When I left my last management position some years ago, I had certainly covered a lot of ground, working in that capacity for a range of private, government, and non-profit organizations. I had bookshelves lined with a progression of management books, and since I had seen theory after theory gain popularity only to die at the hands of the next, I focused my career on approaches producing reliably demonstrative results—and successfully so, especially how to effectively build cultures to boost productivity, morale, superior customer satisfaction and bottom-line results for stakeholders.
So, knowing I was walking into an already overpopulated field, I became a consultant, differentiating my business by serving small businesses normally unable to afford consultants. My fees would be created by eliminating the inefficiencies attributable in part to labor relations and inadequate business plans, drawing on work from Drucker to Oncken along with my own practical experience.
To publicize my new endeavor, I offered to write a regular column for local newspaper’s business page, much to the delight of the editor, and then to readers. Business was good.
And not. I was perfectly happy to offer free initial visits and consultations (probably a must given my clientele anyway), considering it research as much as business opportunity, but many of these were completely outside of anything my services could address. My favorite is the auto parts store owner who decided to buy an abandoned warehouse and build a skating rink. Interesting idea, really—skating all through these rooms. He wanted me to consult about layout. I had no experience to offer him, and said so, but still took a look out of curiosity. He did volunteer that he was leaving management of the auto parts store to his daughter while he focused on his new venture. I offered my more applicable services there, but he wasn’t interested. The enterprise folded a few years later (I don’t know for what reason).
Lots of encounters mirrored this experience. In particular, people wanted anything but what I offered, not recognizing its importance—part of why so many businesses do those things so poorly. Most people know the statistics—4 out of 5 small businesses fail—but all too often blame the economy, the business climate, taxes, energy costs and so forth (all admittedly factors) without considering the most obvious, consistent reason—people make poor decisions.
This was the problem with my own business model. I assumed people would want to maximize profit (while earning a living in a reasonably enjoyable and purposeful work environment). Larger businesses are forced to adhere to such economic models (or at least pay some reasonable amount of attention to them), but ego and personality plays a far larger role than economics addresses. Small businesses are more likely to do things just because they want to do them, whether an odd location, a hobby commercialized regardless of markets, or brief hours serving the owner instead of the customer.
Further, however nicely I explained it, however lightly I tread, however much I noted that even Michael Jordan has a coach, another set of eyes, the simple reality of consulting is this—some smart ass who just walked in is going to tell you how to run the business you’ve spent years building. Sure, you called the consultant, and because you can see you have problems you can’t solve alone, but still, mainly you just want to be right, and to make the best use of consulting services, you have to be wrong. Ticklish indeed. The extreme, though, was the Brooklyn Pickle.
This popular sandwich/soup shop, located in the next county, was a referral. As I usually did, I stopped by unannounced and anonymous before meeting the owner, bought a sandwich, sat down and just watched, making notes. Several points were obvious—customers waited in a long line before splitting to order from two sandwich lines, then served by a single person who both made the sandwich fresh and walked back to serve up soup. Chips and drink coolers lined the walls of the dining area—these could be moved along the line of waiting customers, or an employee could be taking orders and fetching them. Lunch crowds don’t like to wait, as they have little time, and this could increase sales too. More importantly, EVERY server along both serving lines had to wait to conclude each sale until a single manager could ring up the sale—a major bottleneck.
Many areas of the business were quite good—the product was both excellent and differentiated. Both sandwiches and soups were delicious, always fresh, and featured “country style” with large chunks of veggies instead of the finely processed offering elsewhere. Further, offices or other groups could order six foot long subs, featuring multiple types of meat, protected with long, colorful toothpicks for easy carving, and presented in a sturdy, well designed box—delivered, of course. Lots of good material here.
Best of all, the owner wanted help to address EXACTLY what my services primarily offered—he trained employees one way, but turned around and they disregarded their training, despite repeated redirection. A personnel culture issue. The owner was going on vacation for a few weeks, but we arranged a meeting for the day he returned.
On that day, I arrived early, met the managers (who were expecting me) and spent considerable time chatting with various employees as I wandered through the operation. When the owner arrived late in the morning, we introduced ourselves, exchanged brief small talk, and he offered, “We’re having a staff meeting in 15 minutes. Would you like to come?” Indeed I would! Perfect start. We gathered.
“Hi everybody!” he announced. “First, I want to thank you all. I had an absolutely delightful time in London and Paris. It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to go, and thanks to all of you, I was able to fulfill that dream!” Then on to business.
Yikes. Work hard, and one day this will all be mine. No wonder my notes were filled with accounts of seemingly hard working people who were very unhappy, including several who said, “I hope you can help us.” I didn’t feel any better about the situation when the owner welcomed me into his office, shut the door, and offered me a chair. “I just don’t get these people,” he started. “I do so much for them, and they just don’t appreciate it. Take today—I left a cake for them in the break room!” This was not going to be an easy job; the problem started at the top.
“Well, anyway…” he went on, describing in detail his problems, all of which revolved around uncooperative employees. He needed my help getting them to behave as trained. After all, he walked around, yelling at anyone not doing things exactly his way, but still they didn’t learn!
Then he leaned back, folded his arms, and proclaimed not unkindly if certainly firmly, “But before I can employ your services, I need to be convinced. How do I know you can help me? Why should I hire you?”
“Well, first, thank you for showing me your operation and giving me the opportunity to look around and talk to your staff.” He nodded in acknowledgement of the courtesy. “But Sir, frankly, I don’t think you should hire me. I don’t think I can help you. I’m very sorry.” One hard learned lesson I had forged from past experience is when not to waste time on a dead end.
He sat up straight, eyes sparkling. I had caught him completely off-guard. He was intrigued. We chatted at length, and now, largely out of curiosity I suspect, he offered me a several week deal. Greatly against my better judgment, and largely because I thought what a coup it would be to turn around such a difficult case, I accepted his proposition.
Thus started a few months of hell. He completely rejected my concerns about the logistics, arguing that “people expect to see me in the center of things at the cash register.” His employee problems stemmed from strict expectations, with no rewards for doing them, but scoldings for violating them, so people naturally just learned to avoid him, inventing and taking their own shortcuts, policy be damned. The epitome of this travesty was a long time employee he complained about the most—whose past long term job was at Disney. Now, few if any organizations train better than Disney. This was just the largest of the red flags.
I wrote a preliminary report, including that as things stood, I didn’t think the problem could be solved. Not only did it flow from the top, but also he had appointed one hard working but young and inexperienced kid as a manager. Not surprisingly, power went to the kid’s head, adding a fresh layer of hatred to an already bad situation. I added several recommendations and their rationales.
We met a few weeks later. “I went over your report,” he said. “Much of it was very hard to hear.” I nodded gently, knowing it had to have been. “I even went over it with a close business friend. He noted, ‘I can see where he’s coming from, but…’” and so forth, ultimately opting for the status quo. “So really, you’ve failed,” he proclaimed. No argument there. I suggested we settle up.
