Good Doesn't Move

For this category, the work is breakthrough. We are doing good work given the subject matter.

Those in the communications business have heard these words. Maybe even said them yourself. There should be no qualifier. No caveat. Good doesn’t move. Things are good or not. Period

Bleeder

I don’t like shots. I am afraid of needles and would prefer not to have one. This isn’t particularly unique, I believe. I am assuming most people don’t enjoy getting a shot. Now, I should say that when I speak of shots I am speaking of flu shots. My guess is that as shots go the flu shot is the little brother of the shot family. And it’s not the pain of the shot, but the build-up in my mind.
I went in for my yearly flu shot and my ritual was the same: take off the shirt, turn my head and grip the chair.

This is what followed:

Nurse: Slight pinch.
Me: (tighter grip)
Me: (felt slight pinch) (I should say here that I was surprised that she put the needle in the center of my shoulder. Typically I receive the shot in the back of my arm.)
Nurse: Yep, you’re a bleeder.
Me: Pardon?
Nurse: You’re bleeding.
Me: (nervous laugh) rr…really?
Nurse: Holy crap! You are really bleeding.
Me: (Now, at this point I thinking, ‘this is ridiculous, how much can I possibly be bleeding? And despite her judgmental tone, this really isn’t my fault. I’m just a guy trying his best to avoid the flu. I’ve never bled before from a flu shot; and frankly, I don’t appreciate the label “bleeder.” I am more than someone who bleeds from flu shot. Is this where we are in doctors’ offices? Calling people “bleeders?” It’s a little 4th grade.’)
Nurse: I will clean you up.
Me: Um, thank you… (It did occur to me that in this circumstance I think she would be the one responsible for my clean up – just for the record.)
Nurse: (placed band-aid on arm, placed shoulder in harness and sling and sent me on my way.)
Me: Um, thank you.

The Dishwasher Speaks

What I find fascinating are the little, everyday talents that many possess. Some people are excellent parallel parkers. While I am the “cook” of the family, my wife makes great eggs. Some people can pull a parking ticket from a garage without coming to a complete stop. My everyday talent is packing dishes into the dishwasher. It’s my version of the NYT crossword puzzle. I enjoy doing it and receive much from the experience.
In fact, I believe there are many life lessons to be learned at the mouth of a dishwasher. Here are three I have received over the years:
Big things first. This one is crucial. To maximize the space in the dishwasher the largest items must be placed first. No way around it. Sure, sometimes I want to keep my favorite mug in its spot, but I can’t. Getting the big things out of the way allows for a clearer picture and subsequent plan to accomplish the goal.
Sweat the Small Things. Concentrating first on the big things isn’t a slap to the smaller things. More of life is lived in and with the smaller things. When it comes to packing a dishwasher you have to focus on the smaller items and work and re-work until they find their niche.
Fear. It’s been said that fear shouldn’t be a motivator. It depends. Making decisions out of fear typically leads to mediocrity. But, the fear of failure is healthy. I have a healthy fear of washing dishes by hand. And I will stay with it until I get everything in its place.

Manager's Trot

I’m not sure how it started. You’ve seen it many times. A baseball manager calls timeout, ascends the steps in the dugout and then makes his way to the pitcher’s mound or home plate or somewhere. Calling it a run is the better part of generous. A run it isn’t. But, in fairness, it isn’t a walk either. The arms are bent and move in a cow-milking manner with vigor and the shoulders are engaged in a Larry King sort of way. There is a slight bounce. But there isn’t any speed. Usually a sunflower seed falls out of the guy’s mouth. And I think one foot is on the ground at all times. I guess the beauty is the manager really isn’t hustling, but he looks like he is. He gives the appearance that he has a sense of purpose and, after all, baseball is a sport. It stands to reason that running (or fake running) would be the main mode of transportation among players and coaches.

I find myself employing the manager’s trot from time to time. I usually break it out in a crosswalk. A motorist has given me the “hurry up, Jack” wave and out of courtesy I pick up the pace – sort of. I would feel awkward continuing to walk at my leisurely clip, but I don’t feel like sprinting. And if I ran I would probably pull a hammy. So I do want any rational person would, I pretend like I’m running. I’m basically saying, “Hey, thanks for not hitting me with your car. And as a thank you, I will pass by your vehicle 1 second faster than I normally would. This, my friend, is the least I can do. Have a good day.”

Thanks?

