When Power Points Hit the Deck

badpowerpointCould there be anything more mind-numbing than a long-winded speech or presentation punctuated with an endless Power Point deck where every slide contains every word the speaker just spoke? Oh, I use ’em, but try to make each slide a photo or some sort of graphic that supports what I’m saying, rather than parrot my patter. But sometimes fate steps in and has some mercy on your audience, pulling the plug on the Power Points…and then it’s time to tap dance.

It just happened to me this past Friday when I was presenting to a group of accounting students at a big conference here in Detroit. The subject was “communicating across the generations in the workplace.” The organizers sent me a template for my deck and I dutifully prepared some slides, most of which were silly photos. About 3 slides into my talk the computer died…and I couldn’t have been happier. Screw the slides! No longer tied to the cadence of the deck I could say anything I damned pleased in any order I wanted and the students seemed to relax, warming to the subject matter. I could use words and phrases and anecdotes to paint much better pictures than I could construct on Power Point. The only downside was they had nothing to look at but lil’ ol’ me. The computer was eventually repaired..it wasn’t plugged in..so I pushed the slides ahead but I really didn’t use them until the last one because it contained a funny photo that provided the punchline for the whole thing.

But by far, my most harrowing experience came in 2006 when I was asked by my company, DaimlerChrysler, at the time, to give a major talk about our social media initiatives. Oh..it was in Germany, at a Germany PR conference, in which me and a Dutch guy were the only ones presenting in English. The Dutch guy said he was presenting in English only as a courtesy to me, which I appreciated. I flew into Stuttgart on the company plane, which was nice, and later that day, drove the 90 minutes up the Autobahn to Wiesbaden, the site of the conference. I was already quite jet lagged, but the moderator of the conference, a short, mischievous, professor from Switzerland named Markus, insisted on taking us to a late dinner and cocktails until 3 a.m.  Too bad I had to get up at 6 a.m. for the conference.

Four hours into the conference I was half asleep and it was finally my turn. My presentation contained 62 slides. Things started well enough and then I heard a noise. The screen went up into the ceiling, the lights went out and the mic went dead. Markus, the bastard, smiled, looked at me and said, “if I was you, I’d keep talking.” Which I did, without benefit of slides, text or microphone, for 20 minutes. The audience seemed sympathetic and nodded a lot. Since the content of my talk included some very radical strategies, one German gentleman representing an automotive supplier piped up, “you are one  impertinent bastard! I wish I was you!” I got through the hour-long talk totally winging it and when I was done, received a nice round of applause even though many in the audience probably had no idea what I was saying. Maybe they were just glad I was done. I know I was, and honestly, quite grateful, my Power Points took a powder letting me just be me, and proving once and for all, when your slides take their leave, there’s no reason to hit the deck.

 

When 2+2=BS

statisticsOne of the best books I ever read was a slim little paperback thing published in 1954 titled “How to Lie With Statistics,” by Darrell Huff. It was required reading in my “Ethics in Journalism” course at the University of Arizona when I attended grad school there in 1978.

I bring this book to your attention because it should also be required reading for anyone who takes any stock in the myriad of public opinion polls tossed in our faces during this dreadful political season.

Huff warns us, “The secret language of statistics, so appealing in a fact-minded culture, is employed to sensationalize, inflate, confuse, and oversimplify,”

Indeed. If you don’t already know this, polls are not the same as elections. News organizations buy polls to give them something to report, regardless of their accuracy. Polls are also useful for earning publicity for the purchasing news organization because every time the poll is cited in another news organization’s story, the purchasing network, station or publication’s name is mentioned…like the CNN/Wall Street Journal Poll, or the Mad Magazine/Hustler Poll. I made that one up. Doesn’t matter if the polls reflect reality. They can always tout the “margin for error,” to explain away the fact the poll’s results could be full of crap.

Political candidates buy polls to convince voters they’re winning. Corporations purchase polls to prove the world can’t live without their products or services.

