Using Groundhog Day to Predict…Summer

groundhog

On this first day of summer I would suggest we move Groundhog Day to around May 10th, or roughly six weeks before the Summer Solstice.

The rationale is really quite simple and sensible for several reasons.

First and foremost, the groundhog is never correct in its prediction of whether or not there will be six more weeks of winter. Let’s face it, you’re dealing with a fat, furry rodent who is perfectly snug and asleep when its violently rousted at dawn by a guy who grabs it by the scruff of its neck with the sole purpose of determining whether the groundhog sees its shadow on a crappy February morning when there’s never any sun that would generate said penumbra. What the groundhog is seeing is red because it wants to get back to sleep. That leaves it up to the rouster to simply fabricate the big announcement. Doesn’t matter. Either way the weather is likely to suck for the next six weeks so what’s the point? Sees its shadow, doesn’t see its shadow. Who cares? Spring will get here when it’s good and damned ready… so don’t push it.

Pushing Groundhog Day, if there must be one,  to May 10th would still allow the town of Punxsutawney, PA to suck tourists into the ersatz event, only the results would actually be more definitive. Screw looking for a shadow. Place a calendar with a handful of peanuts outside the sleepy guy’s hole, and gently poke him. He’ll still be pissed off but he’s sure to walk over to the calendar to snag the nuts. If you put the nuts on the right date, he’ll make a beeline to the snack and find himself standing right on the start of summer. Then you can accurately announce, “the groundhog has duly verified the Summer Solstice will occur on June 21st!” It’s foolproof. The rodent is right every time, people aren’t given false hope of an early onset of nicer weather, no one freezes their asses off on a frigid February morning, Punxsutawney makes its nut for the year and everyone goes home happy.  What’s the hook then, if there’s no drama about the outcome? Ah..that’s the part I saved for last. Pets would be allowed to accompany their owners to the event totally off their leashes. Bowser who scoops up the groundhog first…wins….breakfast, thereby changing the furry guy’s moniker to “Punxsutawney Fill.”

 

A Father’s Day tribute to lessons of hilarious retribution

On this Father’s Day 2017, I’ve decided to honor my late father for a couple of valuable lessons that contributed to my general delinquency as an adult and ability to ward off jerks.

smilingJPGI’ve previously written about my father as a  WWII hero, but once Japan and Germany surrendered he fought another honorable war for the next 65 years…the glorious struggle against assholes.

In the interest of time and space, I call to your attention two specific lessons passed down to my brother and me that we continue to use a decade after our father’s passing.

The first involves office supply warfare. Having earned the Silver Stars and a Marksmanship medal during the war, my father never lost sight of his targets, nor his dead aim. He was able to combine his shooting skills with his post-war career as an engineer to develop a superior method of shooting rubber bands–a method that vastly increased the speed and accuracy at which a rubber band could reach and sting its intended target. You see, engineers juiced up their afternoon coffee breaks by engaging in brutal rubber band battles, often resulting in shredded pocket protectors and red-stained blueprints.shootingrubberbands

One day my father walked in on my brother and me as we lamely launched rubber bands at each other, barely raising red marks, let alone the desired welts. He patiently let us in on his secret, as I will now do for you.  The trick to faster and more accurate rubber band shooting is to place the rubber band around one of your index fingers. Then, -twist it with your thumb such that one side of the band is loose, and the other is taut. It creates increased tension, resulting in whipass speed and accuracy. Try it. If you do it correctly you can shoot holes in targets, and soft flesh. rubberbandThere is little as satisfying as seeing the result of a properly shot rubber band strike an adversary’s ass. It’s really quite exhilarating and gives you a momentary feeling of invulnerability, although you risk getting the crap beat out of you through conventional street warfare methods.

Now, lesson number two, concern my father’s ability to decisively discourage an asshole from a return visit to our home.