Instead, he asked me to do one more thing for him. Since I was clearly able to get people to open up and talk freely, and since he wanted to know what was really going on with his staff, he asked me to undertake a series of official interviews. I agreed, on the grounds that each interview would remain anonymous, and that I would summarize the findings as the group’s feelings. He agreed, and I proceeded.
In fact, I liked this arrangement. He was right—I WAS good at this sort of thing, and it could potentially help improve the labor climate. I enjoyed the interviews. Enter a new snag, however. The kid manager, perceiving me as a threat to his position (probably correctly), could never spare the two key employees (including the ex-Disney worker), the “ring leaders” of the opposition to management, so I never got to interview them. Finally, I gave up and completed the report without them. I sent it, along with my bill.
The owner responded with a few notes, emphasizing that since I hadn’t interviewed the key employees, the report held limited value. No kidding. But he also included a check, paying the account in full.
I decided there were more satisfying ways to earn a living.
Writer
Showing posts with label business. Show all posts
Showing posts with label business. Show all posts
Friday, August 3, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
What Happened to Customer Service?
Power outages due to thunderstorms and tornados in the U.S. and Canada for the past few days included phone service, so I tried calling my girl, catherine, at her sister’s Tim Horton’s store, figuring she’d probably be there helping out. I was right.
“May I speak to catherine, please,” I asked. “I’m sorry,” answered the voice at the other end of the line: “catherine has just gone on her break.”
Now, seems to me that the start of a break would be the perfect time to take a personal phone call. However, that’s not the world of employees today. Why would you waste your break on personal issues, instead of waiting until you were back on the clock?
I’m reminded of a few years ago when I stopped at an Ames department store just as it was opening to pick up a few quick items on my way to work. Seems a few people had called in sick. Consequently, for fifteen minutes, before any cashier waited on any customer, the staff hashed out what would be the adjusted break schedule for the day. First things first.
Customer service is so poor today that it doesn't seem unusual when cashiers don't even speak to the customers, talking to other employees instead. People accept ungainly rules and procedures customers must fulfill before the business takes money. Long lines are a given.
Better service is often the personality of an individual employee, rather than a company trait. If every employee promptly provided goods and efficiently processed payment, that still wouldn't constitute good service; that's just what the customer is paying for!
One common business response is "We're just doing what everyone else does." Frame that service policy in Lucite and hang it in the lobby: "In our business, we're just doing what everyone else does." Inspiring.
Unless your business has 100% market share, at least some customers prefer the competition's product. What would make them prefer your product? Lower price is one way, but it doesn't build customer loyalty. If the competition can beat your price, your customers will be gone. Quality service, however, does build customer loyalty, and many customers will stay even when the competition beats your price.
Any business with economic profits will attract competition. Without significant barriers to entry, your product can readily be copied or even improved. But if a business is ahead of the competition in service, that's difficult to imitate quickly.
Yet even businesses with very happy customers sometimes ruin this with careless policies. For example, when I bought my new Toyota, I was thrilled with the dealership. I was there because my old Toyota threw a rod that morning at 199,974 miles, so I needed a new car quickly. They pulled it off, all in the same day! I test drove cars, they shuffled cars around with other dealers, they got all the paperwork completed with motor vehicles, and I was ready to go to financing—not a problem at all, since my credit rating is about as high as it’s possible to get.
Except for one thing. They insisted on selling me Scotch Guarding for the seat fabric and undercoating for the chassis, adding it to the monthly payment. I declined. Mr. Nice Finance Guy turned Gestapo. “Well can I ask why not?” he demanded in a rather nasty tone. “Well first, that’s one hell of a price for Scotch Guarding. Why wouldn’t I just buy a can and spray it on? Anyway, I have an active dog who rides in the car everyday on the way to our run. A little spilled coffee is the least of my troubles.”
“Well aren’t you worried about the car rusting through?” Clearly these guys are trained in high powered sales pressure. “It’s not necessary with today’s cars,” I responded. “How do you know that?” he demanded.
“Look,” I said, tired of this game. “I just drove a car 199,974 in New York State weather. I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on the situation.” He finally dropped it.
I was only as calm as I was because I’ve seen it before. This is my third Toyota, and while the first purchase was fine, at the second purchase the finance guy was so persistent and so nasty that I was walking out the door. By chance, I ran into the body shop manager, a great guy I knew from previous interactions at the shop, who immediately stopped, saying, “You don’t look happy” and resolved the situation.
I shared this latest incident with the sales rep. “I was a happy customer up until this point,” I noted. “Why would they want to ruin that?” She could only nod. “I know,” she said. “We’ve had people walk from financing before.” Can those few extra bucks possibly be worth losing all those customers? I shared the experience with the Sales Manager. "Well, by law, if we offer a service to one customer, we have to offer it to all." Talk about missing the point.
A local consultant tells the story of a gentleman who had recently purchased a lusury car from a local dealership, and when a windshield wiper insert wore out after very little use, went back to nicely ask that it be replaced. “He was told in no uncertain terms that wiper inserts were not covered under his warranty and sent away,” explains the consultant. “Where do you think he’s going to buy his next car? Not there! Not only would I have given him the part for the few measly bucks it would cost—I’d have installed it for him and apologized!”
I buy Toyotas for the mileage, the reliability, and the fact that the service department is near my home (I live out in the country). I can tell you, though, that if another company up and coming moved nearby—Hyundai, for example—I’d certainly give them a serious look.
Apple takes this to extremes. They make and sell excellent computers. After that, unless you want to PURCHASE the right to service (at rather high costs), you’re just on your own. They don’t even pretend. They don’t do service. PC vendors aren’t much better. If I were to start a computer business, that’s where I’d start.
Excellent service is a rarity. Any business that delivers it will stand above the competition where it counts--with the customer.
Writer
“May I speak to catherine, please,” I asked. “I’m sorry,” answered the voice at the other end of the line: “catherine has just gone on her break.”
Now, seems to me that the start of a break would be the perfect time to take a personal phone call. However, that’s not the world of employees today. Why would you waste your break on personal issues, instead of waiting until you were back on the clock?
I’m reminded of a few years ago when I stopped at an Ames department store just as it was opening to pick up a few quick items on my way to work. Seems a few people had called in sick. Consequently, for fifteen minutes, before any cashier waited on any customer, the staff hashed out what would be the adjusted break schedule for the day. First things first.
Customer service is so poor today that it doesn't seem unusual when cashiers don't even speak to the customers, talking to other employees instead. People accept ungainly rules and procedures customers must fulfill before the business takes money. Long lines are a given.
Better service is often the personality of an individual employee, rather than a company trait. If every employee promptly provided goods and efficiently processed payment, that still wouldn't constitute good service; that's just what the customer is paying for!
One common business response is "We're just doing what everyone else does." Frame that service policy in Lucite and hang it in the lobby: "In our business, we're just doing what everyone else does." Inspiring.