It’s all in the wording of the questions. Sure, there can be the simple choice of candidate listed. But then the questions become even more leading. Say, “If Donald Trump wasn’t a misogynistic, lying creep, how much more likely would you be to vote for him?” Or. “How much does the fact that Hillary Clinton may very well be indicted affect your decision whether or not to vote for her?”

A company touting, say, its new miracle product  might ask consumers identified as ex-felons, “Agree or disagree that your personal well-being would be enhanced with a product that could completely dissolve the serial number from a weapon used in a crime.”

Huff covers that possibility with the declaration “there is terror in numbers.”

You may recall the polls appeared to predict Mitt Romney unseating Barack Obama from the White House four years ago, only to be handily disproven when actual votes were counted. The polls showed that because those cited were “internal polls” taken for Romney, and paid for by Romney’s organization. Gotta keep the customer satisfied, until poor Mitt let his polls blind him into deciding not to write a concession speech “just in case.” Unfortunately for him, the real poll, known as the election, didn’t square with his self-serving survey and Mitt had to concede to the fact he was unprepared to cogently concede.

This is why I completely disregard any sort of poll plastered on the screen or on the page, no matter the subject. I learned long ago, courtesy Darrell Huff’s 144 pages of truth, the margin for error, is the poll itself.

 

 

 

 

 

(Not so) Brilliant Disguise

badcostumeLet me get this on the table right away. I’m a complete failure at masquerading.

I’ve never been successful at converting myself into something or someone I’m not by way of creative costuming. I guess it started when I was about 5 years old. My mother bought me one of those costumes in a box so I could look appropriately spooky when begging, er, trick or treating. Yes. I was a a devil. The cheap plastic mask’s sharp edges cut into my eyes and lips, so by the time I got home and discovered most of my loot consisted of stupid Mary Janes and Smarties I looked like an extra on the Walking Dead. The costume itself was no better. The only way to put it on was to step into a too-small slit in the back, which I promptly made much bigger by stepping onto the seam and ripping it to the point where my butt was now hanging out in the cold October rain. Yes. It always rained on Halloween in Queens, NYC, NY.

The following years I took the easy way out and simply cut a couple of eye holes and pie hole for my mouth in an old sheet to make myself look like a ghost. Unfortunately, I was so short and the sheet so long, I wasn’t really spooky looking, but did do a an excellent job at masquerading as unfolded laundry. I was not amused when I found several dryer sheets in my trick or treat bag.

For many subsequent Halloweens I stayed home and handed out candy, thus sparing myself the indignity of publicly displaying my pathetic inability to adequately cover my street clothes with scream clothes. It also gave me the opportunity to taunt kids wearing what I thought were loser costumes, with such frothy bon mots as “hope the sex change is successful,” and “you don’t need candy. Here’s a can of Slim Fast.” The upside was I got valuable exercise washing the egg off our windows.

When I was dating my wife, we hitchhiked from college to her home, about 70 miles away, one Halloween. Didn’t matter we were both 20, we decided to dress as bums and hit up her neighbors for some Tootsie Rolls or other junk from which we could get a sugar high. Good plan. Bad execution. A burly guy answered the first door we knocked, looked us up and down and barked “you guys look old enough to work!” as he slammed the door in our faces. Luckily, the drinking age in New York at the time was 18, so we found solace in a six-pack of Genesee Cream Ale.

Fast forward to my mid-twenties when my wife and I were invited to a very hip annual Halloween bash at a co-worker’s house in Tucson, Arizona. Being a perfect couple, neither of us had any idea of how to dress up. In a fit of both desperation and utter stupidity, we decided to come as a pair of milk bottles. Don’t ask. I have no adequate reply. Bourbon may have been involved. We made the costumes out of newspapers painted white with “Milk” written in black on the front. You’re probably wondering why no photos of this? Luckily this was in the later 1970’s and both social media and camera phones didn’t exist. People didn’t exactly walk around with Instamatics everywhere. Oh. We also decked the one wiseguy who did and attempted to snap us.

Duly traumatized by the experience, we swore off any subsequent attempts at Halloween costuming. We never discouraged our kids from doing so and indeed, they were much better at pulling off the annual rite of disguise.