My father played in a long-running Friday night poker game with some other engineers and some guys from other professional fields such as journalism, printing and accounting. An erudite bunch for sure. But over time, one of the engineers became very wealthy after going into business for himself and he became rich and obnoxious, partially, by screwing some former friends and associates.  That didn’t play well with the poker guys. Oh, they could have simply told the jerk he was out of the game but what fun is that. He’d just argue and call them names and make a scene. My father had a better idea. They would say nothing. When the creep showed up at our apartment for the Friday night game, the boys were fully armed. Not with rubber bands this time, but with full bottles of ice cold, bubbly New York City seltzer…in the kind of bottles with the lever you push to shoot the stuff out with force. sprayingseltzer

Knock, knock. Open door. “Hi!,” jerk boy said.  BLAM!!! SIX BOTTLES OF SELTZER IN HIS FACE. “Bye!” the poker boys said. Not another word was spoken…or at least I didn’t hear any, over the raucous laughter as the loser ran back to his car, sopping wet, and thoroughly carbonated and humiliated. I attempted to used this valuable lesson shortly thereafter on a loser who kept asking me to go to the movies but my mother didn’t want to clean up the carpet a second time so soon. But I will always have that weapon in my arsenal should it be necessary and I can find New York City-type seltzer bottles in Michigan.  seltzer.jpg

So on this Father’s Day, among the many gifts for which I thank my dear father, I fondly thank him for the gift of creative non-lethal retribution, and the lesson that whether it’s with rubber bands or seltzer, to always be a straight shooter.

We’ve all been “just new to this”

ryanSpeaker of the House Paul Ryan may have not just hit the nail on the head, but flattened the sucker when he explained President Donald Trump’s political faux pax as “he’s just new to this.” I say that because politics aside, admit, you’ve been there. I know I have.

After spending 33 years as a journalist, working in fast-paced, no-nonsense newsrooms at CNN, the Associated Press and The Detroit News it was more than culture shock when I flipped to the “dark side” in 2005, joining the PR department at then, DaimlerChrysler, now Fiat Chrysler Automobiles.

First off, as a long-time broadcaster, I was just too damned loud for a corporate setting. Hey, I’m projecting! A kindly administrative assistant told me not only to not “project” but to maybe stop talking altogether. “We communicate by email and -+-+instant messaging here,’ she instructed me. “It’s quieter.”  Heh.

Next screwup was getting up out of my seat to walk over to a colleague’s workstation to ask a question. When I appeared at his cube he shot me a look that said, “you remind me of a recent bacteria from which I’ve just been cleansed.” Soldiering on, I gamely said, “Hi. Got a minute to talk about that Dodge media program?” He answered my question with the question,”Did you send me an Outlook meeting request?” “Uh, no,” I replied. “I don’t need a meeting, I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.” “Well, I have three minutes until my next scheduled meeting, ” he shot back. “So why don’t you send me a meeting invite to arrange some time and then I’ll answer your questions.” Using all the tact my reporting career taught me I smiled as I replied, “Are you shitting me?” He assured me he wasn’t and I returned to my workstation.

That’s where screwup number 2 began. I had sent another colleague an email earlier that day asking a question. Four or five hours went by with no answer. So I sent a follow-up, as I would have done if I was tracking down a story. Couple of hours went by. No reply. I then called the guy. No answer. Left a voice mail. No reply. This went on for another 24 hours so I got my butt up and walked over to his cube. “Hi!” I said. The guy, who was just screwing off surfing the web, jumped, turned around, smiled and returned my “Hi!” with an even bigger “HI!!” When I asked if he got my emails and messages, he said he did. When I asked why he didn’t respond, he said, “oh, no one here is in that big of a rush.”

Later that day my supervisor called me into her office with a stern look on her face.  “Ed,” she barked. “Two employees have complained to me that you’ve been harassing them.” “Right,” I quickly admitted. “I walked up to one guy to ask him a couple of questions and he whined I didn’t schedule a meeting…for a conversation! The other guy didn’t respond to my emails or phone messages for two days and I needed an answer to my question.”

I was foolish to think that would acquit me and the case would be closed. Ha! My supervisor looked me in the eye and hissed, “you’re not an effin’ reporter anymore. You don’t browbeat people. You don’t hunt them down like dogs for answers. You simply wait until they’re good and ready and have time to deal with you.” She didn’t seem amused when I informed her that’s not only a rude and disrespectful attitude between co-workers but it’s totally counter-productive. In fact the conversation was closed with, “this is a corporation. That’s how you need to act in a corporate setting.”

I guess I was “just new to this.” I did eventually tone my voice down and learn to request meetings with people, but if someone didn’t answer a question the same day I posed it, I was on them like Black Flag on a roach. Sometimes, you just need to change some of “this,” to a little of you  own “that.”