Unless your business has 100% market share, at least some customers prefer the competition's product. What would make them prefer your product? Lower price is one way, but it doesn't build customer loyalty. If the competition can beat your price, your customers will be gone. Quality service, however, does build customer loyalty, and many customers will stay even when the competition beats your price.
Any business with economic profits will attract competition. Without significant barriers to entry, your product can readily be copied or even improved. But if a business is ahead of the competition in service, that's difficult to imitate quickly.
Yet even businesses with very happy customers sometimes ruin this with careless policies. For example, when I bought my new Toyota, I was thrilled with the dealership. I was there because my old Toyota threw a rod that morning at 199,974 miles, so I needed a new car quickly. They pulled it off, all in the same day! I test drove cars, they shuffled cars around with other dealers, they got all the paperwork completed with motor vehicles, and I was ready to go to financing—not a problem at all, since my credit rating is about as high as it’s possible to get.
Except for one thing. They insisted on selling me Scotch Guarding for the seat fabric and undercoating for the chassis, adding it to the monthly payment. I declined. Mr. Nice Finance Guy turned Gestapo. “Well can I ask why not?” he demanded in a rather nasty tone. “Well first, that’s one hell of a price for Scotch Guarding. Why wouldn’t I just buy a can and spray it on? Anyway, I have an active dog who rides in the car everyday on the way to our run. A little spilled coffee is the least of my troubles.”
“Well aren’t you worried about the car rusting through?” Clearly these guys are trained in high powered sales pressure. “It’s not necessary with today’s cars,” I responded. “How do you know that?” he demanded.
“Look,” I said, tired of this game. “I just drove a car 199,974 in New York State weather. I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on the situation.” He finally dropped it.
I was only as calm as I was because I’ve seen it before. This is my third Toyota, and while the first purchase was fine, at the second purchase the finance guy was so persistent and so nasty that I was walking out the door. By chance, I ran into the body shop manager, a great guy I knew from previous interactions at the shop, who immediately stopped, saying, “You don’t look happy” and resolved the situation.
I shared this latest incident with the sales rep. “I was a happy customer up until this point,” I noted. “Why would they want to ruin that?” She could only nod. “I know,” she said. “We’ve had people walk from financing before.” Can those few extra bucks possibly be worth losing all those customers? I shared the experience with the Sales Manager. "Well, by law, if we offer a service to one customer, we have to offer it to all." Talk about missing the point.
A local consultant tells the story of a gentleman who had recently purchased a lusury car from a local dealership, and when a windshield wiper insert wore out after very little use, went back to nicely ask that it be replaced. “He was told in no uncertain terms that wiper inserts were not covered under his warranty and sent away,” explains the consultant. “Where do you think he’s going to buy his next car? Not there! Not only would I have given him the part for the few measly bucks it would cost—I’d have installed it for him and apologized!”
I buy Toyotas for the mileage, the reliability, and the fact that the service department is near my home (I live out in the country). I can tell you, though, that if another company up and coming moved nearby—Hyundai, for example—I’d certainly give them a serious look.
Apple takes this to extremes. They make and sell excellent computers. After that, unless you want to PURCHASE the right to service (at rather high costs), you’re just on your own. They don’t even pretend. They don’t do service. PC vendors aren’t much better. If I were to start a computer business, that’s where I’d start.
Excellent service is a rarity. Any business that delivers it will stand above the competition where it counts--with the customer.
Writer
Monday, July 9, 2007
Eight Days a Week
For the past year, I’ve had the luxury of working four days a week. Well, much more accurately, just going into work four days a week—I work at home the other three days (and all the evenings). But still, it’s nice. Working five days in a row is OK, but two days off just isn’t enough to recuperate. Three day weekends work well, since the first day is devoted to much needed rest, the second on head clearing, and only the third on productive activity, before feeling refreshed and ready to go back to the office.
That’s why we should change to an eight day week.
Think about it, then contact your legislators. I propose an additional day, Labor Day, between Sunday and Monday each week, to institutionalize the five day work week, three day weekend, and each month with exactly four weeks—32 days, all the same. This would also simplify the calendar in several ways—each day would always be the same day of the month, for example--no more "What date? What day of the week is that?". Originally I thought the week (and month) should start on Monday, clearly separating the work week from the weekend, rather than splitting the weekend along calendar rows as we do now, but then I realized every month would have a Friday the Thirteenth. Let’s leave the week starting on Sunday, then—a bow to conservatives who won’t like having a Labor Day every week.
The months will need adjustments, since twelve months of 32 days each would give each year nineteen extra days (twenty on leap years)—but the weeks and months have supposedly been designed to follow the moon, and they don’t do that well at all anyway, so let’s combine June and July, creating a new month—Junly (pronounced June-LIE). This will ensure that children are still in school sufficient time to learn the curriculum (the same number of months), or at least as well as they do now—and cut the time they have to forget material over summer break, as well as save single working parents money on day care. Families wouild also have more regular weekend time together, and children more time to complete weekend homework.
Eleven months of 32 days each leaves thirteen days. I propose these be devoted to holidays—one national day off for Election Day, encouraging people to vote, and the other twelve for a national holiday at the end of the year (these “twelve days of Christmas” should mollify wealthy conservatives upset that Election Day will make it easier for the working poor to vote). And once every four years, the New Year will start with Leap Day!
Some critics will complain that this calendar sacrifices 40 business days over the course of a year, hurting the economy, but this is not the case. First, it will cut costs at financial institutions and for the Postal Service. Second, rested workers will be ready to return to work each week refreshed, with better attitudes, and hence be more productive. Additionally, those workers will have parties and barbeques far more often, go out to concerts and restaurants more, shop more, and so forth, all adding to gross domestic production, increasing tax revenue, and creating jobs. And finally, many, many people already work on weekends, whether required or at home, and this won’t change with a three day weekend. (The Beatles were prescient on this one: “Love you ev’ry day, girl, always on my mind.”) The manufacturing sector and similar industries will have much more flexibility in organizing dovetailed schedules for continuous operations.
Just imagine the commercial possibilities! Instead of a twelfth month, each calendar will have only a twelve day holiday season—leaving lots of extra space for holiday advertising. Department stores could have a Labor Day sale every week!
Perhaps best of all—you’ll only spend 1/8th of your life on Monday, instead of 1/7th!
"Eight days a week...I loaloalove you...."
It's almost enough to show I care...!
A new day for America and the world.
Writer
That’s why we should change to an eight day week.
Think about it, then contact your legislators. I propose an additional day, Labor Day, between Sunday and Monday each week, to institutionalize the five day work week, three day weekend, and each month with exactly four weeks—32 days, all the same. This would also simplify the calendar in several ways—each day would always be the same day of the month, for example--no more "What date? What day of the week is that?". Originally I thought the week (and month) should start on Monday, clearly separating the work week from the weekend, rather than splitting the weekend along calendar rows as we do now, but then I realized every month would have a Friday the Thirteenth. Let’s leave the week starting on Sunday, then—a bow to conservatives who won’t like having a Labor Day every week.