Our kids are now grown so our trick or treating days are long over, leaving us to be the ones to answer the door. I always get a kick out of seeing the faces of sugar solicitors who are obviously beyond what I would consider the valid age for candy bar begging and bark, “you look old enough to work!”

A remote relationship

Every time this commercial for Comcast/Xfinity’s new voice remote comes on we have to watch. Why? Maybe it’s because it’s campy, a little annoying, but who can fault a spot that spoof’s Rick Springfield’s “Jesse’s Girl”?  As it turns out, we upgraded our service the other day, and sure enough it included the voice remote. Oh, it’s a regular remote, but if your fingers or thumbs are too gentle to mash buttons you can hold down the little button with a drawing of a microphone and yell out, “Watch Real Eunuchs of Bombay County!” and the show will magically appear.

Of course, this opened the door to all sorts of mayhem. You can ask the blanket question, “what’s on right now?” A guide will pop up, then it’s up to you to page though hundreds of channels only to realize there’s nothing worthwhile to watch except maybe the Jewish Customs Channel now playing a series called “The Magic Mohel.” Lots of good tips.

Thought I’d challenge the remote’s capabilities by demanding a show featuring politicians that neither grope women nor charge exorbitant fees for telling Wall Street moneymongers what they want to hear. After a moment the message appeared on the screen, “Sorry. That content does not exist.” Some upgrade.

I was really in the mood for a cartoon and verbally requested a classic Bugs Bunny. Deciding it was time to impress me, my TV shot back, “there are only 15,000 Bugs Bunny cartoons. You want one that includes Elmer Fudd, Porky Pig, Daffy Duck, or the one where Bugs and Yosemite Sam get stoned and have a great time repeatedly tripping up Road Runner?” No one likes a smartass TV.

The last straw was when I very politely asked to view an episode of “The Voice” featuring mimes.” Exasperated with my unusual requests the curt, but firm message on the screen made it clear we were no longer on speaking terms. It said something like, “Take your thumbs out of  your ass and start pressing my buttons.” That’s freakin’ Comcastic.

 

 

 

 

My return to the Fourth Estate

When I left my job as General Motors beat writer at the Detroit News in 2005 to start, then, DaimlerChrysler’s first blog, I figured it was maybe a year’s break from news. But the company made it too good for me to leave by creating a digital media team and put me in charge of it. It was a great run and as many of you know, I retired from the company at the end of July. But I wasn’t quite ready to completely withdraw from the working world. My goal had always been to finish out my career back in news and I’m thrilled to announce I start today as a part-time video reporter for the Automotive News. This way I’ll be able to resume covering the most fascinating, unpredictable and vital industry with a premier news organization while remaining semi-retired.

The Automotive News has a special place in my heart. When I was laid off from CNN in 2001 after almost 20 years I found that local TV stations in Detroit were not interested in an ex-network guy and I did not want to move my family since my kids were still in school. I decided to contact Ed Lapham, the editor of the Automotive News, whom I’d interviewed many times on CNN as an industry analyst. Print people are generally skeptical of the writing abilities of broadcast journalists but Ed made me a deal. I could write some stories as a freelancer as a sort of audition. If I passed the test, perhaps there would be full time job for me. I passed the test after 6  or 7 stories but alas, there were no open positions. The experience, however, gave me confidence I could function well in the print world. One day I got a call from the Detroit bureau chief at the Associated Press who was looking for a new national auto writer. He too, wasn’t sure a TV guy could hack it in the print world but the Automotive News clips I provided sealed the deal. A little over a year later, the Detroit News recruited me for the GM beat writer job. I can say with great candor that without the chance given to me at the Automotive News my post-CNN/broadcast life might have been very different, and certainly not as lucrative.

It’s now such a pleasure and honor to come full circle in the late stages of my career and be able to be part of the Automotive News team. This time it will be an opportunity to combine my print and broadcast skills. How much more perfect can that be?

