meeting across the river

I hate meetings. Meetings are stupid, non-productive and a colossal waste of time. For the most part, they serve to give office dead weight somewhere to go to justify their coming into work everyday. At my last job, meetings were a daily event for a lot of my co-workers. Topics were discussed in a series of cliches and buzzwords, most of which baffled a lot of folks in my department. Corporate jargon was bandied about in cryptic cadence, often mixing up the mysterious metaphors — like "getting your cats in a row" or "herding ducks"— making them even more confounding. My close colleagues and I would exit those grueling marathons with absolutely no clue as to what had just transpired. We were clueless as to whether we were headed in the same strategic direction as a department.

But, there was always lunch, so it wasn't a total loss.

Years ago, I worked in the advertising department of a large, national after-market auto parts supplier (you probably know which one). I was one of a dozen graphic artists whose responsibilities included the production of the company's weekly advertising circular for the Sunday newspaper. These multi-panel broadsheets consisted of hundreds of items jammed into postage stamp-sized blocks arranged in large, colorful grids that were spread over four (sometimes six) pages. Every week, it seemed, the same items were featured in the ads but their positions were rearranged like a big Rubik's Cube. Before a new ad was composed, the production department (of which I was a part) would meet with the executive advertising team, as well as the product-line buyers, to discuss what would be included in the coming week's circular. The groups would assemble in a large, paneled conference room, everyone jockeying for position at the oblong table. Department members would do their best to sit together in order to compare hastily-scribbled notes. Sometimes, due to prior commitments, late arrivals had to find a seat far from their department colleagues, forced to "wing-it" on their own. These meetings were pointless because the same items were advertised over and over and, throughout the course of the week, the decisions made in the meeting were overridden by the "powers-that-be" who couldn't remember what they decided three days earlier.

One meeting in particular, I was able to grab a seat near the Vice-President of Advertising. The actual President of Advertising, curiously, never attended these meetings. As I recall, he was rarely even seen, usually spending his days behind a closed office door at the end of a hallway. On the rare occasion when he was spotted, he was only glimpsed for a few seconds as he carried a cup of coffee back to his office, his tanning-booth skin tone harsh beneath the overhead florescent lights. His "second-in-command" — a bespectacled, lanky gentleman who, I swear to God, was stoned off his ass every second of the day — led the meetings in his superior's stead. And there I was, seated to his right, the faint smell of marijuana between us (although that could have just been the power of suggestion and reputation). I was surrounded by others from my department, all waiting with a fresh page of a legal pad and our ball-points poised at the ready. The room began to fill up with buyers and assistant buyers, along with representatives from the pricing department. Minutes before the meeting commenced, my pal Steeveedee, a copywriter from the advertising department, rushed in looking harried and scanning the room for an available chair. He spotted one  in the far corner and snaked and shuffled his way through the crowded room to get to it. The meeting began. Buyers shouted for attention and the production team asked everyone to slow down with their directions as they feverishly jotted down instructions as quickly as possible. I watched Steeveedee arrange and rearrange papers and notes in his hands, a look of deep concentration on his face. 

That's when I decided to be an asshole.

I inconspicuously withdrew my cellphone from my pocket and sent a three-word message to Steeveedee's number. I slowly and deliberately typed the fourteen-letter message and hit the "send" button.

"Go fuck yourself" it read.

In a few seconds, I watched Steeveedee fish in his pocket and extract his phone. I watched as he looked down at his phone over the tops of his glasses and pressed the buttons to retrieve his messages. I watched as his eyes darted across the tiny screen of his phone as he read my message. I watched as his cheeks puffed out and he bit his lip to stifle, what was obviously going to be, a very loud and hearty laugh. I watched as Steeveedee closed his eyes to regain his composure and then glanced around the room for — who else? — me.

And there I was — smiling and holding back a laugh myself — when his eyes finally landed on me.

I still hate meetings, but I sure liked that one.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

a tick, a tick, a tick, good timin'

I have a friend who is a criminal defense lawyer in the Philadelphia area. I see her on the train every so often and we have a short conversation until we get to my stop which is a mere twenty minutes from the downtown station where we board. It's not nearly enough time to cover everything since the last time we saw each other.

The last time I saw her (which I believe was at the end of last summer), she told me a funny little anecdote that I will share with you now.

Since she practices law by herself, she rents a single office in a suite belonging to another law firm in a building in Philadelphia. One afternoon, the other law firm had a conference involving several attorneys from various other law firms. During a break in the discussion, one of the visiting attorneys — a man named Robin — received a call on his cell phone. He glanced up from the lighted screen of his mobile device and caught the attention of the hosting attorney.

"Is there somewhere that I can take this call in private?," he asked.

"Sure.," the host replied and he directed his office guest down a hallway to an empty conference room on the left. 

