be posted in a position of prominence, in the men’s room. The document is dated February of 2002, so I’m guessing this concern for our health and safety was some type of misdirected response to 9/11.

The checklist is prefaced by results from a survey conducted by the association which asserts that some 40% of American workers don’t wash their hands often or long enough (emphasis SDA’s). Consider that the SDA also claims that 58% of employers don’t encourage better cleanliness habits in their workers. “While most people employ good cleaning habits at home, they have less control in the workplace,” notes director of consumer affairs Nancy Bock, who holds a job apparently even worse than mine. I might say some negative things about my current employer but I sure can’t say they aren’t concerned about my cleanliness – I mean they posted the checklist in frame.

The list itself is in two parts: when to wash your hands and, of course, how. The “when” includes each time you use the restroom, before and after staff meetings if food is served (I assume that would also cover my company meetings, where bring your own pathetic sandwich is more the rule), after scanning newspapers in the breakroom, before and after a meet-and-greet activity (where you might have to touch grubby customers) and after disposing of freshly killed vermin. Actually, I added that last one myself. I guess it should go without saying, but if we’re going to have a checklist it needs to be thorough and allow no room for old-fashioned notions of common sense.

The “how” of hand-washing is stunning in its detail. You should wet hands with warm running water prior to reaching for soap, either in bar or liquid form; rub hands together to make a lather; wash the front and back of hands for 15 seconds or more; and rinse hands well under warm water. As Bock notes, “washing often, about eight times a day or more (emphasis both of ours) is the first step.” This seems to be bordering on the obsessive-compulsive to me, but of course I’m not selling soap.

I suppose I shouldn’t be mocking the sincere efforts of the Soap and Detergent Association. I really don’t want myself or my coworkers to end up like the little clip-art guy in the corner of the frame with a thermometer in his mouth and an ice bag on his head. Since 1926, under the leadership of a 25-member Board of Directors and over 40 committees, subcommittees, task forces and working groups, the SDA has been dedicated to advancing public understanding of the safety and benefits of cleaning products. I know lobbyists are currently under a bit of a cloud in the public eye, but I just can’t imagine these guys leaning on lawmakers for multi-million-dollar cleanser earmarks.

I decided to go to their website to learn more about the effort to keep the American public from being so disgusting. In addition to consumer education work like the list I encountered, the group is involved in research, government affairs and coordinating efforts with international associations. To encourage these missions, they sponsor two awards -- the Glycerine Innovation Award, given in collaboration with the American Oil Chemists’ Society, and an award recognizing the best technical paper in the Journal of Surfactants and Detergents. I wonder if I might qualify for next year’s honor with this piece.

As I read on, I’m glad I took advantage of the immediacy of the web rather than relying on six-year-old messages on bathroom walls. Because it seems like things have only gone downhill since the 2002 report. The 2008 study reveals that only 85% of respondents say they always wash their hands after going to the bathroom, down from the previous 92%, and a mere 39% seldom or never wash their hands (emphasis necessary for everyone) after coughing or sneezing. A new feature of the study is an overall grade for the American public, who racks up a not-surprising “C-” for their hand hygiene habits. Once again, we’re excelling at mediocrity.

“Americans should prepare for the onslaught of cold and flu season,” warns Bock ominously. “Cleaning your hands regularly throughout the day can help keep you out of the emergency room.” On the good side, Bock has been promoted to SDA vice president of education since we last heard from her in 2002. I’m just glad to see she still has a job, considering the poor results of the study.

I guess she got credit for some of the additional features now available on the website. New this year are “tips on laundering flood-soiled fabrics”, which I guess is in response to the recent natural catastrophes we’ve seen along the Gulf Coast. “As soon as the flood waters have receded, a new priority becomes how to clean up clothes and other fabrics that have been soaked by muddy flood water.” I’m sure that’d be my new priority as I maneuvered around the bloated corpses of cattle wading back to the shattered remnants of my life. In case I get some dead cow on my only remaining T-shirt, the SDA has me covered: “to help remove protein stains such as sewage and blood, add an enzyme presoak product to the prewash.” Any chance such a product is sold by your members? I sure hope so.

The SDA has also been busy bringing new demographic groups into the world of the clean and hygienic. They’ve established the “Scrub Club” for kids, which includes the Clean Hands Game and webisodes in which you can meet Gel-Mo, the gelatinous mascot of the S.C. And in an attempt to reach out to teenagers, a rap song was commissioned from the students at Sampson Smith Middle School. I’m sure some of the cred of the song is lost without the accompanying thumping bass-line, but if you can imagine the overwhelming rhythm, I can quote the lyrics:

“Yo stop touching that dirty can,
Go to the sink and wash your hands,
If you want to go on a date,
Jump up and wash your hands for goodness sake.
Washing your hands is good for you,
But if you don’t you’ll get the flu.”

Thanks to the SDA, sounds like we can look forward to a bright and shiny future.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

A glossary to corp-speak

I recently wrote a posting about small talk, so today I’m going to take on big talk. Not big in the sense of important or addressing universal truths or even just using big words, but big as in pretentious or bloated. I’m writing about corporate-speak, the twisted, over-wrought lingo that we have to decipher at work on a daily basis. Whether it’s too much use of the “imperial we” or simply an excessive reliance on multi-syllabic terminology (see, I can do it too), business communication has become an oxymoron, neither communicating effectively nor doing it in a workman-like fashion.

What follows then is meant to be something of a glossary to help us all get to the root of what our corporate overlords are really talking about when they get all officious on us. These are some terms and phrases I hear frequently at my job, along with my best shot at de-obfuscation.

“I can support that” – I agree with this and am willing to say so to my boss, when normally I know it’s better to keep my mouth shut.

“Let me reach out” – I’m going to speak with someone or maybe make a phone call or maybe send an email or maybe an instant message to someone who is sitting more than an arm’s-length away from me. Whether or not they respond in any way after my first attempt, my obligation is complete.

“Have a conversation” – This is the same thing as talking to someone, but is meant to sound serious. The only way it could be more serious would be to “sit down and have a conversation”, as the sitting implies the conversation will be happening for a while and you won’t want the other person to be so stunned by your brilliance that they might fall down.

“Wrap my arms (or brain or head) around that” – Trying to understand some new or difficult concept. It used to be only the arms that got wrapped around these things, which at least acknowledged a certain physical reality. The recent addition of brain- and head-wrapping makes me think too much of car accidents involving utility poles, but I guess it’s meant to lend a more cerebral tone.

“Have a nice day”—This is meant to imply that everything under discussion has now been solved and there’s no need for further consideration. If the phrase “thanks for your business” is tacked on, then there’s no point in bringing up the subject ever again.

“I will connect with him or her” – Emails will be sent at some point before the end of the decade.

“I’m writing it on my calendar” – This is meant to show the manager is truly committed to following through on the subject you’ve discussed. Unfortunately, they’re writing it on today’s sheet of their page-a-day calendar which, despite the picture of the funny kitty on it, gets thrown away at the end of the day.

“I will make things happen” – Events will transpire, the earth will spin on its axis and our galaxy will continue to hurtle through space, but chances are your request for a half-day off next Tuesday will be forgotten.

“I need to borrow you” – This is a request by a manager for you to leave your work station and accompany them to some undisclosed destination. Usually bad news that can only be delivered in private will follow, but it’s somehow mitigated by the fact that you’ve just been referred to as an object.

“I have some feedback for you” – It has been reported that you’ve done something bone-headed and I need to rub your nose in it so you won’t do it again. That way, I can tell the person reporting your transgression that we “had a conversation”.

“It has come to my attention” – When an email begins with this phrase, quickly check the sender line because it’s probably from God and you’ll want to respond to Him quickly.

“I want you to own this” – Unfortunately, it’s not a new car. Instead it’s likely some incredibly stupid project that you’re going to be responsible for completing.

“I’m making up that…” – This phrase will preface a theory that the speaker believes which has absolutely no grounding in the factual world. Instead, it’s a random supposition put out as an assumed reality, which makes it really hard to argue with.

“Let me put a bug in your ear” – You’re being told about something that will probably happen at some point in the future and you need to start getting used to the idea while it’s still sounding only hypothetical. Typically, no actual insects are involved.

“Team” – Any collection of two or more people who have some vague relation to each other and a project or goal. Because the team concept is so respected in the corporate world these days, this term is trotted out with increasing frequency. Especially annoying is an email to a group that begins with the salutation “Team!”

“Let me share with you” – I’m going to tell you something in a confidential tone that will soon be known corporation-wide, but I want to tell you personally so you’ll think I’m plugged in to the power center.

“Driving things up or down or out” – Whether it’s physical objects or abstract concepts that have to be somehow moved, the trendiest action word is “to drive” these. Managers drive goods things up, and bad things down or out. I think it makes them feel like cowboys.

“Deep dive” – A thorough investigation that’s accompanied by spreadsheets, data points, bullet points and power points. By the time you’ve finished hearing about one of these, the nitrogen bubbles that accumulate in your blood may mercifully take your life.

“Buckets” – What other people call “categories”, the term bucket is preferred because of connotations it has with feeding and/or cleaning up after farm animals.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

A second career, perhaps?

So it’s come to this: as I struggle to keep up in a declining industry in a declining economy at a declining age, I’ve turned to offering my body up for medical research in return for $40 now and another $10 a month each time I call in and tell them I’m still alive.