Heather and I ate dinner at an authentic Mexican restaurant north of Pittsburgh the other night. We hadn’t been there is a while and once we started eating we wondered why. Excellent food. As our time there was about to end, a person of importance approached us. He appeared to be an owner or manger or maybe someone who wanted to be. Not sure. Anyway, he came to our table, looked deep into my eyes and asked if everything was okay. I assured him it was with a knowing nod and the following statement: yes. He then stepped toward me, as if to leave, and gently placed his left hand on the left side of my chest, held it for a beat and withdrew it. It wasn’t actually a slap. And it wouldn’t be fair to call it a rub. It was just… odd. My eyes then met Heather’s and we smiled and she said, “Friendly place.” Indeed.

Height Fluctuation

Height consistency is not something I strive for in life, but it tends to happen. I’m not that tall (5’8”) but I am comfortable with my view of the world. And everyday my view is pretty much the same. I have one pair of shoes that nudges me up a little and my flip flops are pretty flat, but it’s mostly the same height day after day.

Women have a different experience, I believe. Depending on the day, or the heel, women can give you a whole different look. I am taller than many of the women in our office…some days. Other days…not so much. I have a good three inches on my wife, except at church once in awhile. Sometimes, one of my co-worker’s can look noticeably shorter. Other days, noticeably taller. I don’t comment on it either way. For over a year, I thought one female colleague was taller than I was. Then one Friday she wore those ballerina-slipper shoes. Turns out it was the shoes.

Going Left

I often think about getting back to playing some serious tennis. I played competitively in high school and now hit here and there, but watching Rodger win his 15th at Wimbledon a few weeks back gave me some inspiration. I think the nearly 20-year layoff will have taken something off of my game, but I believe I would be mentally tougher, if not wiser.

Then I think that it would be interesting to start playing lefty, as my dominate hand (and arm) is right. The logic is that I would have the knowledge of the game, how to strike the ball and most importantly what my right-handed flaws are providing a platform to create a better version of me. A lefty version. This time I reason, I would be unencumbered by old, bad habits and the inertia of doing it the way I always have. I’m sure it would be comical to start. Muscle memory has that affect on us. But, with courage and tenacity I think I could get pretty good and someday revel in a slice serve to the ad court against a righty opponent.

I don’t know if I will actually do this, although the thought intrigues me quite a bit. In actuality I am doing this now as this is what is happening in our business of communications. We are playing with the opposite hand. We are not starting over. No, connecting with consumers is still the game and much of the knowledge that we have still fits. But now, we have the opportunity to create a better version of what we do. We are learning and need to continue to learn new and better ways to create conversations with consumers, create meaningful dialogue and create a differentiated place in their hearts for our clients. Yes, it takes tenacity and courage but the payoff will be well worth it.

Bag It

According to The NPD Group, a leading market research company, weekday lunches carried from home reached a high point in 2007, with 8.5 million brown bag lunches taken to work. The assumption here is that number has risen.

I’ve started to bag it myself, although my wife’s old lunch carrier probably isn’t the best fit for me. Oh well. The benefits of packing a lunch are obvious and usually can be boiled down to two things: cost savings and health. No argument here. From a health perspective, it’s the portion control that packing gives the brown bagger that I find advantageous.

So far, there is one drawback – the social aspects. There is a certain golf-course bonding that occurs when a group of co-workers venture out for lunch. There is the shared decision making, the back-and-forth of lunch options, the agreement and of course the lunchtime chatter that is best left at lunchtime. The experience is good for the mind (and body), to take a walk and leave work for a while. Sure, such catharsis doesn’t need to be limited to the lunch buyers, but often I think it is.

My charge on my next brown-bag day is to seek a little social levity in between PB&J bites. And also to find a lunch carrying device that better fits my pleats and tassels.

Lease or Own

It’s all about ownership in our world. The statement, “you can own that” is frequently uttered to a client. We encourage them to own positions, spaces in the consumer’s mind, even a color.

Just recently I said to a colleague that breast cancer awareness owns the color pink. In my mind when I see pink, I think of breast cancer. I began to contemplate what it is that they own and if in fact they own the color pink. I’m sure Pink, the pop artist, would disagree. So I thought back – what did I think of when I saw pink before breast cancer awareness owned it in my mind? The answer is Rachel, my 12-year old niece. From the time Rachel was two she loved the color pink. Everything had to be pink. She talked about it and whenever I saw pink I thought of Rachel. Prior to my niece, I thought of the Pink Panther and Owens Corning. Rachel has moved onto other colors and frankly, I just don’t see much from Owens Corning. For a period of time when I saw pink I thought… nothing.