In defense of cargo shorts

cargoshortsI’ve been choking on my Sunday morning oatmeal reading blasphemous blather in the Detroit Free Press decrying one of my favorite warm weather garments as, “dumpy and dorky, silly and bulky.” It’s all in the context of what clothes guys shouldn’t wear if they want to charm women into dating them this summer.

I do not want to charm any women into dating me but I do want to charm my attractive wife of almost 45 years into not averting her eyes or wearing an “I’m with dumpy and dorky” t-shirt when we’re together in public.

In fact, when discussing this post with her, she assured me that I look just fine in cargo shorts. Who else looks just fine in cargo shorts? probstcargoshortsMy daughter, in her late 20’s, assures me “Survivor” host Jeff Probst is definitely “hot” in his cargo shorts. I imagine he hides dozens of disgusting bugs and Kit Kat bars with which to torture and entice starving “Survivor” contestants, which just proves how both stylish and utilitarian they can be.

Let me continue my defense of the demeaned garment by pointing out the author’s assertion that “the shorts are completely inauthentic in that nobody, except maybe MacGyver or Indiana Jones, needs that many pockets and the men who insist on these shorts are, alas, neither,” is just as inauthentic.

I can’t even count the number of times my wife will ask me “honey, do you have any galvanized nails on you? I need one to repair one of my patio planters.” Are you kidding? I almost have to smoke a cigarette with satisfaction after fishing deep into one of my cargo shorts’s 9 pockets and coming up with a handful of various gleaming fasteners and asking her, “sure honey. what size?” Gonna be a big night.

I’ve worn cargo shorts on several assignments when covering floods or some other natural disaster in warm weather. It’s like having a cotton filing cabinet attached to your butt. Pens, pencils, pads, business cards, tissues, sunglasses, smartphone, half a donut…all arranged perfectly in my awesome cargo shorts’s pockets. I especially love it when my shorts have one of those deep, deep pockets. They always remind me of one of my late, funny father’s favorite putdowns regarding cheap guys. “Ha! He’s got short hands and long pockets!” I make sure I keep my spare change in those pockets.

While I’m definitely not the target audience for the Free Press story, I would maintain the writer missed an important point. Cargo shorts are perfect for young, horny guys. Do you know how many condoms you could stash in those things? Think outside the box, madam reporter, will ya?

I’m proud to say I own at least four pair of cargo shorts, thanks to the huge selection one can find in total testosterone places like Cabelas and Bass Pro Shops. They offer so many varieties of cargo shorts you could stock your entire closet with them. Hey…they even sell long pants that convert to cargo shorts when you unzip the bottom portion of each leg..so ..you can effectively wear cargo shorts all year long. 

Don’t listen to the naysayer’s guys. Cargo shorts are manly as hell. Put on a pair. You’ll soon have the object of your affection, right in your deepest pocket.

Got a thought..partner?

bfjhExactly a week ago I covered the news conference where Ford Executive Chairman Bill Ford announced the bloodletting  naming of new CEO Jim Hackett and other management changes at the Blue Oval. What struck me, besides how fast the deposed CEO, Mark Fields was shown the door to the Glass House, was one of the roles Ford said he would play in the new regime.  Ford put it succinctly in a story for my current workplace Automotive News, saying “”I plan to be very active with Jim as a thought-partner.”

thoughtleaderjerkA few years ago, when I headed Fiat Chrysler Automobiles digital communications team, I was asked to appear on a panel in Chicago to discuss “thought leaders.” Now I’m not sure that “thought partner” and “thought leader” are much different from each other except a “thought partner” may not have cogent enough thoughts to be a “thought leader,” although I would think as executive chairman of a giant automaker, Bill Ford’s thoughts must be considered “leading.” One of the reasons given for the dismissal of Mark Fields was the nearly 40 percent drop in Ford’s share price since he took over a little more than three years ago. One would think the man whose name is on the building would have contributed some leading thoughts on how to stop that slide. Apparently not. But as a “thought partner” to the new CEO perhaps it means he will now share the responsibility of thinking up stuff to keep the automaker afloat.