Razor Burn

libraryThis is a photo of what I saw when I looked up from the book I was reading in the library today. That book was the latest silliness from Carl Hiaasen that opens with a woman who gets in a car accident because while she was driving she was shaving her, uh, girl area. razorgirlKnowing Hiassen I’m convinced the book will evolve into something even more, um, entertaining, but looking at what was in front of me I felt a bit ashamed. A careful look at the selections of books on CD, and instead of enjoying my guilty pleasure, I could have chosen to learn to speak Hindi, French or Turkish or hear a reading of the life and times of Coco Chanel or step by step instructions to debug my laptop or whittle a likeness of Grover Cleveland. All worthy choices, but I’ll stick with Hiassen’s “Razor Girl,” because, well, honestly, I think more than enough people already know how to speak Hindi. 

In support of Guido Bruhl

While many voters are in struggling over the POTUS choices, I think back to the 1964 elections: Goldwater vs LBJ. My father hated them both but respected our distinguished neighbor..a man named Guido Bruhl. His son Gunther was a classmate of mine. His wife Christine was a seamstress whom my mother employed from time to time. On election day my exasperated father declared, “I’m voting for Guido Bruhl!” No matter that the excellent Mr. Bruhl was ineligible as he was born in Germany and even wore Liederhosen on occasion. From that time on, each election cycle, when the choices were less than optimal, our family let it be known our support was firmly behind Guido Bruhl. We never bothered to inform Guido Bruhl of this fact, which was a strategic move as he was a very large man with a mustache.

A New Year’s Sermon..and some jokes

rosh2016Today is New Year’s Day 5777 Don’t look for a ball to drop in Times Square, but perhaps a matzo ball or two will plunk into a shisl of chicken soup. It’s OK if you’re not wearing a silly hat, but it’s OK to wear a yarmulke. Noisemakers? Um..no, unless you want the rabbi to toss you out on your talis. Why are we 3,761 years ahead of everyone else? Ever wait for a Jew to get ready to get in the car? We needed that much of a head start.

Unlike the secular turning of the calendar celebrated with drunken gatherings and other forced frivolity, today, on Rosh Hashanah, we Jews spend the day seriously assessing our lives of the past year and hope to book another trip around the sun by being inscribed in the Book of Life after seeking forgiveness and atonement for our sins 10 days hence on Yom Kippur. That’s the day you don’t eat. You pray and think and hope the other old men in the temple broke the rule long enough to brush their teeth.

When I was younger I never missed a Sabbath or holiday to attend temple. Before we had kids my non-Jewish wife and I attended each other’s services. Then, as life intervened, we stopped, but we never stopped celebrating and respecting our holidays and faiths and teaching our children about them. Indeed, my late mother marveled at my wife’s wonderful matzo balls and tried to pry from her that “secret recipe.” My wife simply deadpanned, “I followed the directions on the box.” She must be great at following directions because they still kick the tushies of those I’ve had in the best Jewish delis.

By the same token, I’ve helped erect and decorate the Christmas tree and my wife makes sure the right number of Chanuka candles are in the menorah. I noticed that this year the two holidays are on the same day. Since Jesus started as a Jew we can celebrate his birthday and..conversion..simultaneously!

There’s not much I can contribute to Easter besides using some Peeps to plug up some holes in our pipes, but my wife puts on an absolutely incredible Passover seder. Yes, we read the entire story from the Hagadah before dinner and have never once missed a year.

The real point is, on this day of reflection, we’re all one. We may have different beliefs about how the world began, who’s running  the show or what symbols to respect, but we all want the same things…health, happiness, good things for our families, success and peace and maybe a Dove bar once in awhile.  And you must always add humor. We used to joke that a mezzuzah is just a cross without handlebars. Remember that. Be well.

 

 

Mall Story

mallDo you still visit the mall? We do because it’s a place to walk when the weather is bad. But we don’t actually buy anything at the mall because the prices are higher since the stores have to pay rent equivalent to Venezuela’s annual budget.