Robin smiled and thanked him as he toddled off down the hall. However, when he reached the end of the hall, he stopped and looked at his options. On the left was the conference room to which he had been offered and directed. On the right, was the unoccupied office of a law partner who had gone out to grab some lunch to bring back. The office looked way more inviting with its dark wood shelves filled with endless bound volumes of law books, its large polished wood desk, its surface arranged with neat piles of papers and folders corralled within two gold-trimmed trays. Behind the desk was a big chair, upholstered in leather the color of chocolate and trimmed with brass nailheads displaying an antiqued patina. Robin assessed the two rooms and, defying earlier instruction, turned right, taking a seat in the chair behind the desk. He continued on his call, even elevating his feet to the desk top and leaning back to test the support of the chair.

Be with you in a minute.

The partner returned to the office with his bagged midday meal. He acknowledged a few co-workers before setting out down the hall with plans of eating his lunch while he did some work at his desk. When he got to the doorway of his office, he was startled. After all, there was a strange man in his chair, the soles of his shoes exposed on top of his desk he was sitting behind. The partner was rendered speechless, but within a moment or two, he gathered his composure and opened his mouth, about to release a barrage of questions to the intruder.

He was halted though, as Robin, barely looking up from his call, extended his arm and popped his index finger up in the universally-understood gesture of "just a minute."

The partner was dumbfounded. He was being stifled by some guy parked at his desk in his office. Some guy! But the phone call ended abruptly. Robin sprang to his feet and grunted a nearly-inaudible "thanks" as he squeezed by the partner and bopped down the hall to rejoin his conference.

So, that's the story. I was just as dumbfounded as the partner. Maybe because I know Robin and his behavior wasn't surprising.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

stop making sense

Você tem alguma idéia do que eu estou dizendo?

I entered the corporate world in the middle 90s when I took a job designing and composing newsletters for a large legal publisher. My background in newspaper composition coupled with my newly-gained experience in Pagemaker 4.0 made me a natural for the position. Prior to this job, I had worked in small businesses of not more than 10 or 15 employees. 

Within a few years, I grew bored and decided to move on. I became the art director for a Philadelphia-based chain of floor-covering stores. Here, I designed daily ads and weekly circulars. I knew nothing about carpet and yet, I managed to produce successful advertising during the three years of my employ. It was also during my tenure there that I was first exposed to the inane corporate jargon that is so prevalent in conference rooms and offices today. My boss — a shrewd, deceptive and despicable businessman — would regularly spew buzzwords at meetings. His favorite was "smartbombs." While discussing which lines of carpeting should be featured on the front of a four-page newspaper insert, he'd veer off course and say "We need to drop some smartbombs. That's what customers respond to — smartbombs!" I worked for him fifteen years ago and I still have no idea what a fucking smartbomb is.

Once again, I grew bored with my job and sought employment elsewhere. This time, I ended up in the marketing department of a national after-market auto parts supplier. Here's where the real corporate bullshit was. Advertising meetings were packed to standing-room. Executive Vice-Presidents in charge of who-knows-what would erupt in phrases like "low-hanging fruit" and "vertical thinking" and "tuna and bananas." Tuna and bananas? I thought we sold auto parts.

At my current employer (a job I have had for nearly ten years, and after this blog post, I hope to still have), every day is a new lesson in the business world lexicon. I have scratched my head trying to figure out what some of my co-workers are saying. It sounds like English. I have heard those words before, just not in that order or in that context. When I started out in the field of graphic design, I used to make these things called "brochures." Now, they have become "deliverables." People "used" things. Now, they "utilize" them, Co-workers would "call" each other. Now, they "reach out" to one another. We no longer "talk about it later." Now, we must "take it offline." Unless, of course, you are "off reservation," though I honestly don't know what that one means. Not content with the already-confusing clichés, someone decided to start mixing them up, like a big, interchangeable, corporate Mad-Libs. I once had someone tell me that a specific task was "in my wagon wheel." Later that same day, in a meeting, someone said "let's get our cats in a row" followed two sentences later by "that's like herding ducks." I wanted to stand up and interrupt the proceedings by asking, "What the actual fuck are you talking about?" I often wonder if they spoke this way only when dressed in freshly-pressed Dockers and a button-down Oxford. 

I believe that the proliferation of this overly flowery, often nonsensical code-language attempts — over anything else — to make the user sound more intelligent. Often, these words are being used incorrectly (as is the mistaken synonymy of "use" and "utilize"), along with incorrect grammar ("me and him" or "contact Joe and I") for added effect. In reality, "corporate-speak" only serves to make the user look the opposite of intelligent. There's a word for that, but it eludes me at the moment.

You wanna come off as "intelligent" to your superiors and subordinates alike? Concentrate more on the substance of your ideas and less on how you talk about them.

Also, you could try using the word "proliferation" more, 'cause that's a cool word.

(That illustration at the top of this post entry is called a "word cloud." Another "buzzword." It makes for a great design, but it's total bullshit.)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com