I realized that the breast cancer awareness folks don’t actually own pink, rather they are leasing it in my mind. They are leasing it by being incredibly relevant to me, by engaging me and by surprising me. Given recent history my guess is eventually someone or something else will lease that color in my mind, taking their place.

I don’t think the lease / own business is a matter of semantics. To occupy a place in a consumer’s mind takes incredible effort. To keep that place takes even more. Ownership implies entitlement as if it is a foregone conclusion that something will remain there. Leasing is about consistently earning it, making the payment to keep the privilege of staying in someone’s mind.

Seagulls

My wife and I just returned from Cape May, NJ. The weather was great and we enjoyed a wonderful time together. Something occurred to me. Why does every seagull sound the same? Perhaps to the birder (of which I cannot be counted), each seagull has a distinct and beautiful sound. But to me, they all sound the same. They don't all look the same. It stands to reason that one would have a very deep voice and one would have a loud voice, one would have an accent...you see where this is going.

We Need the Rain

It’s not that the statement is untrue. In fact, it is very true. I mean, it’s not an insightful comment. But it is certainly full of truth. I was leaving my house and passed by a neighbor who was coming in from the rain as I was about to trade her place.

“We need the rain,” I said. Right. I know nothing about the environment or the planet or ecosystems – if, in fact, I am even using the right term. But, I do know that rain is needed to sustain our existence.

I’m not so much annoyed at my use of a cliché. I actually think it’s the reality that I am old that caught my attention. You see no young hipster would ever say we needed rain. Admittedly, I am not young or hip. I thereby make the following declaration – we need rain. Indeed.

Smoke and Doors

As a means of full disclosure - I don’t smoke. Sure, I tried it and thankfully it didn’t take. I don’t have anything against smokers. Now, I don’t want to be around smoking, especially when I’m out to eat, but I certainly don’t hate smokers – smoking just isn’t for me. The debate rages on about going smoke free in our city and state and frankly that conversation is for people more qualified and intelligent than me. I’m just a guy who notices things.
I have two observations about smokers. The first is this: for whatever reason it is completely acceptable in our culture to lambaste someone for smoking. I mean you can just go off on someone and everyone seems to have that look on his or her face like, “yeah, he’s got a point there.” We’ve all seen it. Your friends find out an acquaintance or co-worker doubles as a smoker. The person in questions doesn’t seem to fit the profile and someone lets them have it. The tirade doesn’t stop with the health ramifications no, the rant goes to talk about appearance and quickly hits on what their smoking says about them as a person. Wow. But, that’s acceptable. You can call a smoker stupid. No one will stop you or tell you that’s not nice.
The second observation is smoker behavior. Like most office buildings, mine is non-smoking and the outside of the building, regardless of time or year or day, always sees a healthy gathering of smokers. What’s interesting is watching smokers exit the revolving doors of the building as they come outside. As a smoker makes their way into the door the cigarette appears in their mouth with Copperfieldian speed and like Superman in the phone booth – boom that stick is glowing by the time the fresh air hits them – all just as they appear outdoors. It’s impressive. One minute a guy is walking in the door, two pushes of the door and his mouth is on fire. The guess here is that these folks want to maximize their break time and the city breeze makes lighting the cigarette a little challenging.

Numbers for Nelson

"Hey, Sterling. What are you working on?" (Said pleasantly you get the sense they have a work friendship)
"What?" (Almost daring him to ask again)

(Picking up a paper weight and examining it) "You look hard at work, what are you doing?”

(Screaming, animated, crazy. Way over the top. Sterling believes he is the sane one in this dialogue. He believes he is completely rational and is justified in going off like this)