The months will need adjustments, since twelve months of 32 days each would give each year nineteen extra days (twenty on leap years)—but the weeks and months have supposedly been designed to follow the moon, and they don’t do that well at all anyway, so let’s combine June and July, creating a new month—Junly (pronounced June-LIE). This will ensure that children are still in school sufficient time to learn the curriculum (the same number of months), or at least as well as they do now—and cut the time they have to forget material over summer break, as well as save single working parents money on day care. Families wouild also have more regular weekend time together, and children more time to complete weekend homework.
Eleven months of 32 days each leaves thirteen days. I propose these be devoted to holidays—one national day off for Election Day, encouraging people to vote, and the other twelve for a national holiday at the end of the year (these “twelve days of Christmas” should mollify wealthy conservatives upset that Election Day will make it easier for the working poor to vote). And once every four years, the New Year will start with Leap Day!
Some critics will complain that this calendar sacrifices 40 business days over the course of a year, hurting the economy, but this is not the case. First, it will cut costs at financial institutions and for the Postal Service. Second, rested workers will be ready to return to work each week refreshed, with better attitudes, and hence be more productive. Additionally, those workers will have parties and barbeques far more often, go out to concerts and restaurants more, shop more, and so forth, all adding to gross domestic production, increasing tax revenue, and creating jobs. And finally, many, many people already work on weekends, whether required or at home, and this won’t change with a three day weekend. (The Beatles were prescient on this one: “Love you ev’ry day, girl, always on my mind.”) The manufacturing sector and similar industries will have much more flexibility in organizing dovetailed schedules for continuous operations.
Just imagine the commercial possibilities! Instead of a twelfth month, each calendar will have only a twelve day holiday season—leaving lots of extra space for holiday advertising. Department stores could have a Labor Day sale every week!
Perhaps best of all—you’ll only spend 1/8th of your life on Monday, instead of 1/7th!
"Eight days a week...I loaloalove you...."
It's almost enough to show I care...!
A new day for America and the world.
Writer
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Friendship isn’t Easy
I probably shouldn’t have been allowed to watch Lassie, especially the movies. Lassie kept meeting new people, had amazing adventures, then had to move on. It was so sad. Why couldn’t they just all live near each other? Then Lassie could visit all of them each day. I cried every time.
Of course, life’s more complicated than that.
My first close friend was Michael, the kid who lived upstairs in the country home my parents rented when I was two. Seriously. I remember. He had a bottle collection, each carrying a fairy in the representation of a cartoon character. I couldn’t see them, but he could, and he told me. Sometimes he’d show me the flash of their sparks in the field. When my family moved away when I was ten, Michael and I continued writing and visiting each other through high school. I’ll never forget the crushing feeling when Michael’s mom, Shirley, was killed just a few days before Christmas, his twelfth birthday, on an icy road on her way to pick him up from school. The last time I visited him, we played basketball. I think he was lying about the fairies.
I had other good friends at my old house—Harold (the kid in the next house down the highway) and I were also friends for years after I moved, and although Robert (the next kid down the highway) and I weren’t as close, he always stood up for me when the school bus bullies got going.
Moving in the middle of fifth grade was not easy—back to square one friend-wise. Eventually, I became friends with Mike, whose mother edited the local paper (his dad seemed to just stay home). Mike introduced me to the game of Risk, which quickly became a passion for quite a few years. In junior high, I met Mark, a math wiz (frankly, I think cultivated by his parents to be so), and we had great fun playing logic based games, solving mathematical puzzles, and playing chess. I met Terry in Boy Scouts, and we planned a few long distance bicycle day trips (which, miraculously, our parents let us pursue independently). Terry also introduced me to sailing at scout camp, getting permission to take out the sailboat after politely but thoroughly embarrassing the boat keeper by demonstrating beyond any doubt that he knew far more about sailing than the adult supervisor.
By high school, all these friendships had fallen away (all new people again), and Les became my best friend. We met because he was the only other male flutist in the band. He was smart, and funny. We liked a lot of the same music. I had managed to join the elite Jazz Band as the guitarist when just a freshman, playing with my hero, a keyboardist with a local rock band and his excellent bass-player/girlfriend. They were seniors, though, and I taught Les to play bass (as a senior, he was the bassist for the state-wide Jazz Band). When I got too down on myself, Les would talk sense, something like, “Look, a lot of people have inferiority complexes, and they’re right, they ARE inferior, but you’re not…” and such. An AV volunteer, Les also had access to keys around the entire high school—and we made copies. We also learned how to break into locked rooms—just for the challenge of it, but when we were finally caught (my fault), administration was not amused. As high school faded away, so did the friendship.
In college, a state school, all I could afford, I met Gary, a gifted pianist who quickly became my best friend, accompanist (I was a bassoon major), tennis partner and roommate. One of those eerie connections—you know what each other is thinking, when the other calls before it happens, that sort of thing. Gary introduced me to a new, pop pianist I’d grow to appreciate, but when he brought this first album home, I asked, “Who the hell is Billy Joel?” [I introduced him to Emerson, Lake and Palmer.] We once had a long debate over Beethoven’s fifth, each wondering how the other could think such thoughts, until we eventually realized I was talking about the Fifth Symphony while Gary meant the fifth piano concerto. Entering music school, I was terrified I’d never be able to compete. Once there, I was appalled at the low quality. Finally, Gary pointed out that if all I was going to do was bitch, I owed it to myself to transfer. He was right. I auditioned, secured a performance scholarship from Ithaca College, and started my sophomore year once again a stranger.
I met Gordon in Art History class—as soon as the lights went out, so did Gordon—but he was also a music major, a trombonist, and we quickly became fast friends. Twice my weight and a foot taller, Gordon and I wrestled anyway, arm wrestled, went running, played baseball and football, quizzed each other on obscure music points (Gordon was a Stravinsky fanatic; I was a Classicist and Bartok enthusiast), and shared mutual acquaintances. We became housemates along with some other students and our friend Joe, a bass trombonist, in a complicated rental deal I put together to escape dorm life—a great year. I stayed summers at his family’s house in New Jersey, playing music festivals in the New York City area—and helping out when his father suffered a lesion in his brain.
When we graduated, Gordon hooked up with a former French horn classmate, and soon, Joe and I were invited to a wedding at her parent’s estate in Maine. The invitation included welcoming us to spend a week or two, before and after the ceremony, enjoying the land and the lake. Hey, why not?! When we got there, we found out why—we were cheap labor (which would have been OK, we were used to work), and not really particularly welcome to use the facilities, sailboats, etc. We stewed, but bit our lips for Gordon’s sake. The wedding finally came, followed by a few hours of reception before Gordon and Deb drove off on their honeymoon. Joe and I waved warmly until they were gone, looked at each other, were packed and on our way home inside of ten minutes.