I guess it’s not as bad as selling my plasma or a pre-owned kidney. I’ve volunteered to receive an anti-shingles vaccine that’s already been proven safe and/or effective for populations over age 60 and now the drug company wants to see if 50-somethings can survive it as well. It’s all above board and totally without risk, I’ve been assured by the Internet. Because it’s a double-blind study, I actually have only a 50% chance of receiving the real vaccine, but a 100% chance of receiving the money and feeling vaguely cheap as well as a little woozy only an hour or so after the procedure.

I arrive at an office that looks like any office park medical facility, and fill out the requisite paperwork. No, I’ve never had cancer, diabetes, polio, HIV, hepatitis, cardio-pulmonary obstruction or a desire to do this before. Yes, I’m willing to pretend to read 12 pages of fine-print risks and sign at several different spots that I won’t sue if anything goes wrong. I finish the form and wait to be summoned from the lobby. A pink card left in the chair next to mine suggests “next time you have low back pain or spasms, please call.” They’re also interested in testing those who are “constantly running to the bathroom”, have decreased sexual desire and abdominal bloating. But I have to complete this study first before I can aspire to these conditions and another $40.

When my Jennifer calls me back (seems there are several that work in this office), she reviews my paperwork and asks basically the same questions over again. I guess they’re trying to trip up anybody who claimed to have jaundice in the waiting room but has suddenly pinked-up when personally confronted. She takes my temperature, then explains how I need to keep track of any side effects I might encounter. For the first five days, I’ll need to watch the site of the vaccine and measure the size of any redness or swelling with the ruler they’ve printed across the bottom of the log. “If it’s over three inches, just check the box that says ‘3+’”, she says. I’m starting to worry a little. “The swelling might be over three inches high?” I ask. Fortunately, that’s a stupid question. The swollen area, if there is one, would be measured in width, not height.

Jennifer leaves again for a few minutes and promises that when she returns I’ll be taken to the lab for my blood to be drawn and to have the vaccine administered. Shortly after she leaves, I hear a god-awful pounding noise coming through the wall – blow after blow after blow. Are they also testing here for how people respond to physical beatings? I don’t hear any cries, so I figure they’re either cleaning a throw rug or trying a vaccine that keeps subjects from feeling the pain of an aggravated assault.

I’m finally escorted to the actual lab where an older lady in scrubs is prepping for my blood work. Apparently Jennifer, hot young babe that she is, handles only the interviews and doesn’t have to do any of the dirty work. The older lady – I don’t care what her name is, but I’ll call her Mona – asks which arm I’d like to have the blood drawn from and which will get the vaccine injection. I offer up the right arm for the blood draw. She takes a look at my extended arm and calls out to Jennifer, “Oh, look how good his vein is.” Jennifer comes over to check me out. She agrees it’s a really fine vein, and I figure that may be the last come-on I’ll ever get from a young lady 30 years my junior. “Yeah, I work out,” I say.

Off to my left, there inexplicably sits a small green brain. It’s probably not a real brain, because it’s just lying out in the open air and doesn’t smell bad. (I assume disembodied brains left unpreserved would smell, but I’m not a medical professional like these people, so maybe they know better). It’s about the size that would fit into an alligator, I’d say, but then realize it wouldn’t have to be the same color as the animal it came from. Maybe a dog brain. Finally I make the connection that it’s sitting next to a couple of rubber balls, and realize it’s meant to be that thing you squeeze on to make your veins pop out. I’m disappointed I won’t be able to squeeze the green brain. I so wanted my adventure in medical experimentation to be interactive.

Mona sticks my right arm to draw the blood. I wince a little and she apologizes. “Oops, did that hurt?” Yes. We repeat the same ritual on the upper left arm, where the vaccine is placed. I get a blue wrap-around tape holding down a cotton swab where the blood was drawn and a simple bandage at the site of the vaccine. Apparently, that’s it and I’m free to go.

“Don’t forget to call me,” says Jennifer as I rise to leave. Turns out she’s not into veiny guys, she just has to report to the drug company on my progress.

I take my symptom log, my $40 check and my bruised limbs and self-esteem, and head out into the parking lot and my uncertain medical future. It’s back to the office to study up on the coming annual health insurance sign-up.

Monday, September 22, 2008

A small man discusses small talk

I’m not real big on small talk. I understand that it’s a necessary social lubricant that greases everyday interactions, easing our way through the world. I know that when someone asks “how are you?” that they’re not really looking for a full medical and psychological report. I know the answer can fall into only about four categories: (1) “great”, which means better than average; (2) “fine”, a sort of neutral don’t-bother-me response; (3) “good”, usually said with a downward lilt that really means “not good”; and (4) “pretty good” (with a high-pitched stress on the “pretty”), which means horrible.

But I still think there’s too much of it, and I despise the excess. Much like the wolverine caught in a steel trap, I’d rather gnaw off my leg and leave it behind than continue a trivial conversation much beyond the standard four-phrase convention (“How are you?” “Fine. How are you?” “Fine”). Except instead of chewing off my leg I’d have to chew off the lower half of my face so it could continue the conversation after the rest of me is gone, and it seems physically impossible to gnaw off your own face, so maybe that’s not the best analogy. (This should give you some idea why I’m so poor at small talk.)

As the conversation continues, I shrug and I shift and I lean away, giving every possible body language indicator that I wish to be out of there. I even thought of inventing a fake pager that you could trigger that would allow you to extricate yourself. But this was in the day before cell phones and voice mail came along, and nowadays people would think you’re a Neanderthal to still be carrying a pager. Which I am, but that’s beside the point.

The worst is when you’re in an inextricable situation that nothing short of a stroke is going to free you from. I was at the dentist last Thursday having a crown re-cemented, my mouth numb, my body horizontal and my face half-covered with the nitrous nosepiece. My dentist was a young and recent addition to the practice. I had no concerns for her ability to deliver my care, but she showed she was new to the game by the way she handled the requisite dentist office small talk.

“So how was your weekend?” she asked. How was my weekend? Good lord, woman, this is Thursday. On Monday and Tuesday, you ask about the weekend just past. On Wednesday, you talk about the weather. On Thursday and Friday, you ask about the upcoming weekend. Don’t they cover this somewhere in eight years of medical training?

“Oh, I had a great weekend,” I’d like to say."I conquered Asia on Saturday then went on a three-state murder spree on Sunday.” I could even blame the nitrous. Instead, I kept it together and responded like a good dental patient: “Mmmpphh umph”.

I may hate small talk, but at least I understand the rules. You do have to study your enemy to know best how to deal with it. I’ve developed a number of defenses that I use to get me out of these situations. My best is this semi-permanent scowl I’ve developed that keeps most casual acquaintances at arm’s-length. (At age 54, it’s become such an ingrained part of my face that my smile is little more than a horizontal slit, and anything trending more upward makes me look like psychopathic.) Just now, sitting in a coffee shop and writing this piece, a vague acquaintance walked by the table and the ol’ slit/nod acknowledged her in such a way as to make her keep on walking.

I’m still looking for better strategies to deal with the unexpected encounters you occasionally stumble into. My wife and I were grocery shopping the other evening and I had stepped away to track down the organic cat litter special. When I returned, I rounded the aisle endcap to find my wife chatting away with someone we had gone through childbirth classes with 18 years ago. I was trapped into the ongoing conversation. What could I possibly say or do? They went on about our respective children, how shortly after giving birth she had lost her job with the airlines (who hasn’t?) but got free air travel as a buyout perk and her daughter was looking at colleges in Pennsylvania because that’s where her husband was from; his immediate family is Methodist but there’s a whole branch that’s Mennonite and it’s always strange to see them and how they dress…

Wait a minute, I thought, husband? Oh no, that’s right, I did see this vaguely familiar guy by the hot deli bar earlier, and soon he’s going to stroll up and this encounter is going to explode into a whole other dimension. I gotta get out! Clumsily, I raise my finger, mumble “I’m ‘onna g’get that other thing…” and rudely walk away. Just to be on the safe side, I leave the store and walk home.

The best defense of all, of course, is outright rudeness, best practiced on those you really don’t know at all but feel otherwise compelled to engage. At work, we have this maintenance guy who makes his daily rounds doing maintenance-guy things, one of which is to empty our garbage cans. Around 10:45 each morning, here he comes. My coworkers, most being friendly Southerners eager to show there’s no class divide between their white-collar world and Bobby’s garbage world, routinely chat up this poor fellow. Once when asked how things were going, he made the unfortunate disclosure that his father was sick and in the hospital. Now he’s asked five or six times a morning how his father is doing. Fortunately, the father seems to have recovered; either that or Bobby hasn’t figured a casual way to indicate the elderly gentleman is no more. I, on the other hand, make it a point to appear intently involved with my computer screen when he comes for my trash.

Not sure what he thinks of me, but if he hates me, I’m fine with that. Or pretty good. Or maybe just good.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

President or pal?

Now there’s a new poll showing who Americans would prefer to watch a football game with: Barack Obama or John McCain. I think Obama won narrowly, though the demographic breakdown showed older white men would prefer McCain while younger people and women – who don’t watch football anyway – preferred Obama. This comes four years after the electorate was asked who they’d rather drink a beer with: George W. Bush or John Kerry. Bush won that one, despite the fact he’d probably spill his beer and then swipe yours while you were distracted by the Iraq war.