”Are you kidding me? What does it look like I’m doing? Hello - I’m doing numbers for Nelson. I have got to get these numbers to Nelson. Numbers to Nelson. That’s what I’m doing? What kind of question is that? I'm busting my back, churning and burning numbers, and you’re going to skip in here and run your mouth about what am I doing? I don't have the time or the inclination to talk to you about this. I have got to get these numbers to Nelson. Do you think for one minute that these numbers are somehow going to bounce off the page and stroll down to Nelson and say, "Hi ya, Nelson, we're the numbers" - no! (Jumping) That won't happen. Or maybe you’re sitting there thinking somebody is going to come in here and do this for me. Well I got news for you buster, not going to happen. For days all I've been thinking is numbers to Nelson, numbers to Nelson (chanting) numbers to Nelson (miming a high school drum major) numbers to Nelson. (Singing numbers to Nelson to tune of Frosty the snowman) Numbers to Nelson is what I have at task, I will add them up write them down and Nelson won’t have to ask - I am busy. That's right - busy. Do you know what this (holds out four fingers) is? That's a number. And you know what? That four and a bunch of his buddies have to get cruising down to Nelson. How's he (the number) going to get there? Me. What? Numbers. Where? Nelson. When? Now. I cannot be wasting time, hand holding and massaging and answering the ridiculous when I have work to do. Maybe the world in which you live has things happening on there own. But in my world baby, it's blood, sweat, tears and numbers to Nelson. So do us all a favor and leave a man's job for a man.

"Okay." (Dumbfounded)

"Numbers don't just appear. Do think numbers are just going to jump off the calendar? Or from my ruler – are you thinking all those numbers and dashes are coming off into a spreadsheet? You’re crazy. Do you think the numbers on my watch are going to jump on a sheet of paper? No. Numbers need to be created. The lottery isn't going to donate to me a bunch of numbers and even if they did, (full bodied scream, moderate tempo) how would they get to Nelson? This is ridiculous. I can’t believe I am having this conversation. I have to get these numbers to Nelson. Me. Not you. Me. Not her. Me, not we. (Shadow boxing) Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Don't waste my time. Don't question me.

Minutes later

"Nelson, here are those numbers."

(Nelson looks up from paper work)

"Oh, hey Sterling. What's this?"

"The numbers."

"The numbers . . . numbers , , , oh yeah, thanks."
Sterling turns his back and heads out the door as Nelson throws the numbers away.

Cape May Lighthouse

We were just in Cape May, NJ. This picture was taken during an early morning bike ride.

Why Flies Come In - my version

It actually has nothing to do with the food. Well, maybe somewhat. But if you think about it, as soon as a fly comes indoors their whole life changes. It’s not peaceful at all – they start getting swatted by papers and shoes and magazines. You have to agree that if they knew what life would be like on the inside they would never go. This is how it happens - a bunch of flies are hanging outside of a house or restaurant. They’re fantasizing about life on the inside. One fly starts talking about his buddy, Bill. “Bill got in. We haven’t seen him since. He’s probably rolling around in filth somewhere. What a life.” As this fly dreaming hits a manic crescendo, the brave one of the group takes a fly line to the door. His buddies never see him again. And they believe it’s because he has flown into paradise

How Food Trucks Got Started - my version

Food trucks scare me. There is something inherently unappealing about someone preparing my lunch in their trunk. But you see it quite a bit in cities – a woman or man cooking up Chinese food or hotdogs or chicken - in the back of their vehicle. Is that the passenger-side door? No, that’s where you order. Here’s how I think those “restaurants” get started: A family is on vacation and they are driving through a big city. Perhaps, it’s the first time for them in the concrete jungle. In the midst of their sight-seeing revelry, they get a flat tire. They pull off and realize they don’t have a spare. While they are having a Brady Bunch brainstorm on how to get the tire fixed, the entrepreneur among them has an idea. Let’s buy some noodles and throw together a stir-fry.

Former Stand-up Comedian - Chris Rock story

Being a comedian was always a life-long dream so it was cool to perform professionally (and often) in and around Pittsburgh. I was the house emcee at The Funny Bone from 1995 - 1997. It was good to have a home base like that, while performing at other clubs and colleges whenever possible.

As a comedian I met a few celebrities including: Howie Mandel, Drew Carey and Ray Romano. The biggest names I ever worked with personally were Lewis Black and Chris Rock.

I did two nights with Chris Rock in 1996 at The Funny Bone in Pittsburgh. It was a trip working six sold-out shows with him. He’s extremely funny and very cool. We had a conversation that is worth repeating:

Chris: Where do you live?
Me: I live with my parents, north of Pittsburgh.
Chris: How old are you?
Me: 24.
Chris: 24?! And you’re still living at home?
Me: Yeah.
Chris: Do you have a girlfriend?
Me: No.
Chris: Of course not. That’s because you live at home. Let me tell you something: you can’t get a girl with no pad. You can get a girl with no car. You can get a girl with no job. But, you CAN NOT get a girl with no pad.

When he was telling me that all I could think about was how hysterical it was and that I couldn’t wait to tell my friends.