Honestly, a term such as “thought partner” reminds me of  when I gave my “thought leaders” presentation. I refused to use that term because to me it’s just another one of those cute little phrases those who consider themselves leaders in thinking think up to build themselves up and then write books that are obsolete by the time they are published. See my previous blog post re self-help books.

I like to encourage those who work for me and with me to always be thinking of new, better and more creative ways to accomplish our goals. Some are stronger thinking artistically while others are especially adept on the business side. There are some folks who can think in pictures and abstract concepts. You’ll always find people who seem to be more literal but are nonetheless leading thinkers on that plane. That’s why you have to empower colleagues and teammates to come forth with their thoughts since it’s not uncommon for the best, fully-baked ideas to rise from a recipe that includes combining dollops of collective thoughts. If you can make that happen, then the true “thought leaders” are actually groups of “thought partners” working together.

Ya think?

Pippa’s wedding: A view from the rear

pippweddingA lot of attention was paid this weekend to Pippa Middleton’s wedding. I suppose there would have been some attention paid to her nuptials since she’s the sister of Prince William’s wife, Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. Realistically, however, I’m convinced the attention would have been scant, if the  comely royal sibling had not graced us with the contours of her shapely derriere as she emerged from a car, arriving at her sister’s wedding in her clingy bridesmaid’s confection. pippbutt Tabloids mooned over Pippa’s apparent, and unintentional momentary eclipsing of her sister’s big day. Indeed, one was hard pressed to immediately find photos of the face of that belonged to the gluteus fabulous. It turned out the camera loved Pippa’s entire package, and compared to her attractive royal sister, she is certainly no Joanie comely lately.

Still, looking at the scores of images and videos of Pippa’s big day one cannot wonder if those online photo galleries and front page play would have existed at all had she not exited that car back in 2011, in reverse, setting off her seismic ass-cent into the public consciousness. We found out she’s a party planner, had lots of boyfriends and has  plenty of quid thanks to her wealthy parents and an earnest work ethic. We even were treated to photos of her from the front..but only begrudgingly, by supermarket tabloids that earned their publisher’s megabucks by featuring photos of mega butts.

The demand for her flattering dress spiked almost immediately as well as the popularity of diet and exercise programs aimed at emulating Pippa’s curvy hindquarter geometry.

I still couldn’t tell you what Pippa’s voice sounds like since I’ve never heard it. Then again, I neither encountered nor sought any recordings of it. Nothing personal. Just not interested.

I’m hoping now that both sides of the lovely Pippa are committed in matrimony this will be pretty much the last we’ll hear of her. Considering the source of her original notoriety, it’s time the world turned the other cheek.  Then again, while she seems harmless enough there are plenty of asses in D.C., who should, perhaps, never show their faces. 

Sage work advice from Mom

momOn this Mother’s Day, 2017 I’m reflecting back on how my late, wonderful mother affected me in my work life.

It started in the 1960’s when I had my first job folding laundry at Mel’s Laundromat on Union Turnpike in Queens, NY. It was in a strip of stores that ranged from Glen Oaks Pharmacy where Richie the owner and pharmacist kept the store guarded by a massive German Shepherd who would sometimes snuggle up to your crotch while you were shopping….to Sol and Lefty’s candy store/luncheonette that served as a lunch counter, candy stand, place to get your school supplies and bookie joint. Yes..it was always safe to shop at Sol and Lefty’s because there was always one of NYPD’s finest on site…to place a bet.  In between there was Ray’s Anchorage/old man’s bar, the Cracker Barrel supermarket a dry cleaner and deli. Mel’s was closer to the north end of the strip where Sol and Lefty’s was located. 

Mel was a crappy boss. He was crazy and yelled a lot and made sure half the machines didn’t work right so customers would have to toss in extra quarters. I was 8 years old and even so, the 25 cents a day he paid me seemed  like a screw job. My mother gave me my first workplace advice at that point. “Edward,” she said, “try not to work for assholes.” But I was young and impetuous and I didn’t obey that sage advice, for more than 40 years.

Later, as a teenager, I worked at a day camp in tony Great Neck, Long Island where the skinflint owner paid us 25 bucks a summer plus tips, but you had to pool your tips. Mom advice number two. “Pool your tips? What? So the lazy schlemiels can get some of your money? Screw ‘em! Toss in five bucks and pocket the rest. You earned it.” Smart mommy.