I visited Gordon and Deb a few times at their home on the Hudson, but Deb and I had never been close, they had a new daughter, and Gordon was put off by my new focus on my management and writing interests for profit: “It’s like my friend is gone and replaced by this businessman.” We grew apart. Ironically, Gordon took his piano tuning college course and turned it into a piano technician business. Joe joined the Navy band and got so sick of playing that he became a CPA, got married, and moved to Oregon. He has two kids. His wife sends a Christmas card each year. I’m the only one of my classmates to fulfill our aspirations of performing professionally.
Since then, I’ve had a lot of wonderful acquaintances, housemates, colleagues, many of which I remember warmly, but no real close friends for years. Maybe I had just learned to stay aloof. [Notice that we’re just leaving girlfriends out of this discussion—another story entirely.] My career led to offers to teach music, then to teach writing, then to do so at better colleges, and those pursuits have largely been my focus.
Today, I have two people I’d count as close friends, both colleagues, both colorful characters.
Tim was an enigma from the start—a college custodian who also taught in the English department. Strange, but also well liked, easy going, with long experience, published, wonderfully clever sense of humor, Mensa member. We shared an affinity for puns, and traded several. We shared stories—Tim, the son of a Cornell scientist, had planned to become a large animal veterinarian, but severe arthritis ended those plans (Tim’s posture now resembles a question mark). We really got to know each other well when Tim broke his neck in a fall and had to spend six moths at home with a metal frame drilled into his head to hold it in place. Calm as he is, he was going stir-crazy, so since I had a regular church music job a few miles from his home, I spent each Sunday with Tim, hanging out, reading the paper, watching strange cable shows, solving the world’s problems. Since then we’re not as close—he took early retirement, and spends most of his time concerned with his grandchildren. “As it should be,” as Mary Poppins would say. We still talk from time to time, especially about gardening concerns.
Joe was an acquaintance, another affable colleague--until the day I had a long dispute with the woman then the department chair, one of these people who thinks that college means every student should be happy no matter what. “Well, here goes my career,” I only half jested, having finished the response I’d spent two weeks composing. “May I see it?” Joe asked. He read carefully, then looked up, and said quietly but firmly, “Do not send this letter. This is a bridge-burning document, and I’d hate to see that happen to you.” He spent the next three hours on a Friday afternoon helping me turn it into a still pointed but more balanced document. I deeply appreciated his help. He respected my sharing something so personal. We became friends.
Joe is also a musician, a self-trained banjo player active in the local music scene. He’s also no stranger to management—he started his own non-profit organization to bring world-quality folk music performers to the area. We’re fellow techies (along with Tim), and the first people to get asked such questions by our colleagues. Good thing we work together, though, or we’d never see each other. Joe was on the tennis team in school, and we talked about playing after classes, but we were just too busy. Ditto getting together just to visit. Then he met Kristen (I went to their wedding), and his time is mainly tied up there. And, of course, I’m certainly buried in my own work.
Writer
Of course, life’s more complicated than that.
My first close friend was Michael, the kid who lived upstairs in the country home my parents rented when I was two. Seriously. I remember. He had a bottle collection, each carrying a fairy in the representation of a cartoon character. I couldn’t see them, but he could, and he told me. Sometimes he’d show me the flash of their sparks in the field. When my family moved away when I was ten, Michael and I continued writing and visiting each other through high school. I’ll never forget the crushing feeling when Michael’s mom, Shirley, was killed just a few days before Christmas, his twelfth birthday, on an icy road on her way to pick him up from school. The last time I visited him, we played basketball. I think he was lying about the fairies.
I had other good friends at my old house—Harold (the kid in the next house down the highway) and I were also friends for years after I moved, and although Robert (the next kid down the highway) and I weren’t as close, he always stood up for me when the school bus bullies got going.
Moving in the middle of fifth grade was not easy—back to square one friend-wise. Eventually, I became friends with Mike, whose mother edited the local paper (his dad seemed to just stay home). Mike introduced me to the game of Risk, which quickly became a passion for quite a few years. In junior high, I met Mark, a math wiz (frankly, I think cultivated by his parents to be so), and we had great fun playing logic based games, solving mathematical puzzles, and playing chess. I met Terry in Boy Scouts, and we planned a few long distance bicycle day trips (which, miraculously, our parents let us pursue independently). Terry also introduced me to sailing at scout camp, getting permission to take out the sailboat after politely but thoroughly embarrassing the boat keeper by demonstrating beyond any doubt that he knew far more about sailing than the adult supervisor.
By high school, all these friendships had fallen away (all new people again), and Les became my best friend. We met because he was the only other male flutist in the band. He was smart, and funny. We liked a lot of the same music. I had managed to join the elite Jazz Band as the guitarist when just a freshman, playing with my hero, a keyboardist with a local rock band and his excellent bass-player/girlfriend. They were seniors, though, and I taught Les to play bass (as a senior, he was the bassist for the state-wide Jazz Band). When I got too down on myself, Les would talk sense, something like, “Look, a lot of people have inferiority complexes, and they’re right, they ARE inferior, but you’re not…” and such. An AV volunteer, Les also had access to keys around the entire high school—and we made copies. We also learned how to break into locked rooms—just for the challenge of it, but when we were finally caught (my fault), administration was not amused. As high school faded away, so did the friendship.
In college, a state school, all I could afford, I met Gary, a gifted pianist who quickly became my best friend, accompanist (I was a bassoon major), tennis partner and roommate. One of those eerie connections—you know what each other is thinking, when the other calls before it happens, that sort of thing. Gary introduced me to a new, pop pianist I’d grow to appreciate, but when he brought this first album home, I asked, “Who the hell is Billy Joel?” [I introduced him to Emerson, Lake and Palmer.] We once had a long debate over Beethoven’s fifth, each wondering how the other could think such thoughts, until we eventually realized I was talking about the Fifth Symphony while Gary meant the fifth piano concerto. Entering music school, I was terrified I’d never be able to compete. Once there, I was appalled at the low quality. Finally, Gary pointed out that if all I was going to do was bitch, I owed it to myself to transfer. He was right. I auditioned, secured a performance scholarship from Ithaca College, and started my sophomore year once again a stranger.
I met Gordon in Art History class—as soon as the lights went out, so did Gordon—but he was also a music major, a trombonist, and we quickly became fast friends. Twice my weight and a foot taller, Gordon and I wrestled anyway, arm wrestled, went running, played baseball and football, quizzed each other on obscure music points (Gordon was a Stravinsky fanatic; I was a Classicist and Bartok enthusiast), and shared mutual acquaintances. We became housemates along with some other students and our friend Joe, a bass trombonist, in a complicated rental deal I put together to escape dorm life—a great year. I stayed summers at his family’s house in New Jersey, playing music festivals in the New York City area—and helping out when his father suffered a lesion in his brain.
