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Life on the Outside

Just got off my high and mighty horse this morning with a thought I had while reading Re-Imagine (I always generate thoughts while reading Tom Peters).

Tom was bemoaning the current cluster of top dogs in Corporate America. Not all of them, just the wusses. The ones who claim that they want to hear it straight and then receive watered-down, polite Power Point presentations from their lieutenants and still balk because an adjective or bullet point was too deviant from the presupposed path. People afraid of losing power.

Peters' advice for these people, "Hit 'em over the head with 50 Brickbats." I'm not one to condone violence, but I understand. Maybe a physical jolt will knock some of the crust off these people. This is a sign of being in control for too long, and not paying attention to some serious shifts in the world. Success does not come to those who are right, but to those who "get it" quickly.

What is "It"? "It" is the truth, separate from one's own needs for affirmation or adoration. The leaders who "get it" will understand that the glory comes from outside oneself. From what others are telling them at all levels of the organization, provided those sources are authentic. The secret to success in business is not creating and then convincing everyone of your agenda, it's in finding "It" and facilitating others in discovering it as well.

I find it perplexing that President Bush uses Kerry's change of mind over funding the invasion of Iraq as a sign of his weakness as a leader. What's worse, finding out the truth and changing course, or finding out the truth and pretending that you're still right? Via the latter choice, more people die, more resources are wasted. Bush calls it staying the course. I call it being a crusty, grumpy leader who doesn't get it.

All Work and No Play Makes Jane a Permanent Middle Manager

I just read Seth Godin’s manifesto “Do Less.” I must admit, the title intrigued me. I’ve made it my business throughout my life to do more than was required. Just imagine how pissed off I was to learn that doing more than your share often leads to nothing more than disillusionment and deep, subconscious fatigue. People like me don’t realize how tired they are.

I’m from the Midwest; a background that has provided me with a great excuse for my outrageously stupid work ethic. I’ve always been the person who says: “Shucks, guess I’ll do that data entry.” “Sure, just leave it on my desk and I’ll get to it next.” Or, “That’s OK, I’ll just finish it on Saturday.”

My delegation skills were non-existent. I once hired an assistant who balked at the things I asked her to do; I figured I must have asked her to do tasks that were not appropriate, so I did them myself. She, on the other hand, got to go on research trips and to create fun new features for our publication. When I asked her what she thought she should be doing she told me, whatever would get her on the path to a promotion (she’d been with the company for three weeks).

A co-worker took me to the side and said, not-so-subtly, “That chick is running rampant over you. You really need to put her in her place.”

I realized that I had been overcompensating for jobs that I’d had where I vowed never to be an uncompassionate, overbearing boss. I also realized that I didn’t know how NOT to slice and dice everything that was thrown at me like a human Cuisinart. Everything—from the piddliest of return calls to career-defining business proposals--were processed, no questions asked. The painful truth was that I was giving my assistant my job. At least she knew what she wanted to get from the work she put in. I only knew that the work—good, bad, or senseless—would get done.

Entertainment Provided by California Public Transit

From the woman driving the TransBay route this evening (and this isn't an Urban Myth; I was actually ON the bus):

"Excuse me, passengers. For those of you who just heard the exchange between me any my supervisor, with whom I was just speaking on the radio, please let me apologize for his rudeness. He shouldn't have yelled at me or said what he did. He was having a moment.

I assure you that I will talk with him about his behavior, in case any of you were wondering or were offended by him."

Minutes later, as the bus driver took too wide a turn onto a busy street and had to back up--to the dismay of oncoming traffic--in order to complete the turn:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please note that this is the result of being yelled at by your supervisor--very low coordination."

A Worthwhile Endeavor

I just got my copy of Worthwhile magazine this weekend. I must admit I wasn't sure what to expect--most fledgling, non-Time-Inc-backed business magazines have the best of anti-establishment intentions, but about as much insight as a Playbill, and they’re stuffed with vapid stock photography more suitable for a Macy’s Sunday circular (White, Nordic female in gray power suit? Check. African American male in pinstripes? Check. Asian woman in twin set? Check….)

For those of you who are still stuck between Fast Company and Esquire for your dose of work/life perspective, you finally have your rag to read and virtual podium from which to rant (Worthwhile has a very thought provoking blog as well).

I'm happy to report that Worthwhile passes my litmus test--smart, but optimistic, not too much acidity, but also not too base. The writers and editors assume you've done your homework; don't bother reading if you aren't aware of current events or widespread business and management trends. With two Wall Street Journal veterans at the helm, you can be assured that you aren't reading rehashed press releases or USA Today’s take on the outsourcing crisis.

Embracing the Other Woman, Part II

I used to have a tougher time meeting women than men. I'm not sure why. When meeting a woman I could hear the sound of my voice getting higher and more saccharin; I'd feel compelled to shrink a bit. Men, on the other hand, tend to "pump up" upon meeting someone else with a Y chromosome. They stand taller, deepen their voices, and their handshakes seem like brief arm-wrestling matches. No man would greet another man with a limp handshake.

First-time meetings always flowed better with men, and not always because they were potential date material. Men are somewhat in awe of women; you feel a headiness, a power around them that you can play to the hilt. Around women, however, this power is seen as offensive--like wearing lingerie to your gynie appointment, like overkill. These people know the deal, that you have fat days, that you get gas, that you weren't born smelling like Chanel.

Thanking the Little People

Many thanks to Armand, who agreed to watch my stuff while I took a bio break at the Starbucks on Third and 23rd in Manhattan. He looked like he had much more important stuff to do besides watching my laptop and iPod, but, you know, when nature calls...

I have no proof that Armand would have actually done anything had someone decided to run off with my stuff, or if he would even have noticed, but I appreciate these urban samaritans, who offer a superficial sense of security in public venues.