When I started my career as a broadcaster it was at a truly crappy station in Fulton, New York. Fulton is about a half hour north of Syracuse, which puts it squarely in the area commonly known as “Nowhere.” The station was located in a field in a concrete block building next to the transmission tower. Occasionally, the St. Bernard that lived in the farm that surrounded the station would walk up to the door, bang it with his massive head and wait for belly rubs. We always complied. When I brought my parents to see where I worked, my mother offered work advice number 3. “Edward, make sure your next job isn’t in such a shithole.”  I dutifully obeyed and moved on to another station, in Auburn, N.Y. which was located in the top floor of an office building and had the best studios and equipment.

For the benefit of time and space I’ll skip ahead to when I eventually landed a job at CNN in Atlanta. My parents were duly impressed but were not familiar with either Atlanta or Georgia. This precipitated mom job advice number 4. “Edward,” she intoned, “this is a big deal. Do whatever they say, try your hardest, show them what you’ve got and whatever you do, do NOT start saying ‘y’all.’” I did everything she said and lasted two decades at the most manic place I had ever worked.

My last fulltime job was a Chrysler. I was hired to manage and ghost write a blog on behalf of the head of PR. This was 2005. My parents just could not fathom exactly what it is I was hired to do. Despite many explanations, blogging and social media did not compute with them. They attempted to send emails via the ghastly WebTV service, which was so slow, snail mail would arrive faster. It only frustrated my father who received a lot of useless “forwards” from other alta cockers at their Florida condo community. My father would respond to each and every one with “please don’t send any more of this stupid shit.” It got him elected to the condo board of directors and captain of the shuffleboard team.

It also led to my mother’s final work advice: “Edward,” she said patiently. “I really don’t know what the hell you do or why you do it but if it pays better than the laundramat I’m happy for you.”  It did, indeed, pay much better than the laundramat, and led to a nice management job, an office and free coffee…which only proves, you should always listen to your mother.

If we all could call in a Closer

krodHe sat in front of his locker with a towel on his head and took no questions. It was the man the Detroit Tigers depend upon to successfully seal the deal when they’re ahead in a game. The “closer.” Two nights in a row Francisco Rodriquez, K-Rod, did not seal the deal. He did not close the door. He made enough mistakes to allow the team the Tigers were beating to beat them instead. It made me think about this particular arrangement where we call on someone else to finish the job we started then allow them to suffer loathing, both self and external, when they can’t quite get it done.

Let’s say we’re writing a news story. I make the calls, do the research and start to write. I’m almost done but I’m outta gas. The words aren’t coming to me and my fingers are tired from typing. I could also use a stiff drink and a hot dog. No problem. I call in “the closer” who is tasked with finishing my story in such a way it not only the front page lead but is so amazing it goes viral and CNN employs a panel of 27 pundits to parse it and assigns it a dramatic theme song and spooky graphics.

But that’s not the way it goes down. The closer is fatigued from bailing out a half-dozen of my colleagues and depleting his hyperbole supply. By the time I call him into my game he’s got nothin’. He gamely takes the assignment anyway because closers never say “no” when their number comes up or they’re offered single malt Scotch. He taps and taps on the keyboard and I feel editorial victory is imminent. It’ll be my byline all over the paper and CNN will ask me to do a Skype interview with Anderson Cooper who will compliment my journalistic enterprise, and cuff links, while privately I will know it was the Closer who won the day for me. But that’s not the way it went down. The Closer falls short. Working on no day’s rest he coughs up three errors of fact and two blatant personal biases. I’m called on the carpet by the Managing Editor and ordered to personally write the corrections and an apology to the readers for allowing bias to breach the body of my story. 

Damn Closer! It was his job to complete my assignment, make me look good and pave the way to that Pulitzer. He apologized profusely and promised to pull himself together for the next assignment.  I just don’t know if I can trust him anymore. For now on I’ll have to pitch a complete game..from lead to nut graph to conclusion. But I can’t go on indefinitely like this. In a pique of frustration I stole the one thing that would get the newsroom’s attention and hit my colleagues the hardest. When one hapless scribe padded up to the kitchenette looking to fill his empty mug, he was greeted with Alec Baldwin’s greatest line. “Coffee is for Closers.”