When we graduated, Gordon hooked up with a former French horn classmate, and soon, Joe and I were invited to a wedding at her parent’s estate in Maine. The invitation included welcoming us to spend a week or two, before and after the ceremony, enjoying the land and the lake. Hey, why not?! When we got there, we found out why—we were cheap labor (which would have been OK, we were used to work), and not really particularly welcome to use the facilities, sailboats, etc. We stewed, but bit our lips for Gordon’s sake. The wedding finally came, followed by a few hours of reception before Gordon and Deb drove off on their honeymoon. Joe and I waved warmly until they were gone, looked at each other, were packed and on our way home inside of ten minutes.
I visited Gordon and Deb a few times at their home on the Hudson, but Deb and I had never been close, they had a new daughter, and Gordon was put off by my new focus on my management and writing interests for profit: “It’s like my friend is gone and replaced by this businessman.” We grew apart. Ironically, Gordon took his piano tuning college course and turned it into a piano technician business. Joe joined the Navy band and got so sick of playing that he became a CPA, got married, and moved to Oregon. He has two kids. His wife sends a Christmas card each year. I’m the only one of my classmates to fulfill our aspirations of performing professionally.
Since then, I’ve had a lot of wonderful acquaintances, housemates, colleagues, many of which I remember warmly, but no real close friends for years. Maybe I had just learned to stay aloof. [Notice that we’re just leaving girlfriends out of this discussion—another story entirely.] My career led to offers to teach music, then to teach writing, then to do so at better colleges, and those pursuits have largely been my focus.
Today, I have two people I’d count as close friends, both colleagues, both colorful characters.
Tim was an enigma from the start—a college custodian who also taught in the English department. Strange, but also well liked, easy going, with long experience, published, wonderfully clever sense of humor, Mensa member. We shared an affinity for puns, and traded several. We shared stories—Tim, the son of a Cornell scientist, had planned to become a large animal veterinarian, but severe arthritis ended those plans (Tim’s posture now resembles a question mark). We really got to know each other well when Tim broke his neck in a fall and had to spend six moths at home with a metal frame drilled into his head to hold it in place. Calm as he is, he was going stir-crazy, so since I had a regular church music job a few miles from his home, I spent each Sunday with Tim, hanging out, reading the paper, watching strange cable shows, solving the world’s problems. Since then we’re not as close—he took early retirement, and spends most of his time concerned with his grandchildren. “As it should be,” as Mary Poppins would say. We still talk from time to time, especially about gardening concerns.
Joe was an acquaintance, another affable colleague--until the day I had a long dispute with the woman then the department chair, one of these people who thinks that college means every student should be happy no matter what. “Well, here goes my career,” I only half jested, having finished the response I’d spent two weeks composing. “May I see it?” Joe asked. He read carefully, then looked up, and said quietly but firmly, “Do not send this letter. This is a bridge-burning document, and I’d hate to see that happen to you.” He spent the next three hours on a Friday afternoon helping me turn it into a still pointed but more balanced document. I deeply appreciated his help. He respected my sharing something so personal. We became friends.
Joe is also a musician, a self-trained banjo player active in the local music scene. He’s also no stranger to management—he started his own non-profit organization to bring world-quality folk music performers to the area. We’re fellow techies (along with Tim), and the first people to get asked such questions by our colleagues. Good thing we work together, though, or we’d never see each other. Joe was on the tennis team in school, and we talked about playing after classes, but we were just too busy. Ditto getting together just to visit. Then he met Kristen (I went to their wedding), and his time is mainly tied up there. And, of course, I’m certainly buried in my own work.
Writer
Monday, June 25, 2007
Fifteen Tons (and a garden rake)
Each day, as I look through my windshield up the 150+ feet to the road, I feel a sense of pride. The driveway itself might not appear so inspirational, as it’s only a smooth layer of crushed stone. It IS, however, a smooth layer of crushed stone—15 tons worth, all raked out by yours truly with a garden rake.
A contractor constructed the original driveway (and the utility pole, the septic tank, and such), laying crushed limestone by driving slowly while gradually dumping the cargo, but in a few years, the stone sank into the clay soil, particularly when heavy fuel trucks hazarded the drive. So, years later, a new neighbor, also a contractor, offered to drive his small dump truck to the quarry for a load of crusher—and the problem was solved with a new layer of stone.
Sort of. Over the years, erosion chipped away until the ruts were so bad that negotiating the drive required noting high ground for the tires. My neighbor had moved, so I turned to the phone book late one afternoon.
I explained my problem, and started asking questions. “Hang on,” interrupted the woman on the other end of the phone. “I’ll get the guy you need to talk to.” OK.
When “the guy” (who turned out to be the owner of the business) came to the phone, I started again. After asking me questions about area and depth, he gave me a very reasonable price on five tons of crusher—but wasn’t sure if he could do it that day. “That’s fine,” I explained, understanding this was late in the day, and the job certainly wasn’t urgent. “No, no—I just need to find if we have a free truck” (they were out at construction sites). “Let me call you back in five minutes.” Gotta love a guy who gets business—here’s a customer, checkbook in hand, ready to deal. Get the man some stone.
He didn’t call back—he showed up 20 minutes later (impressive, since his business is 15 minutes away). We talked, I explained where I wanted the stone, he said he’d try, did an awesome spread—and noted that he’d given me a few extra tons. I could see that. Roughly, he grabbed a truck with two tons of crusher, added the five tons, and dumped what he had. From our chat, he was clearly building a new business, and I was certainly a satisfied customer.
I spent a few weeks raking out the stone with a rake—not an easy task, working on it a few hours a day (and nursing my sore muscles). But, as the sea of stone gradually settled, I realized I would need another load to finish the job.
I called the same business. This time, I got a very pleasant, witty young woman who, in the course of our conversation, revealed that she had recently been hired—the business was growing. I placed my request for another five tons of crusher, and by chance, it was again late in the afternoon. As before, my point that I didn’t need delivery that day was rebuffed, they’d find someone, and 20 minutes later, a very large dump truck arrived, driven by a polite but clearly not happy man. He surveyed the job. “I don’t like to spread uphill,” he noted, and given the size of his truck, I could see his point—we’d definitely be testing that thing’s center of gravity. “That’s fine,” I explained. “Just spread downhill and back up over it.” He agreed.
When he had done this, a significant load of crusher still lay in the dump truck’s bed. “Just leave the rest up here in a pile,” I asked, gesturing toward a depression near the road. “I expect to rake it out anyway.” He hesitated, then got into his truck, gingerly backed to the indicated spot (carefully avoiding the mailbox) and dumped the entire contents—clearly far more than the five tons I’d ordered (I estimate at least eight tons). “I gave you a little extra,” he said. “Thanks,” I answered, paid the man, and let him get home.