The Bright Side of Status Anxiety

I've just cracked Alain de Botton's latest book, Status Anxiety. I'm sure you can guess what it's about. The title intrigued me. Would he try to deny that status anxiety exists? Would he try to offer a cure?

I'm still reading the first part, which reminds me of a history textbook. It's interesting in the same way Humanities 101 was in its better moments, when we covered such innovations as body odor and urban sanitation in historic societies (great stuff to use while playing Trivial Pursuit). But, reading about past societal stratifications, I can't help thinking to myself, "No Duh!" Does it really take a book to prove that people don't like to play well together unless someone's the bigger cheese? "Equals" are two people vying for position with no distinct winner.

According to de Botton, people in certain societies felt their station in life was predestined, thus they never aspired to raise their position; to do so would have been questioning God's will. This provides me with some comfort actually; watching historical fiction films I always feel sorry for the peasants--weren't they miserable having to live in village slums with dirt under their fingernails, knowing that there was nothing more for them? Their only hope was getting some disease and dying young.

It's wrong to impose this view on a historic population, I deducted from de Botton's book. The lower strata had much more acceptance of their situation than, say, America's contemporary urban poor. Why? because America offers the option of having more. Granted, not everybody exercises the option, but as Americans adore their rags to riches stories and always tout that ANYONE can make something of themselves, more pressure exists to "better oneself".

Live, from New York...

I'm visiting my old stomping grounds, New York City. When I lived here I was writing for a living. Funny, I often had very little to write about New York itself. I felt like anything you could conclude about this place had already been written up in The New York Times Magazine.

I can see why I had such a complex. New Yorkers tend to have heard it all already. People really do move at a different pace. The Bay Area has speed, and most certainly brains, but the retention of random facts and other people's business out here is incredible.

I had lunch with someone I contracted for years ago. Sitting with him over sushi, hearing him discuss projects in the pipeline I couldn't help thinking how long it's been since I had a conversation where "small talk" was "shop talk"--the marketing strategies of major corporations and how they are affecting the businesses, the dearth of new business from such-and-such sector, and how those trends may have started. All this as a response to my question: How are you?

New Yorkers, particularly those who work in media, make it their business to know a little bit of everything. They are dinner table conoisseurs. Think of The New Yorker magazine, where you can read about such things as the situation in Afghanistan, the history of packaged lettuce and writer's block throughout the ages. You'll discuss similar subjects at dinner parties out here. They suff their brains like sausages with eclectic information.

Granted, there are media wonks all over the place who know a lot, too. But on the whole, on a per capita basis, New Yorkers seem to have the farthest-reaching, if not superficial, grasp of the most subjects. New Yorkers and San Francisco taxi drivers, that is.

Plane Food--Need I Say More?

I won't go into some diatribe about plane food. It's up there with such things as Cheeze Whiz and Big Gulps on our national registry of cultural embarassments. Still, I never cease to be amazed at the new "options" that are offered to us lowlifes flying economy.

I flew to the East Coast yesterday. Fortunately, I've got my routine down--I book tickets on Orbitz, where I've specified in my travel profile that I prefer "special meals." Such a simple thing, and the few of us who do this before flying are so much happier.

I received my breakfast before everyone else--fresh fruit with raisins and walnuts, bagel on the side. The woman sitting next to me salivated watcing me eat, while picking apart her half-heated, shriveled french toast fingers. At snack time I received grapes and a vegan cookie (no partially hydrogenated oils); she received a foiled pat of "process cheese spread" called Wee Brie (with no accompanying plastic knife), two small crackers, a brownie, and, the "healthy" option--orange-flavored "Craisins," or dried cranberries.

Maybe it's just me, but I prefer to have my dried cranberries CRANBERRY flavored. Oh to have been a fly on the wall for that product development meeting. We've created so many newfangled variations on popular foods that now we even have a new fruitier flavor for fruit.

I suspect that plane passengers make the ultimate, captive test audience. Once I was on a flight where everyone received dissolvable breath mint strips in lieu of a snack. Real food has become optional.

I understand that there are some hard costs to serving fresh produce, but in a country that is increasingly producing organically grown, low-carb, low-fat, vitamin-enhanced, preservative-free, individually-wrapped foods, we still have cross-country flights full of healthy people who have to temporarily suspend their dietary habits on planes.

Time was when people ordered special meals for religious or medical reasons. Now special isn't so special--it's the norm. People understand that they won't likely get haute cuisine on a flight, but, I'm told, prison food has more nutritional value.

The Soloist

I had drinks with my friend Leanne last night. I met Leanne through friends, and though we always got along and had great conversations, Leanne was always someone in that “Friends of Friends” category. She had called a few days ago about getting together and chatting. I figured I was being asked to tag along.

“Nope,” she said. “I was just hoping to chat with you.”

Since leaving her vocation as a well-paid project manager to pursue Pilates instruction, Leanne has been on a life path that fascinates me. I’ve taken on Soloing—a term I borrow from Harriet Rubin, who wrote a book with the same title—half-assedly several times in my life, always drifting back to 401(k) Land, hat in my hands.

Something had seduced Lee out of the corporate world and dropped her into this new, exciting, terrifying place. As we sat down for a glass of pinot noir, I could see that she still wasn’t sure about what had happened.

“How are things going, Leanne?”

“OK,” she said, with lingering doubt on the last syllable. “I’m doing what I said I wanted to do, but now I’m not so sure that this is what I really wanted. And now I’m broke and wondering if…I just…”

Her trailing response was as uncertain as her prognosis of her future. When I was soloing I used to respond to that question the same way, without confidence. Comparing reality with my expectations of where I felt I should have been, and where I’d wanted to end up, I was never able to say things were good, even if I was getting closer.