All this seems symptomatic of the widespread narcissism that makes Americans want elected officials who are like them – just regular guys who have the same potential to goof up and goof off as we do. We’re not interested in the educated candidate who “knows” stuff. Elitist concepts like reasoning and knowledge and an innate curiosity for how complicated things work aren’t traits we care to exhibit, and we suspect those who have cultivated these talents spent way too many Saturday nights in the library when they should’ve been out drunk driving.

I personally just don’t get this. I think I have a reasonable level of intelligence, if Scrabble, Jeopardy and crossword puzzles are any indication, but would I want someone with my limited Florida State University education running the free world? Are you kidding? Despite my half-a-brain, I still consider myself pretty much an idiot. And I’m willing to bet that candidates who finished near the bottom of their class at the Naval Academy and journalism graduates of the University of Idaho are similarly blockheaded, as some of their recent interviews have demonstrated.

I guess we can partly blame the self-esteem epidemic that gives every child a trophy and every student a “B” for making us think that hockey moms, NASCAR dads, Sear’s aunts, soccer cousins and Big Mac-eating gay uncles can be president. How hard can it be to mountain-bike through the Rose Garden while driving the economy into the toilet?

Anyway, this latest survey about the football-watching has made me wonder what other everyday activities we might like to share with our nation’s potential leaders. If such common experiences as being a sports fan or a bloated sot are what we’re looking for, what other indicators might give us insight into who can offer an administration more competent than the current one? (I know, I know, a squirrel could do better than who we have now, but they’re constitutionally barred from the presidency, since they rarely survive to the minimum age of 35).

So let’s pretend these are the questions being asked: who among McCain, Obama, Palin and Biden would you rather share the following?

Having a car accident with – I think I’d prefer Obama, because he’d consider all the factors that went into the accident and realize that neither of us was completely at fault, perhaps finding some way to bring hope to the situation.

Having a baby with – I’m not going with the obvious answer here, because I imagine she’s suffered enough with the five she’s already had. I’ll go with Biden.

Robbing a convenience store with – Here’s where Palin becomes an even more obvious choice. Even if we were caught in full-face color by a security camera, she could claim it was sexist to imply she’d engage in such illegal activity.

Serving as your bagboy at the grocery store – I’d definitely go with McCain here. You know how nice it is when you occasionally get a chatty old retiree instead of a sullen teenager asking your plastic or paper preference? They’re so cute.

Being seated at Applebee’s by – I know I would not choose Palin. How could you trust her when she’d say the salad bar was included as part of all the entrees? When your server told you otherwise and you asked her to intervene, she’d just say change her story and say how she’s against handouts.

Taking your order at a fast-food drive-through window – Seems like Obama would have pretty good hearing to decipher your order through the static, if ear size is any indicator. I don’t trust cheap electronics enough to count on my order being successfully translated by both the restaurant’s microphone and McCain’s hearing aid.

Borrowing a Vicodin from – I somehow suspect Palin tends to hold on to all the mood-altering prescriptions she can get her hands on. McCain probably has a lifetime full of leftovers in the medicine cabinets of his seven homes, so I’d ask him.

Car-pooling with – Obama. Even if he drove on Friday, I could pretend it’s still his turn on Monday and I think he’d just be a nice guy about it and drive twice in a row.

Getting your review at work from – That’s a tough one, since the last time we got reviews at my company was 2004. So I guess I’d go with Kerry.

Coming to your house to fix your cable – Definitely not McCain nor Palin, since I imagine both subscribe to the Ted Stevens theory of how anything high-tech involves a series of tubes. Obama is slim and always seems to be wearing a good sturdy belt, so I think he’d offer the best chance of avoiding those embarrassing waistband malfunctions.

Answering your tech question from a call center in India – Palin, since Alaska is so close to Asia.

Being carjacked by – Definitely Palin. I’ve heard your best chance to safely escape such a horrifying scenario is to take the chance of running away immediately, but I think Palin would show such an impressive display of firepower that you’d resist this probably foolish option and volunteer to lock yourself in the trunk.

Officiating at your child’s peewee football game – Definitely not McCain, unless you’re interested in a defensive battle, since he can’t raise his arms high enough to indicate a touchdown.

Having your teeth cleaned by – Definitely Obama. He has such a nice smile and seems like he’d pretend to be interested in what you have planned for the upcoming weekend.

Discussing whether or not fruit is ripe at grocery store – Palin. She’d get my vote for any question that included the words “fruit” and “ripe”.

Pet sitting your cats – Biden seems pretty reliable for any chore requiring responsibility and feces disposal.

Playing "Rock Band" with – I’m not sure any of them keep up with that kind of music. Isn’t McCain into Abba? Could you play that with “Rock Band” or would your Xbox just explode?

Doing a New York Times crossword puzzle with – Obama, what a Harvard-educated brainiac.

Doing a TV Guide crossword puzzle with – Palin, the regular gal (three-letters: “slang for girl”).

Being elected a leader of the world’s oldest democracy, a refuge for the dreams of all freedom-loving men and women, regardless of their religion or social status – the greeter at Wal-Mart. Seems like they have such good communications skills.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

The follow-through contagion

Well it’s another day of turmoil on Wall Street, and you can’t help but wonder who’s in charge here? The way that we’ve seen investment banks and related entities crash and burn in recent days tells us that something is fundamentally wrong with the American financial system. I tend to think the problem is spread not only throughout this one sector, but exists in a large number of other corporations. At least if my company is any indication.

As I’ve written before, I work for a financial services firm whose clients include (included?) the likes of Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers and Bear Stearns. I guess that explains in part why I’m now working a four-day week with no overtime. Though we still seemed to be afloat as of 2 p.m. yesterday afternoon – at least those of us who have yet to be “workforce-reduced” – you have to wonder exactly how we’ve managed to survive with the irresponsibility and lack of follow-through that we see on a daily basis. If this micro-view is any reflection of the macro-view, I can see why government bailouts have replaced synergy as the new strategy du jour.

We’ve had I don’t know how many initiatives begun in the last few years that have been abandoned faster than you can ask “what does that acronym stand for again?” Teamwork and quality and efficiency and problem-solving and cost-containment have all been embraced and deserted like so many Jessica Simpsons. “This is not just the latest corporate trend,” we’re told at each new roll-out, “but it’s a whole new way that we’re running our business.” You mean, like, into the ground?

My manager has done a heck of a job of “walking the talk”, as they say. (Or is it “talking the walk”? I always get those confused). Anyway, she’s made more unkept promises than I can list with a bandolier of bullet points. When our training department was re-engineered into non-existence, we were told there’d be a dinner to celebrate our accomplishments – never happened. When I was asked to help several other departments with projects that would increase my value to the company – never happened. When I found an error that saved a client significant embarrassment, I was told I’d get a Starbucks gift card – never happened. (OK, maybe I presumed too much on that last one. She asked if I would use a Starbucks gift card if I were given one, so maybe I read too much into it).

This is sounding more and more like the bitter screed that I didn’t really intend. There’s actually a good side to this corporate amnesia, at least for me if not for our clients and shareholders. If you’re asked to pursue a distasteful project, you can usually avoid it entirely if you just wait it out long enough. Another manager asked me a few months ago to conduct some assessments on people I’ve trained to see if they actually learned anything. I printed out the paperwork, organized it into nice neat piles and fully intended to follow-through with my ex-students but, you know, stuff happens, and I never quite got around to it. Another trick is to do the assignment, but just do it poorly. “You wanted it done AND you wanted it done correctly? Nobody spelled that out for me.” As you can see, I respond well to leadership.

Occasionally, though, this technique can backfire, even in those rare cases where it’s pursued with honest intentions. I was asked by a supervisor to maintain a display board showing examples of our errors so that people could see these and be uplifted to do better as they headed to the bathroom. (Just like my cat is uplifted not to chew into the bread bag when I tap him on the snoot). I kept up the board for several months, despite the fact that I never once saw anyone reading it even though my desk was positioned so I had to stare at it all day. I sent the supervisor several e-mails with ideas on how to make it more interesting, none of which were responded to. I took this as an indication that the project had slipped into the sleep mode that everything else seems to eventually arrive at, and dropped the project. Imagine my pretend shock when I was later confronted with this neglect of duty. It’s like there was still a municipal code on the books from 1913 that banned snakes from carrying parasols in the presence of children of a tender age -- “Are we still doing that?”

There’s also this remnant of collective decision-making called the “Quality Task Force” that shows a different perspective of our reluctance to make definitive decisions. The QTF has been renamed twice, published a self-promoting newsletter and even had a logo designed and still it doesn’t seem to be able to get even the simplest of tasks forced. In place of the malaise of a single individual, the force relies on the indecision that comes when you put a group of people together and give them equal voice but no direction and no authority and no impetus to act definitively. This leads to cases like the question e-mailed last week to the team. Everyone offered their different opinion for several days until interest petered out and the original questioner was left to wonder “huh?”

I guess in a way it all boils down to what’s motivating people to do what they do in the corporate environment. We like to say things like “the customer comes first” and “everything for the shareholders” but in reality we do things for only about three different reasons: our boss told us to do it, it was fun to do, or it made time pass more quickly. If instead it’s some sort of perverse obligation we feel toward the well-being of our stakeholders, there always seems to be a good reason to get distracted by some shinier object.