I’m reminded of graduate school in Cambridge. My housemates and I were struggling with difficult studies and difficult finances in an expensive corner of the world. We split up duties as best we could for mutual benefit, mine including visiting Boston’s Quincy Market at Faneuil Hall one a week for produce and seafood. This was a two day affair, Friday and Saturday, but I always went on Saturdays, around four o’clock, an hour before the end of the market. I’d walk around, buying nothing, just seeing what was available. Before long, though, merchants would realize they had unsold fish and fruit that wasn’t going to keep another week, and suddenly bananas were $1 a bunch, fresh seafood ridiculously inexpensive. Nor did I need to push my way through to the bargain table, since other merchants immediately took up the tune. I returned each week with two grocery bags full of food, $10 worth, all I could carry back home via the subway.
“Tons of work” certainly took on new meaning. Even wearing heavy work gloves, I had blisters all over both hands. I tried to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to move some of that stone pile, but I found that so unproductive that I settled for just gradually raking it down the drive. I’d work for a while and check the time—oh, just five minutes. Sigh. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places. But every day a little more, and then every day a little adjustment, and eventually—done.
Now it’s a work of art. And now, as usual, I have a ton of work to do, and I can’t imagine how I’ll accomplish it. But I have a rake.
Writer
A contractor constructed the original driveway (and the utility pole, the septic tank, and such), laying crushed limestone by driving slowly while gradually dumping the cargo, but in a few years, the stone sank into the clay soil, particularly when heavy fuel trucks hazarded the drive. So, years later, a new neighbor, also a contractor, offered to drive his small dump truck to the quarry for a load of crusher—and the problem was solved with a new layer of stone.
Sort of. Over the years, erosion chipped away until the ruts were so bad that negotiating the drive required noting high ground for the tires. My neighbor had moved, so I turned to the phone book late one afternoon.
I explained my problem, and started asking questions. “Hang on,” interrupted the woman on the other end of the phone. “I’ll get the guy you need to talk to.” OK.
When “the guy” (who turned out to be the owner of the business) came to the phone, I started again. After asking me questions about area and depth, he gave me a very reasonable price on five tons of crusher—but wasn’t sure if he could do it that day. “That’s fine,” I explained, understanding this was late in the day, and the job certainly wasn’t urgent. “No, no—I just need to find if we have a free truck” (they were out at construction sites). “Let me call you back in five minutes.” Gotta love a guy who gets business—here’s a customer, checkbook in hand, ready to deal. Get the man some stone.
He didn’t call back—he showed up 20 minutes later (impressive, since his business is 15 minutes away). We talked, I explained where I wanted the stone, he said he’d try, did an awesome spread—and noted that he’d given me a few extra tons. I could see that. Roughly, he grabbed a truck with two tons of crusher, added the five tons, and dumped what he had. From our chat, he was clearly building a new business, and I was certainly a satisfied customer.
I spent a few weeks raking out the stone with a rake—not an easy task, working on it a few hours a day (and nursing my sore muscles). But, as the sea of stone gradually settled, I realized I would need another load to finish the job.
I called the same business. This time, I got a very pleasant, witty young woman who, in the course of our conversation, revealed that she had recently been hired—the business was growing. I placed my request for another five tons of crusher, and by chance, it was again late in the afternoon. As before, my point that I didn’t need delivery that day was rebuffed, they’d find someone, and 20 minutes later, a very large dump truck arrived, driven by a polite but clearly not happy man. He surveyed the job. “I don’t like to spread uphill,” he noted, and given the size of his truck, I could see his point—we’d definitely be testing that thing’s center of gravity. “That’s fine,” I explained. “Just spread downhill and back up over it.” He agreed.
When he had done this, a significant load of crusher still lay in the dump truck’s bed. “Just leave the rest up here in a pile,” I asked, gesturing toward a depression near the road. “I expect to rake it out anyway.” He hesitated, then got into his truck, gingerly backed to the indicated spot (carefully avoiding the mailbox) and dumped the entire contents—clearly far more than the five tons I’d ordered (I estimate at least eight tons). “I gave you a little extra,” he said. “Thanks,” I answered, paid the man, and let him get home.
I’m reminded of graduate school in Cambridge. My housemates and I were struggling with difficult studies and difficult finances in an expensive corner of the world. We split up duties as best we could for mutual benefit, mine including visiting Boston’s Quincy Market at Faneuil Hall one a week for produce and seafood. This was a two day affair, Friday and Saturday, but I always went on Saturdays, around four o’clock, an hour before the end of the market. I’d walk around, buying nothing, just seeing what was available. Before long, though, merchants would realize they had unsold fish and fruit that wasn’t going to keep another week, and suddenly bananas were $1 a bunch, fresh seafood ridiculously inexpensive. Nor did I need to push my way through to the bargain table, since other merchants immediately took up the tune. I returned each week with two grocery bags full of food, $10 worth, all I could carry back home via the subway.
“Tons of work” certainly took on new meaning. Even wearing heavy work gloves, I had blisters all over both hands. I tried to use a shovel and wheelbarrow to move some of that stone pile, but I found that so unproductive that I settled for just gradually raking it down the drive. I’d work for a while and check the time—oh, just five minutes. Sigh. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had places. But every day a little more, and then every day a little adjustment, and eventually—done.
Now it’s a work of art. And now, as usual, I have a ton of work to do, and I can’t imagine how I’ll accomplish it. But I have a rake.
Writer
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Bloggin’ for Nothin’ (and the clicks are free)
A few months ago, I started a blog. Primarily, I wanted a place to write away from the distractions of work place politics, mere reactions to discussion board debates, and generally other people’s expectations about what I should write, all colored by what I’ve written, where I’ve written and so forth. I chose to blog anonymously, without benefit of reputation, resume (or infamy). Only a few of my closest and most trusted friends and colleagues know my blog address (I wanted to feel free to write about anything), so I couldn’t start with the boost of predictable readers. I had to start from scratch.
I didn’t get around to a counter for a week or two, but I received a comment right away—people had found my blog. I certainly wasn’t above promoting my new endeavor, and I added the URL to the tagline of a discussion board I frequent. Success—I received several warm emails from those folks, now regular readers. Still, traffic was irregular, so when I had a few minutes a week or so ago, I explored blog visibility, and came across BlogCatalog. What fun! Suddenly I had gmail from people I’d never met (I’m still working my way through those folks), daily comments from other bloggers, and interesting discussions from nice, intelligent, like-minded people. I was quickly seduced and addicted.
Nothing is perfect, though. MUCH of these discussions focus on “add me and I’ll add you” trades to boost blog ratings on friends lists, neighborhoods, Technorati, StumpleUpon, Digg and so forth. “Link me and I’ll link you.” Well, no real harm—just people cooperating, right?
Such a prevalent practice can only create a backlash. Start with ratings. When I see a highly rated site, I don’t assume it’s a great site—I assume someone’s good at cooking the books. When I find a blogger I like, I don’t check the friends and neighborhoods, as they aren’t necessarily recommendations at all—the blogger may not have even viewed the site. And what about the people who’ve linked to my site or my pieces in good faith—people might well ignore those links as logrolling.