Today is a rainy day so my son and I used the mall to kill some time and get some exercise. As we walked along the concourses we passed one store after another all missing the same thing: customers. The hangdog looks of the bored clerks, ahem, associates, ahem kids earning money to feed their Starbucks habits, is pretty pitiful. As you walk by they stare at you with the same longing a Millennial might have for a 3-hour work day. Indeed, no one’s holding anything besides a latte’, a baby stroller or pretzel. Actual merchandise purchases? None, unless you count a box of Cinnabons.

Stores for overpriced purses, Native American blankets and trinkets, tea, popcorn, tuxedos, $200 jeans, ladies evening wear, faux diamond jewelry, candles, make up, fudge, cases for smartphones, eyebrow knitting and shoes, shoes, shoes, shoes. All sorts of things, but no one to buy them. Even the anchor stores appear adrift. As we buzzed through one to get to the exit a hopeful sales person begs to help me.  When you politely respond, “sorry, just making a beeline for my car,” their face sags as if you just insulted their kicky little name badge.

I’m not ashamed to admit I’m old enough to remember a time before enclosed shopping malls and they were fun, festival-like market places. But when erstwhile open air centers, like Green Acres and Roosevelt Field on Long Island  were “malled” they instantly became popular destinations jammed with actual shoppers. Yeah, we bought things. Malls were also places we could drive to and hang out just after we received our drivers licenses. Now, they’re as cool as MySpace, populated mainly by speed walkers who would just as soon mow you down rather than avoid a collision that threatens to slow their pace.

Yes, malls are still jammed with Christmas shoppers but it’s not the same. In the 70’s when we lived in Central New York State we’d make a 30-mile trip to Syracuse and power shop at Fairmount Fair or Shoppingtown Dewitt. We’d buy so much we’d have to make several trips to the car to dump our bags and dive back in for more. Both malls are now dead and we do most of our shopping online or at strip centers where prices are better and you can zip in and out without having to endure walking by the screaming at the kid’s play place.

It’s still a kick to walk around the mall once in awhile, but I really don’t buy anything except maybe a snack or a drink from a vending machine. Although it is a little bit of fun when one of those obnoxious kids working at a pushcart attempts to stick a sample of “essence of tripe” under your nose, you advise them “get that away from me! It triggers my recurring flesh-eating bacteria.” It’s all in good fun.

 

 

Dupes are Wild

nflwildcardWhy do they call it the “wild card” spot in the playoffs? Doesn’t “wild card” really mean a card that can be anything? You know…deuces are wild! That means even a lowly 2 of clubs can be an ace of spades. When it comes to the playoffs for Major League Baseball and the NFL the term “wild card” refers to teams with mostly marginal records scamming a shot at actually winning the league championship by recording just enough victories to gain a spot in the tournament to fill in the bottom half of one of the brackets.  mlbwildcardNow by definition, if such teams were truly “wild cards” they could act like the wild deuce in poker and play as the first place team if they wished, gaining home field advantage and playing the worst-qualifying team in the first round. But they are not wild. They are what they are. Deuces who remain worthless twos, where every other card is better.  Indeed, “wild card” is a misguided euphemism for “crappiest team to scam a seat at the adult table.”

The NHL and NBA are much more honest about a team’s position in the playoffs. Teams are ranked by their records. Number 1 plays number 8 in the first round. In baseball, number 8 could hide its lousy record behind the “wild card” label. Actually, in baseball there are two wild card teams, giving  fans in two cities hope their under-achieving teams have a shot at the big prize.

Now, if I’m on a team that actually played well most of the season and earned a division or conference title I would be royally pissed that some lowly wild card team could get lucky and eliminate my team from contention   and win the championship, as has happened several times.

When I was a kid, it was simple in baseball. The first place teams in the American and National Leagues at the end of the regular season played each other in the World Series to determine that year’s champion. If your team ended up a half-game out after game 162, tough beans. Better luck next year. That made for some amazing pennant races and gave the regular season real meaning.

Remember the original meaning of the term. If you’re a “wild card,” it just means you have the right to pretend you’re something you’re not.