Of course, with the economy in the shape it is right now, I couldn’t provide customer service if I wanted to. You have to have actual work from actual paying clients to do that. The most service I could provide right now would be to graciously direct the brothers Lehman to the nearest building ledge.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Why I like TV

I grew up, like most men my age, as a big fan of television. One of my earliest memories is preparing to go to school each morning so I’d have enough time to watch reruns of “The Three Stooges”. I was on the kiddies’ show “Skipper Chuck’s Popeye Playhouse”; I’m told that when the Skipper threw the floor open to an on-air question-and-answer segment, I asked “Can I go to the bathroom?”. I was a huge fan of the country-humor genre best represented by the likes of “Green Acres” and “The Beverly Hillbillies”, shows I defend to this day for their under-appreciated irony.

As I’ve grown into middle age, I find myself watching TV less and less. I’m not sure why, though I do believe my son’s monopoly of the widescreen we bought a year or so back plays a big part in what I’d otherwise call my maturation. He prefers shows like “Halo” and “Guitar Hero”, the plots of which I’m completely unable to comprehend, except that they require some really strange remote. My wife and I still manage to arrange some family TV time with a few shows we all like – “House”, “The Colbert Report” – but just as the proliferation of specialty cable channels has segmented audiences in general, we’ve developed our separate interests.

What seems to differentiate us the most these days though is our TV-viewing styles. Rob has that ability he shares with the rest of his generation for electronic multi-tasking, combining television with the Internet, text messaging, instant messaging, cell phone conversations, homework, petting his cats and annoying his mom. Laura is able to watch long movies in 5- or 10-minute segments while going about more productive activities. How she’s able to remember plot points from one segment to the next, while I can barely remember what show I’m watching during commercial breaks, is beyond me.

Maybe it’s because I’m not paying attention. Or rather, it’s because I’m paying attention on a whole different level than what she and others see. (Kind of like President Bush is paying attention to the nation on what can politely be called “a whole different level”). I suspect I share a trait with many other men who watch television for two different reasons. Sometimes I watch because the broadcast is interesting, and other times I prefer just to let the electrons fly and lull me into a state that closely resembles irreversible coma to the untrained eye.

Smarter people than I have labeled these two viewing styles as “lean forward” and “lean back”. The lean-forward style is used when you’re intently engaged with the monitor in front of you, whether it’s displaying the final minute of a tight football game or a particularly titillating spreadsheet. The lean-back style represents a more casual interface, like when you’re at work. Sometimes I really want to be paying attention to what’s on while at other times, it’s just the “on-ness” that matters.

And it’s hard for even me to predict which mode is going to seem more appropriate for any given TV-watching opportunity. There are many shows that sound good in theory and yet I find it difficult to get around to them. On my DVR right now, for example, are recent broadcasts I recorded including a documentary on 9/11, a high-definition portrayal of what it’s like to be imprisoned in India and six episodes of “Mad Men”. I often joke that what I need in order to get caught up on this backlog is a good case of spinal meningitis to put me on the couch for a couple of months. In one sense, though, I’ve got the feeling that recording the programs is basically equivalent to watching the programs, and that actually playing them out is overkill.

I think I could stay awake for most of these shows, assuming the meningitis wasn’t too crippling. If I have some real interest in a subject, if there’s any suspense or excitement or (especially) catastrophe at all, I don’t think I could fall asleep if I tried. Even the Weather Channel, notorious in households across the country for providing little more than background noise mixed with thunderstorm watches for states you’ve never heard of, can hold my interest if the subject is right. Blending the stupefying musical accompaniment to the hometown weather insert with features like “It Could Happen Tomorrow” – what if New York were struck with a hurricane, volcano and sandstorm at the same time? – is obviously brilliant programming.

But I have what I think is an even better idea, and I’m offering it here to any TV moguls who might’ve stumbled into the blogosphere. If we can have specialty channels devoted to such esoteric subjects as country music and home improvement projects, why not introduce The Sleep Channel to cable? You’d really need very little original programming; just the re-broadcast rights to already-existing shows that could be packaged and marketed as a sort of video Ambien. A typical line-up might include a painting with watercolors show, “Teletubbies”, another “Teletubbies”, any cooking show without Rachel Ray, public-access coverage of the city council, a cavalcade of security cameras, and Larry King “Live”, topped off with what you could call “The Black and White Hour”, featuring anything made in the days before color. Then for sweeps week, roll out the broadcast I couldn’t believe my good fortune to come across one recent lazy Saturday – it wasn’t just golf, it wasn’t just senior golf, it was a rerun of last year’s senior golf shown while this year’s tournament was being rain-delayed (complete with updates on when the weather might be clearing).

As I drifted off, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Or at least that’s what my wife thought.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

No thanks, mister

It’s probably a good indicator that technology has gone too far when it shows up in the bathroom.

I don’t think it makes me a Luddite to complain that the last innovation worth a crap was the invention of indoor plumbing and that every improvement since has been merely gilding the lily. There are certain basics that seem totally sufficient without the addition of electronic circuitry and motion-sensing equipment. There’s only one movement I need to be sensing when it comes to using the facilities (OK, maybe two); I find everything else that’s going on in the modern restroom to be distracting at best and embarrassing at worst.

The men’s room at my office recently received such an unnecessary upgrade. You can’t help but wonder about corporate priorities when our workweek is cut to four days and we haven’t had a raise in ages, and yet somewhere there’s a budget line item that pays for urinals that no longer require manual flushing. These appeared one recent Monday morning and caused quite a stir. I hadn’t noticed the innovation when I stepped up to do my business and was more than a little startled to find that a certain requisite shaking had set off rushing waters before I even had the chance to step away.

I think what bothered me more than the wasteful spending (pun intended) was the presumptuousness of management that flushing was necessarily the next logical step in the process. I admit it’s hard to come up with other realistic scenarios, but still I wanted to make the decision myself to reach up and depress the lever which would dispatch the urine. We already have enough standard process steps that don’t require any thought or creativity at work as it is.

I resented this further incursion into my decision-making. If it’s meant as a labor-saving device, I can frankly use the exercise. If it’s for sanitation sake, I still don’t see the justification. While I’ve always found it gross to allow my pee to mingle with the pee of some previous user, I know there are those whose respect for our natural resources might offset such squeamishness.

On my next several trips to the urinal, I brought along a sticky note to cover the motion sensor, allowing me to walk away and flush when I was damn well ready. Plus, it made me feel better that there wasn’t some person watching via the Internet in some business support services operation halfway around the world who was actually triggering the flush. I’ve never quite understood how motion-sensing works, so I can’t dismiss this other possibility in our increasingly globalized economy.

The next innovation to appear was not exactly as ground-breaking, since it’s been employed in gas stations around the country for the last twenty years. But when we got our hot-air hands-drying blower, it was installed under the guise of concern for the environment. “Save a tree” implored the home-made sign that urged us to forsake the paper towels. Now I’m all for environmental preservation but I just don’t see how my use four or five times a day of the flimsy sheets they give us is going to make much difference. Especially when these high-powered heat-belchers sound like they’re wasting as much energy as my lawnmower and take about as long to dry my hands as my mower takes to start.

The last upgrade we got came just a few weeks ago in the form of the scent-mister installed just above the urinal that periodically sprays some sort of antiseptic essence down a short tube and into the bowl. It’s not a motion-sensing device (nor an odor-sensing device as near as I can tell) but instead apparently works from an internal timer. So I guess the good thing about it is that you can’t take its activation as a commentary on the quality of your waste. But the down side is that the timer makes the scenting so unpredictable that the little “squeak-whoosh” it emits can scare you off your aim. It’s a pretty nice smell though – one of my coworkers said he might stop bothering to buy cologne altogether and just stick his wrists under the tube.

The final straw, I think, will be one of those motion-sensing spigots on the sink – the kind that require you to wave your hands around like some sort of airport tarmac guy in order to get any water. You’re never quite sure where the rays are coming from, so I’ve just gotten in the habit of dancing frantically in front of the sink when I encounter one of these (those Boomers who remember “doing the Freddy” with the sixties band Freddy and the Dreamers will have some idea of what my efforts resemble). It’s a bit embarrassing if someone else emerges from a stall during this display, especially if that someone is a Republican senator, but what else can you do? We Fifty-Somethings have to adapt to a modern world.

Even though I was perfectly happy with the status quo before this plumbing revolution started a few years ago, there are a couple of inventions I wouldn’t mind seeing in the next wave. One would be some kind of indicator that the urinal is currently in use for those entering our men’s room at work. The single stand-up unit is positioned around a tight corner past the last sit-down stall, and if you don’t know it’s in use – especially if your mission is urgent – you may find yourself running into the back of the current occupant. Not the kind of surprise back-door action you want to inflict on your unsuspecting manager.

The other thing I’d like to see is some sort of microwave device directed at my prostate that would get me out of this brave new world faster than the 8 to 10 minutes it’s currently taking.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Hanging out at Panera

I was originally going to write this morning about the phenomenon of cafes, bakeries and coffee shops being transformed into mobile offices for today’s laptop-toting entrepreneurs. While doing some second-shift training last week, I was one of these latter-day squatters as I killed time between shifts at the Panera around the corner from my office. Clustered around the nearest electrical outlet like our ancestors in the cold prehistoric night hugged the nearest campfire, we sit tap-tap-tapping, oblivious to the genuine customers who give us the occasional nasty look as we nurse a single coffee with our paperwork spread over at least six table spaces.

I usually prefer to be the one giving the resentful glances rather than the one receiving. I was especially perturbed several months back when some sort of real-estate sales force regularly took over the whole back half of this particular cafe. Unlike those who work alone on their databases and spreadsheets, disturbing their neighbors only occasionally with forced-cheery cell calls to would-be clients, this group held actual full-blown meetings, complete with flip charts and loud announcements. At one point, the guy in charge of the group noted that sales were declining with quarterly targets right around the corner, and you can tell some of this group isn’t working their hardest, as I can tell by you, Bill, not wearing your tie, and if it’s in your car why don’t we all wait while you just go get it?

Talk about a big smear of humiliation with your cinnamon crunch bagel.

As I said at the beginning, I was originally going to write about this caffeine-addled new-economy workforce by visiting a similar Panera nearer my suburban home. I was going to walk around the room, looking over the shoulder of each of these workers, trying to get a sense of their place in the business world so I could make fun of them. But there’s just not as much to choose from in the suburbs as there is in the city.

When I first arrived about a half-hour ago, the only business types were a guy backed into a corner so no one could see what he was working on (porn or, equally embarrassing, talking points for an upcoming sales call) and another guy talking on his cell. Everybody else in the restaurant – probably 20 people or so – were obvious retirees who had turned this location into their senior center. They are literally gathered around the fire(place) in the center of the room, most clutching sweaters to their chests and complaining to management, “What is this, a meat packinghouse? It’s so cold in here.”

Finally a few other laptop slaves trickle in, nervously glancing about for those precious seating locations near the electrical outlets. At the in-town location I visited last week, great tangles of wiring were spread about the floor as people tried the ol’ electronic reach-around to tap into the precious and not-coincidentally free power. The etiquette of this social group apparently requires a polite request if you want to share the plug-in with a stranger -- as if it were some potentially grievous breach of sexual space -- but it’s also OK if you can slip your prongs in without having to ask. And God forbid if you should accidentally unplug your neighbor’s cord when you intended to disconnect your own. This premature withdrawal is NOT the kind that is appreciated.

Now a guy has sit down next to me, just beyond a low wall that separates my table from his. I can tell he’s eyeing my power source, and before I know it he’s hooked in without even the slightest attempt to get to know me. The cad! I guess he thinks the wall represents some kind of bathroom stall separator which makes an anonymous encounter possible. Before I know it he’s tapping away and munching on his artichoke-and-cheese quiche and sucking down both orange juice and coffee. So, he’s not only a bounder, but he’s also setting a bad example for the rest of us cheapskates by actually purchasing something with a profit margin. After a few more minutes, I hear a commotion behind the wall and see him rise and walk over to one of the bakery workers. Seems he’s spilled his quiche onto the floor and wants some help cleaning it up. Sorry, Panera, there goes your margin.

If I haven’t mentioned it already, I was originally going to write about… oh, sorry; seems like my initial intentions have panned out after all. The seniors have gathered up their caps and gloves to head out into the elements – it’s still pushing 85 here in the South despite the fact it’s mid-September, and they do have to get to their cars without freezing – and what looks like the mid-morning brunch crowd is starting to trickle in. One lady has just come to pick up a large tray of sandwiches for the luncheon meeting at her office – there are companies that still have the budget for that kind of thing? We once got a box of donuts for working Easter Sunday.

Well, I guess I’ve occupied valuable retail space long enough without making a significant contribution to this establishment’s bottom line. Let me grab a few free samples of the cherry vanilla scone, pick up a discarded USA Today from the rack on the side of the trash can, and check the stock market (or what’s left of it) on the free wi-fi . Yikes, the Lehman meltdown has pushed the Dow down over 300 points, sure to help the job security at my financial services firm when and if I return to work tomorrow.

I guess if I did lose my job and end up out on the streets, I know that Panera will take me and my laptop in.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

Sarah Palin Chronicles

This whole Sarah Palin thing has me in a bit of a snit. As a white middle-aged male, I’m supposed to go for these Republican ideals that care so much about my demographic and so little about everyone else’s. But then I’d be upset that we’re talking about a mother daring to leave her home and family behind while she joins the workforce. But then I’d be happy that she’s a fundamentalist Christian who believes in the right to life for everyone except maybe caribou. But then I’d be unhappy that she has a pregnant teenage daughter whose baby-daddy calls himself a bad-ass redneck. Wait, I’m supposed to like that last part.

As I say, it’s all a little confusing.

She’s a paradox who’s not fitting well into traditional American preconceptions. As the GILF who could become the nation’s first VILF, the former beauty queen may be spearheading reforms in the corrupt wilds of Alaska (who knew?) and asking for more change than the homeless panhandler outside McDonald’s. Yet she backs the soon-to-fail policies of John McCain who backs the already-failed policies of George W. Bush. She may have the cool glasses, the retro shoes and the ensemble that’s a perfect antidote to Hillary’s pantsuits, but who knows what’s underneath? (The image, I mean, not the clothes).

In order to find out more about her, I’ve been granted the first fake interview to appear on a blog. What follows was fabricated in the wake of the Charlie Gibson interview and attempts to get her thoughts on the issues of the day without thuggish attempts at the “gotcha” journalism of questions like “Do you support the Bush Doctrine?”. So let’s lock and load with Sarah.

What IS the Bush Doctrine?
“We’re very proud of our bush pilots here in Alaska and as governor I fully support their efforts to bring doctorin’ to the remote areas of our state.”

Can you tell us your idea of a practical exit strategy for leaving Iraq?
“As you know, one of my sons has just shipped out to Iraq so this is something that hits me on a very personal level, so much so that I’ve actually had to think about it. I believe our exit strategy should involve having our brave troops eventually climb onto to some very large airplanes and flying the heck out of there.”

What would you do to address the nuclear ambitions of Iran?
“If that’s a different country from Iraq, I would say we need to squash those ambitions. If it’s the same one, then I guess I would reconsider the squashing.”

Bringing the nations of the former Eastern Bloc into NATO seems like a risky strategy for the West. Would you agree?
(Chuckles) “Well, as we hockey moms say, it just increases the deterrence against a preemptive first strike by the Soviet Union.”

The Soviet Union was dissolved almost 20 years ago. Do you mean Russia?
“Right, Russia. As governor of Alaska, you know I’m just across the Bering land bridge from Russia and, let me tell you mister, I’m keeping my eye on them.”

The Bering land bridge? That existed tens of thousands of years ago. That implies you don’t believe the Earth was created by God only 4,000 years ago.
“I pray to God every day to give me the wisdom to figure out where we should lay oil pipelines. And how to explain why people look so much like the great apes and yet are completely unrelated to them.”

What? Never mind, let’s move onto energy policy since you brought that up. Would you consider a military option to protect the natural gas supply going through Georgia?
“Georgia? Is that one of my children? I know this little one I’ve got here in my arms has quite a natural gas supply all his own. Don’t you, sweetie?”

Governor, can you put all the babies down for a minute so we can talk about Putin?
“I was talking about pootin’”.

Okay, well how about the economy then. How do you see the mortgage crisis shaking out?
“As we pit bulls say, the best way to get water out of your fur is to shake it out. I believe the same principle would apply to the mortgage crisis, and I would reserve the right to put unemployment in my powerful jaws and clamp down until we see figures closer to 5.2 or 5.3 percent.”

And what about the status of the dollar?
“I prefer the twenty.”

Right. Well let’s turn now to the government’s recent poor performance addressing domestic needs. I’m thinking about the response to Hurricane Katrina, the Minneapolis bridge collapse, and other evidence that our support system and infrastructure are crumbling.
"Oh, I know all about crumbling infrastructure. There are these glaciers throughout Alaska that are just falling apart. As governor, I’m diverting some of that Bridge to Nowhere money so we can build reinforcing scaffolding to hold those glaciers in place.”

But I thought you said “no” to the Bridge to Nowhere?
“Well first I said ‘yes’, and then I said ‘no’, and then I said ‘maybe’ and finally, ‘we’ll see’. That’s a strategy I use a lot with my large family – makes the kids think there’s a chance their mom is going to do something with them, but doesn’t really commit to it. I thought it would work with the media too, but they apparently take notes, which my kids never did.”

Speaking of the melting glaciers, you’ve denied that human activity has had an impact on global warming. Do you still stand by that assertion?
“Oh, I know all about human activity. You should get a look at what goes on around my dining room table at home when I’m serving up one of my famous polar bear casseroles. Those kids are just a blur when they’re hungry. Sledge and Turbo and Grill and Storm and Hemlock have become such strong individuals because of my hearty cooking.”

Well speaking of “American Gladiator,” what do you do for entertainment , for fun? I mean besides the gunplay.
“What gives me the most pleasure and satisfaction these days is knowing I might be getting the opportunity bring this great country together -- to cover the scars of the last few years with the makeup of hope, to bring the potential of our people to the forefront with the eyeliner of strength, to attract sustainable prosperity with the lipstick of a dynamic economy. And it’s through the designer eyeglasses of democracy that I see this country regaining its justly deserved preeminence in the world.”

Thank you, governor.

Friday, September 12, 2008

My history with outsourcing

Today at work was one of the worst yet, if I wanted to feel like I’m making any kind of contribution. There’s a stamp that I use to record my work on each page of the documents we process, and I didn’t use that stamp a single time over the course of the nine-hour shift. I did, however, solve a very difficult crossword puzzle and manage to come in second in the lottery we hold each day to see how late our production coordinator will be. So there’s that.

It might be a good point to discuss how my office got itself into this position, and the special part I was able to play in what’s looking more and more like our eventual demise. It’s all about “outsourcing”, which later became “right-sourcing” and then “offshoring” before it finally turned into “international”.

In 2002, a meeting was held in which the plan was laid out for us. The more straightforward parts of our workload would be sent to India while our higher skill level was to be used on the challenging, specialized work. Outsourcing was just starting to be discussed in the news media and we listened with concern as it appeared to be showing up in our own backyard. It sure felt like the writing on the wall to me (actually they used a whiteboard) but I did perk up a bit when they said our branch would be responsible for training and bringing the Indian team on-line.

I’ve generally enjoyed my business travel experiences. Ever since I survived a week in the notorious Red Hook district of Brooklyn sorting books in a dilapidated warehouse, I’ve generally had an easy time on training and related visits around the country. But I had yet to do any international travel, and it was finally looking like I’d get my chance. Even if I were to eventually lose my job, I’d still have the experience of going to Asia.

My trip came in the summer of 2003. I was to spend three weeks in the city of Bangalore, one week on each shift, training the eager young workforce. I flew into Germany before connecting on to India on a 28-hour journey. Because I can barely sleep on an airplane, I arrived with a very special case of jet lag, compounded by the fact that our arrival time was 2 a.m. local. It’s not unsettling enough to find yourself halfway around the world for the first time; you also have to go through Indian immigration and customs with a wide-body full of travelers in the middle of the night. I emerged from the airport expecting to see my host holding my name on a sign, but instead was confronted by a sea of faces trying to spot their incoming families and/or desperately begging for handouts.

When I finally found Akshay, he led me to the driver who would take us to my hotel. Even at that early hour of the morning, the sights and sounds of the subcontinent were overpowering. Between the heat, the pollution, the traffic, the intense overcrowding and the profound poverty, it didn’t even feel like the same planet. But I did see some cool cows.

I had about a day and a half to get acclimated before I’d have to report to work. The office was right around the corner from the hotel in a complex that also held what the locals called a “mall” but what appeared to me as a warren of flea market stalls. To get there from the hotel, I had two options: cut through a traffic-choked alley that also served as the parking lot for hundreds of motorcycles belonging to the workforce, or venture out onto the street. I tried the street once before deciding that being struck by a scooter would be preferable to being hit by a taxi, then run over by a bus, then asphyxiated by an auto-rickshaw, then flipped into the poisonous river, then set upon by beggars.

The office was still in the process of being set up when I arrived the first Monday, so I was shunted to a small desk off to the side and given a single individual to present my carefully prepared training spiel. He and all the people I worked with were very friendly, accommodating and eager to learn, or at least I think that’s what they said. Their heavily accented English had me agreeing with stuff I had no idea they were talking about. I was further confused by the Indian custom of wagging the head from side to side as a way of saying “yes, I agree with you.” They need to cut that out – it’s very disconcerting.

By the third day I was still not sleeping well, I was growing tired of all the exotic atmosphere and I was starting to think I needed an exit strategy. Would I irrevocably damage my career and look like a total wuss if I arranged to return home immediately?

Fortunately, I got sick instead. The Indian doctor who came to my hotel room to treat my nausea gave me a pretty good once-over, and left two medicines I’d never heard of before. “Take two of this one every four hours and one of this one every six hours,” he instructed. Or something like that. I just did the math and split the difference, and for some reason got better.
Once I was back on my feet, the second week had arrived and I was supposed to be working with the second-shift crew. I made a brave effort with the unfamiliar evening hours; I kept telling myself it was actually day shift back in the U.S., but my self wasn’t convinced. When another group of trainers from the states arrived toward the end of that week, I greeted them like long-lost relatives. At least I had someone to commiserate with, though unfortunately they turned out to enjoy their trip immensely.

When the third week rolled around and my third-shift trainees waited to hear my presentation, I gave up all pretense of being flexible with my time. When 4 a.m. rolled around and I faced the prospect of another four hours of me wagging my tongue and them wagging their heads, I had to decide whether to brave the motorcycle alley in the dead of night or hang in there. I braved the night and dragged myself back to the hotel.

The end of my stay had finally arrived, and I was thrilled to be heading back to the U.S. I flew into Philadelphia and drove to my hotel on an unusually cool and sweet-smelling late summer day. (I guess you have to go half way around the world to consider Philadelphia sweet-smelling). I had several days of meetings at my northeast office before I could head home, but I was still glad to be back.

Now it’s five years later and the fruits of my labors training abroad have ripened, fallen to the ground and turned into a rotting mush that I can’t get off my shoes. I’ve definitely enjoyed the experience of working with the people I met; I’m just not too thrilled that I did such a good job that now my own job is threatened. Globalization has a way of sucking on a personal level while doing a lot of good at a much higher level. I’d just rather be seeing that broader picture from 30,000 feet on a business-class flight for a month of training in Paris – not too likely in the current business environment.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Warehousing my career

I had to cut through the warehouse at work today to use their men’s room while the white-collar facilities were being cleaned. I don’t mind this occasional mingling with the pickers and packers; in fact, it’s a good reminder of where I easily could be if not for a little education and a lot of luck. And if I run out of the luck sooner than later, as this economic downturn turns downer and downer, I could find myself working in a similar facility as I tread water toward retirement.

It’s an unpleasant job better-suited to younger and stronger backs than mine. Our warehouse workforce – comprised almost entirely of folks from a temporary agency – may spend as much as 12 hours a day on their feet, in summer heat tempered only by ear-shattering fans, selecting papers, packets and boxes from shelves and shoving them into things (mostly envelopes though occasionally into each other when a fight breaks out). I’ve spent some warehouse time sorting good materials from bad earlier in my career when I worked in the “quality” department, and I can tell you it’s exhausting work.

My comfortable air-conditioned and internet-equipped office is right next door to this huge, sweaty operation. When the warehouse doesn’t have work, the temps are simply told not to come in. When we have no work, as increasingly is the case, we get to worry about when it’s finally going to occur to management that we computer operators could probably pick and pack with the best of them.

It wouldn’t be unprecedented. During the previous recession, they even went so far as to buy us steel-toed shoes to have at the ready should we be needed in the Land of Pickpack. A few of us were actually called to duty. Somehow, I avoided the draft and my shoes sit unused in the locker we got about the same time, which I also don’t use. Even if we claimed to have lost the shoes this time around, they have these steel-toed booties on a large hanging shoerack for the occasional guests in the warehouse. There’s even a nice wooden park bench where you can sit while you put on your booties.

That bench is probably the homiest thing in the entire 50,000-square-foot expanse of industrially decorated interior space. Amidst the towering shelves, speeding forklifts and belly-high tables there winds a parallel set of yellow lines that represent the safety zone for those whose feet aren’t steel-encased. This is the path I was taking to the men’s room earlier today. Part of the pathway includes now-faded yellow block lettering that represented an earlier manager’s attempt to recognize exceptional work with a “walk of fame”. Each entry included the person’s name and the date that name was memorialized into the floor. We stopped doing this about six years ago, as someone finally realized there were few opportunities for excellence when it came to envelope-stuffing.

I stay mostly between the lines as I make my way around several corners on the way to the restroom/breakroom suite. (If I’m feeling a little peeved on a particular day, I might actually cut a corner or two, just to spite my corporate masters.) Along the way, I pass a small caged area that allows delivery men and the ever-changing temporary workforce to enter the building and page for assistance without compromising security. I’m always afraid someone will be caged there as I’m walking by and will call out to me for assistance. I’m not authorized to do anything to help them, and it’s just a little too tempting to want to throw peanuts at them and watch their antics. I keep my head down and hustle by the cage as quickly as possible.

When I finally get to the facilities, I find that it’s every bit as hygienic as the one I usually patronize. The main difference in the men’s room for the warehouse is that there’s a framed notice on the wall with bullet-pointed suggestions and rules of use. Most are the usual stuff you might expect – notify your supervisor if the toilet paper runs out, don’t let the sink area become too splattered with water, etc. – but one point instructs users “don’t put your feet on the wall”. Is that really a problem? What goes on in here? It never would’ve occurred to me to scuff the wall with my pathetic normal-toed shoes, but when I see this note, I can’t help but back up and give it a good scuff.

When their restroom is being cleaned and the picker/packers have to come use our facility, there’s always a great uproar especially from the women in my office about how our lavatory is abused. Of course I don’t see it, but I sure get to hear about it. “There are paper towels on the floor,” someone will say. “The flower vase on the sink was turned over,” notes another. Animals!

I think it’s just a knee-jerk resentment that represents a minor class struggle between the white collars and the blues. We don’t like it when they dare come onto our middle-class turf to pee into our bowls and put popcorn into our microwaves (or the other way around, to hear one person describe it). Some of the resentment may be deserved, I guess. They do have a nicer breakroom than we do, not to mention one additional vending machine and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the parking lot.

But I think it might be attributable to the online safety course we’re required to take because their manual labor jobs are in the same facility as our knowledge work. Once a year, we have to read through these improbably hilarious scenarios that spell out how to work safely, then take a multiple-choice exam at the end. (One favorite question is “Who should you notify before you enter an electrified or enclosed space? A. Your supervisor; B. the CEO; or C. your family”). If the exercise weren’t so laughable, you’d be tempted to haul out those steely boots and kick your computer monitor.

But I know where they’d send me if I tried that, so I’m staying out of the warehouse as much as I can.

Monday, September 8, 2008

Maintaining my religion

Well it’s Sunday and, especially here in the South, this is considered a day of rest. In fact we’re especially passionate about resting on the sabbath in my home county, going so far as to enact blue laws to require a certain level of tranquility (no alcohol-assisted leisure, for example). You will relax and you will enjoy it, as mandated per state statute 593.B(3)(a).

It’s actually not the rest and relaxation that’s so important to this God-fearing part of the country as another R&R – religion and repair. Now I thought I was raised a good Christian way back in the ‘50s and ‘60s when that meant something a little different than it does today. We went to church once a week, somehow enduring 30 minutes of Sunday school and an hour of formal church service in the tropical heat of south Florida, followed by a fellowship hour featuring the hot coffee so useful in replenishing our fluids. We threw in a Thursday evening of choir practice and the occasional potluck supper and it felt like we were seriously into Jesus. The most flamboyant I ever got was when, as an acolyte, I once got carried away lighting the altar candles and accidentally set the Easter lilies on fire. Fortunately, the baptismal font was nearby.

We could never compete though with the Southern Baptists here in the Bible Belt, who add in Wednesday night services, weekend-long retreats, letter-writing campaigns against progressives and group prayers before every gathering of more than a half-dozen people. We were Lutherans, a more staid denomination rooted in the sober background of the northeast and midwest. I attended the improbably-named Biscayne Boulevard Lutheran Church just up the street from the Orange Bowl parade and around the corner from the Playboy Club until my mid-teens. I was confirmed, whatever that means – my clearest memory now of classes in the pastor’s study was when I was scolded for cleaning my fingernails with the card-stock handout he had given us – but bailed shortly thereafter when my father began working overtime on Sundays and we no longer had transportation.

Lutheranism has gotten a certain reputation thanks to Garrison Keillor. However, I believe he’s glossed over one facet of the belief that stuck with me long after Nicene and Apostolic and Catechism had just become words that sounded like good Hollywood baby names. (Though I do fondly remember the benediction as extremely uplifting, as it came immediately following the sermon and meant we were almost done). To me, Lutheranism is the crystal meth of Protestantism. By that I mean it has made me feel that I can’t rest and relax until I’ve accomplished something, and even then I’m not so sure about it. I must keep working and working and accomplishing and accomplishing until I’m too exhausted to continue, and only then is it acceptable to collapse on the couch. This work ethic served me well during the years my job offered plenty of overtime, but it’s becoming a real handicap as the demand for our work ebbs and AARP solicitations start arriving in the mail.

Most homeowners in my situation are able to channel this need to achieve into their lawns, gardens or other home-improvement projects. My coworkers talk long and passionately about caulking and aerating and mulching and spackling, though I have only the vaguest idea of what these concepts involve. I’m sure I need at least some of them – my deck has loose boards, my edging woodposts are rotting to splinters and my gutters are flowering better than anything else on my property – but I’m not sure how caulking is supposed to fix this. I go to the home improvement store and buy a hot dog and a bag of ant killer, but for some reason that doesn’t help. When things get desperate enough, like when a dead tree is about to fall on my house or the air-conditioner stops conditioning air, I call a guy to come fix it. He pulls some fantastic dollar amount out of one of his impressive array of pockets and I pay it like the chump I am, rather than reveal my inability to ask an intelligent question about the project.

I’ve had to draw the line somewhere though, so I’ve managed to become pretty good at mowing the lawn. I know it’s not much, but it is one reliable way to get sweaty and dirty and bug-bitten like a respectable suburbanite. I know how to prime the engine and I can usually get the thing started after only several pulls of the rope. Maintenance-wise, I know you have to put gas in the gas tank thing and I understand there’s something about changing the oil every now and then, but fortunately it hasn’t come to that yet. Some things I’ve learned the hard way: don’t take it to the shop without checking the blades first to see that there’s no blockage of clippings (“heh, heh, I forgot all about that” I offered meekly); and don’t expect it to start in the spring if you haven’t run out the gas the previous fall. Oh yeah, and don’t reach underneath with your hand while the blades are running – I’m especially good at remembering that.

I’m working now on my second mowing season since our old yard guy apparently died (at least I guess that’s why he stopped showing up). I put on my special yard-mowing pants, my special hat and my old worn running shoes and I’m ready to crank about every other weekend. I thrill to the successful start, enjoy the mesmerizing zen of walking back and forth and back and forth across my patch of grass, then stand back and admire my work like a sculptor when I’m done. For that brief time, I’m exercising my domain over the earth and accomplishing something significant by reducing my blades of fescue from two inches down to a far-more-sane inch and a half. Then, and only then, I can rest peacefully.

I think Martin Luther would be proud of me.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Saturday musings

Today being Saturday, I’m going to resist the temptation to moan and groan about work and write instead about one of my favorite things: food. Or more specifically, the way food is served in restaurants.

Unlike most family men in their fifties, there are many evenings when I prefer to go out to eat rather than dine at home. Because of my perverse work schedule, which prompts me to have breakfast at 5, lunch at 10:30, and then be ready for dinner around 4, I’ve made it difficult for my wife to cook. She’s an excellent chef, but with her own work schedule is often unable to sympathize in a constructive manner with my mid-afternoon hunger.

So I’ve become something of a regular at restaurants and a student of the way they serve their food. And I have a few suggestions:

  • If you bill yourself as a fast-food establishment, the food should be served fast. Forget any pretense of quality; the faster the better. Cook it if you must, but c’mon -- let’s go, let’s go! Obviously, the drive-through is the best way to deliver this speed, and I’m glad to see these places putting more emphasis on the speaker-and-window than on the counter, which is typically staffed by poorly groomed statues. But it can still take as much as three or four minutes to get your meal this way, and that’s just not acceptable in the fast-paced 21st century. I consider a successful stop at the Wendy’s or McDonald’s to be one where I can pick up my order without having the wheels of my car come to a complete stop. But we could aspire to even more: how about a system where you beam your order and payment wirelessly from about a half-mile up the street, roll down your windows, then have the employees throw your food in as you drive by? They might have to super-size at their own expense to be sure you get a minimum quantity of nuggets (throw eight to make sure five get in, for example) and I can imagine there might be some health and safety concerns on the sun-baked asphalt of the delivery area. But I’d pay a little more for the convenience. And it’s not like there’s not already bags of discarded food all around these establishments.
    And speaking of trash, don’t make your garbage cans look so much like the speaker boxes. I’ve been embarrassed too many times already asking a swirl of flies for a Southwestern Salad with no bacon bits but extra cheese.
  • Counter service needs to be much more organized. You walk into these places and see people milling about. You can’t tell who’s in line to order, who’s just waiting for their order, and who’s returning inedible orders from the drive-through. When you do find the end of the correct line, you typically end up behind a gape-mouthed family staring blankly at the overhead menu, unable to understand the concept that having the turkey panini listed on the same line as the number “5.99” means that’s how much it costs. Then a cashier at an adjacent register asks if they can take the next order, and one of these morons breaks off from their group and ties up another line. There needs to be two clearly labeled lines: one marked “People who know what they want” and the other marked “Hello? Hello? You think you might want something to eat?”
  • Stepping up only slightly in class, I’d like to see a buffet restaurant where I feel cheated if I don’t eat like a stoned thoroughbred. I can’t enjoy the meal while trying to keep track of what my neighbors are managing to slam into their maws. (I can’t enjoy the meal anyway because it’s been moldering under a heat lamp since the Ford administration, but that’s another story). I had an uncle once who would show up for these things at the end of the lunch rush, eat his fill, read the Sunday paper, they chow down again at dinner time. That’s just not fair. I propose buffet restaurants have a weigh-in as customers arrive and as they depart, and charge them for the difference by the pound. I know figures could be skewed if someone uses the bathroom, though factoring that in is just too disgusting to manage.
  • If you’re eating at one of those so-called casual chains like “Applebee’s” or “Olive Garden” or “Thank God This Market Segment is Almost Bankrupt”, you don’t want to deal with a too-friendly wait staff. Please take my order without sitting down at my table, kneeling at my side, telling me your name or “taking care of me this evening”. A little more distance and a little less care, please. A chain in the South named “Fatz” – like I have to specify this is in the South – has installed a system that allows you to electronically buzz your waiter’s wrist bracelet when you want to request more tea. I think it’s a humane buzz with no more than minimal voltage, but it seems to work. And when the main course is ready to be served, don’t have it delivered by another waiter, then show up a minute or two later like you’ve received a battlefield promotion to head of the franchise and want to know how the food is. I haven’t had a chance to taste it yet; that’s how it is.


With Americans continuing to migrate more and more to outside-the-home dining, I think these are entirely reasonable suggestions. Someone kindly get on it right away. Thank you and come again.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Health insurance hell

Health insurance is one of the big reasons I’m sticking with my less-than-satisfying corporate job, but also one the big sources of discontent and frustration there. I found an old orientation manual from the 80’s a few weeks ago and marveled at one of the benefits described: “your health insurance premium is paid entirely by the company”. Times sure have changed.

Now we’re faced with ever-escalating premiums and ever-diminishing benefits. What was once free is now costing me in excess of $500 a month to cover myself, my wife and my teenage son. I could save money by opting for the “value” option – sort of like the dollar menu of healthcare – but it’s advised that only the young and the single consider this, since they probably won’t need a doctor anyway.

We received an email from the president a few weeks ago promising “exciting new changes” we’d be hearing more about in the coming sign-up season. “Exciting”, “new” and “changes” are not words you want to hear describing how your health insurance is going to be affected. It’s never going to be better; it’s only going to be worse.

Rising costs are disguised by two buzzwords they must’ve paid a fortune to marketing geniuses for -- “choice” and “consumerism”. The choice basically comes down to how much you want to spend and how much of a gamble you want to take that this year you’ll be able to stay out of the hospital. The consumerist angle talks about patients taking an active part in the decision-making related to their healthcare. You’re supposed to shop around to find the best doctors and medicines like you were picking grapefruit at the grocery store, even when you find yourself in desperate need of said grapefruit because you have a hole in your leg the size of a tangerine. (Sorry about the citrus metaphor, but I’m writing this piece in my grocery store’s cafĂ©).

“Ideally with this plan, you’ll take advantage of your annual physical to discuss all your concerns with your health-care provider,” advises the HR guy. “Then you can be set up for the year with the prescriptions you’ll need and be proactive about your wellness.” This is the same guy, incidentally, who is asked every year which option he finds right for his needs, and responds how he can’t really comment because everybody’s situation is different, but he gets his insurance through his wife’s work.

The free annual physical does have a catch, though. Any diagnostic procedure related to the physical is not necessary covered. My doctor advised me to have a colonoscopy when I entered my fifties, so one was scheduled with a nearby gastroenterologist and the local hospital. I talked to all parties concerned trying to get assurances that all costs would be paid, and felt like I had received these. The procedure was performed and shortly thereafter a bill for over $1,000 arrived. When I asked how this could be, I was told the procedure became curative rather than diagnostic when a small polyp was detected and removed. Had the examination and the snipping been done in two separate procedures, I could’ve had one of them covered. Or, I suppose I could’ve had the polyp reinstalled but this simply didn’t make sense.

Speaking of intrusive, the whole wellness thing had gotten increasingly in our face (again, not the best metaphor but I refuse to go lower) as the company tried to manage our medical needs. What started out as an opportunity to have our cholesterol and blood pressure checked in the breakroom by itinerant nurses progressed to quarterly phone calls to receive advice from the same call-center folks who care so much about our cell phone provider. It was bad enough having Joe from accounting hear about your LDL count while pondering his chip choice at the snack machine. But we had to opt for one of several preventive programs that required us to keep exercise logs, answer on-line screening questionnaires, and be scolded telephonically every three months to drink less Pepsi and more water.

Eventually even the corporate HR people realized this was becoming unmanageable when they saw how productivity fell the last day of each quarter as everyone scrambled to make up all the exercise they had done the preceding 90 days (“Hey, look at this– you can count yard work and house cleaning!”).

They eliminated these periodic inquisitions about the same time the next gimmick came along, the Health Savings Account, or HSA. Under this plan, you got a portion of your money back in the form of monthly funding that went into a special account to pay expenses not otherwise covered by insurance. Oddly, this struck me as something of a good idea the first year I tried it, when we got $1500 contributed annually by the company. When it dropped to $1300 the next year, I grumbled but decided to stick with it. At last year’s meeting, the overview went quickly past this part, mentioning that because the program had proven so popular, it was now down to $100. “You mean $100 a month, right?” I asked. “No, that’s for the whole year”. So my freedom of choice had come down to whether I did or did not want to get $1200 a year less. Not surprisingly, I opted out of the HSA for the more-expensive PPO offering, where you go online and hope that your doctor of 25 years is in fact a “preferred provider”.

I’m now reading over this year’s annual enrollment material, trying to prep myself for the potentially life-altering decisions I’m going to make for myself and my family. Hmm, guess I don’t want the HSA again, seeing as how the handy grid shows “who contributes to this account” appears to be “you only”. But there’s a new acronym this year – the HRA, or Health Reimbursement Account. I’ll have to hear more about that one, to see what loopholes are in there.

Regardless of my choice, I’m receiving assurance in the first paragraph of these medical options at a glance of a “unique promise” (uh-oh) the company is making to employees. “We promise to hold the line on employee contributions in 2010 for those who re-enroll in a comparable medical option” to what they sign up for in 2009. In other words, if you agree to pay what will definitely be more for benefits in 2009, you won’t have to pay even more still the next year, as long as you forego your freedom of choice.

Where do I sign up? (Probably in the breakroom).

Thursday, September 4, 2008

It's a new age in corporate America

One of the advantages of a reduction in non-value-added activities during the economic downturn is my company’s cutback of training initiatives. It might be surprising to hear this from a trainer, but I’m writing from the perspective of one who has to sit through someone else’s training, not as the one delivering the training. Being a trainer is fun and fulfilling because you get to tell other people what to do and what to think. Sitting on the other end of the equation as the trainee can be very unnerving, especially when the message being delivered is corporate psycho-babble.

The training I deliver is information about skills that are actually used to produce a product. The other variety, which has appeared in several mutations during my nearly 30 years in the business, deals more with human interaction and motivation. It’s not how to make a widget, it’s how to think, feel and dream about making a widget.

Some examples from a checkered career:
  • During the recession of the early 90’s, the company “right-sized” by cutting about 5% of the workforce at the particular location I was working. This included the two inspectors who worked for me in what we called the “quality assurance department”, but what was actually an abandoned though still sizzling electrical closet where we picked through boxes of printed material until we found unmarred samples. The new corporate “Way”, as it was called, was to build quality into products instead of tacking it on with inspection at the end. Sounds good enough, but combining a layoff with this new Way’s acronym – Focus on Innovation, Reliability and Excellence, or FIRE – was an unfortunate combination, especially for those who were in fact being fired. We had a suggestion program called SPARKS (I’ve forgotten that convoluted acronym) that included stuff like “let’s get new water coolers ”, quality-improvement teams that spent most their time enforcing the hare-brained paperwork they came up with, and a chili cook-off. The best legacy I have of that effort is a pretty cool t-shirt.
  • Around the mid-90’s, as the economy had recovered, the FIRE facilitation team was sent on a weeklong trip to Washington to learn how to be ISO auditors. ISO, as some may recall, was a certification program that basically required companies to document their processes and prove to an outside auditor that they followed these processes. We were learning to be these outside auditors, even though we’d be auditing on the inside. The rigorous 14-hour-a-day sessions were conducted by Lloyd’s of London, who had given my company a reduced rate to fill up the final three spots in this particular class. We were harangued with British accents for four days, then put through a practice scenario where we had to audit our trainers (who “pretended” to be the uncooperative subject company), then given a final exam. We were informed by mail about a month after the training was done that all three of us hadn’t even come close to passing the course.
  • About six years ago, the entire plant was put through “5S” training. This was another corporate fad based on the Japanese theory that a clean and well-organized workplace was a productive and well-run workplace. I can’t even recall what the 5 S’s stood for now; maybe sort, sweep, standardize, sabotage and sing? But what it boiled down to was basically a spring cleaning project on steroids with a label-maker. Nothing was allowed to take up precious workspace unless it existed at all work stations and could be clearly identified. Thus, we went around the office putting labels on things like “staplers” and “pencils” and “white-out” and “paper clip dispensers”. Cleaning out long-neglected drawers, someone found a cache of sweet-and-sour sauce, which triggered a debate about whether to create a “condiments” label or simply to throw it out. The height of this lunacy came at the end of each shift, when the kind of high-energy disco music you hear at NBA games would be blasted across the room as everyone stood up, grabbed a bottle of Windex, and began wiping down all available surfaces. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for the company to hire janitors and train them to be document processors than the other way around?” commented one cynic.
  • The silliest and most recent experience, which took place about four years ago, was called “Foundations” training. I still have the workbook from this two-day offsite jerk-a-thon that claimed to be “transforming the business” with the bright idea to “be here now” while you were working. Mixed among vaguely appropriate quotes from the likes of Socrates, Galileo, Albert Szent-Gyorgyi, Mihaly Csikszentmihaly and Willie Mays (?!) were the variety of typical encounter group exercises I hadn’t done since freshman orientation at college in 1971. There was a testing and categorization of personality types, something called the “broken squares game”, and a listing of the qualities of a good leader (I wrote “patience” in my workbook) versus a bad leader (“impatience”). But the overriding theme throughout was this need to “be here now” or, as the workbook put it “Be Here Now™”. My notes in the final exercise of the second day – called “insights and action steps” – reveal the depths of bitterness to which I had sunk:
    --“I will assume good intent”
    --“I will look at situations from different perspectives”
    --“I will be here now”
    --“I will be someplace else later”
    --“Next week I will be on vacation”
    --“Tomorrow, I will be here now, but it won’t be now, it will be then”
    --“The ‘now’ is all we have now; later, we will have the ‘later’”
    --“I will be here now even if I’m laid-off later”
    And finally, to the strains of tinkling new-age music, I referenced the “broken squares game”: “The broken squares can be equated to the broken lives we lived before Foundations training”.

In the corporate world of the early 21st century, it was all in a day’s work, or lack thereof.