I’ve been assuming, of course, that bloggers want readers, when presumably, many bloggers seek high ratings to maximize ad revenue. Many sites carry so many ads that I’ve stopped reading those blogs, simply because I don’t want to wait for all those ads to load. Indeed, some blogs take so long to load that I gave up before they finished (unread). Yes, I visit some web sites with many ads—but that’s when I’m deliberately shopping, not regularly. Even then, for example, I use Amazon over Barnes and Noble because it loads so much faster. I do read the New York Times online, and yes, it features a number of ads and takes a while to load. However, it’s also rich in content, justifying the wait. A blog updated daily, even an excellent blog, just doesn’t have that same pull.
I’m not looking for clicks—I want steady readers. I want them to enjoy my posts. I want them to bookmark my blog. I want them to recommend this blog to other readers. I want them to visit every day or few. I want them to dig through the archives. I want them to read because it’s a good read, because they’re interested, not just click to trade a favor.
I’m reminded of my music business experience. I recorded three albums, found a distributor, and enjoyed sales from Alaska to Georgia. As the independent market grew, the distributors started selling ad space to artists in their catalogs—and as the market grew more, the ad prices skyrocketed. I did the math, and realized that while I needed ads to maintain sales, at those rates, I’d essentially be buying my own project. I’d be working for nothing (I was also the manufacturer). Since the money was more important than my ego’s desire to distribute my work, I folded the enterprise. The business was no longer about selling independent music to the public—it was about selling ad space to hungry musicians.
Similarly, blog ads are fine, per se, but counterproductive. Blogging for ad revenue is an open market. Readership is spread thin, and only likely to become more so as more people blog. I read very few blogs regularly (only so many hours in the day), preferring quirky, imaginative, well-written blogs with reasonable load times. I never click on the ads.
Plans for easy riches come and go, come and go. From Amway to churning real estate, people are always ready to exploit others’ dreams of waiting wealth, the dreamers rarely stopping to think that if all were that easy, why wouldn’t the dream mongers just engage in more of the same practice themselves? Placing ads on blogs IS a good idea—for Google and other providers of that service. After all—do YOU click on blog ads? Advertisers can still be happy—they get seen, and repetition is rule one in advertising. The service providers collect fees. All those bloggers see all those ads. Success, but make no mistake—bloggers are the customers, not the suppliers.
Certainly I can see ways to successfully commercialize a blog. This would mean writing about products and pastimes that people with money who use the Internet for shopping would regularly purchase (technology comes to mind). You’re a free lance salesperson working for commission—not a great job. I suppose it could work out with genuine interests—a hiker composing reviews of new equipment, for example (although somebody’s got to foot the bill for that equipment)—but if you’re going into sales, this is just not the best approach.
If my purpose were income, I’d fold the blog and start a webzine. Why look for a few clicks? Get readers there and keep them there! You could then pack the site with ads (as long as you paid attention to design with an eye toward load time). Readers could visit multiple times, and with live content, the ‘zine could always stay fresh. Instead of posting ad links, SELL advertising space! Make deals to sell their product for a share of the margin! Use the revenue to hire more writers, web designers and salespeople as required. If you’re going into sales, GO there! Don’t ignore your creative side—create a great publication, and you can sell subscriptions too.
Or, you could start yet another blog telling other bloggers how to make major money by adding ad links and cooking the books. You’ll have lots of customers.
Writer
I didn’t get around to a counter for a week or two, but I received a comment right away—people had found my blog. I certainly wasn’t above promoting my new endeavor, and I added the URL to the tagline of a discussion board I frequent. Success—I received several warm emails from those folks, now regular readers. Still, traffic was irregular, so when I had a few minutes a week or so ago, I explored blog visibility, and came across BlogCatalog. What fun! Suddenly I had gmail from people I’d never met (I’m still working my way through those folks), daily comments from other bloggers, and interesting discussions from nice, intelligent, like-minded people. I was quickly seduced and addicted.
Nothing is perfect, though. MUCH of these discussions focus on “add me and I’ll add you” trades to boost blog ratings on friends lists, neighborhoods, Technorati, StumpleUpon, Digg and so forth. “Link me and I’ll link you.” Well, no real harm—just people cooperating, right?
Such a prevalent practice can only create a backlash. Start with ratings. When I see a highly rated site, I don’t assume it’s a great site—I assume someone’s good at cooking the books. When I find a blogger I like, I don’t check the friends and neighborhoods, as they aren’t necessarily recommendations at all—the blogger may not have even viewed the site. And what about the people who’ve linked to my site or my pieces in good faith—people might well ignore those links as logrolling.
I’ve been assuming, of course, that bloggers want readers, when presumably, many bloggers seek high ratings to maximize ad revenue. Many sites carry so many ads that I’ve stopped reading those blogs, simply because I don’t want to wait for all those ads to load. Indeed, some blogs take so long to load that I gave up before they finished (unread). Yes, I visit some web sites with many ads—but that’s when I’m deliberately shopping, not regularly. Even then, for example, I use Amazon over Barnes and Noble because it loads so much faster. I do read the New York Times online, and yes, it features a number of ads and takes a while to load. However, it’s also rich in content, justifying the wait. A blog updated daily, even an excellent blog, just doesn’t have that same pull.
I’m not looking for clicks—I want steady readers. I want them to enjoy my posts. I want them to bookmark my blog. I want them to recommend this blog to other readers. I want them to visit every day or few. I want them to dig through the archives. I want them to read because it’s a good read, because they’re interested, not just click to trade a favor.
I’m reminded of my music business experience. I recorded three albums, found a distributor, and enjoyed sales from Alaska to Georgia. As the independent market grew, the distributors started selling ad space to artists in their catalogs—and as the market grew more, the ad prices skyrocketed. I did the math, and realized that while I needed ads to maintain sales, at those rates, I’d essentially be buying my own project. I’d be working for nothing (I was also the manufacturer). Since the money was more important than my ego’s desire to distribute my work, I folded the enterprise. The business was no longer about selling independent music to the public—it was about selling ad space to hungry musicians.
Similarly, blog ads are fine, per se, but counterproductive. Blogging for ad revenue is an open market. Readership is spread thin, and only likely to become more so as more people blog. I read very few blogs regularly (only so many hours in the day), preferring quirky, imaginative, well-written blogs with reasonable load times. I never click on the ads.
Plans for easy riches come and go, come and go. From Amway to churning real estate, people are always ready to exploit others’ dreams of waiting wealth, the dreamers rarely stopping to think that if all were that easy, why wouldn’t the dream mongers just engage in more of the same practice themselves? Placing ads on blogs IS a good idea—for Google and other providers of that service. After all—do YOU click on blog ads? Advertisers can still be happy—they get seen, and repetition is rule one in advertising. The service providers collect fees. All those bloggers see all those ads. Success, but make no mistake—bloggers are the customers, not the suppliers.
Certainly I can see ways to successfully commercialize a blog. This would mean writing about products and pastimes that people with money who use the Internet for shopping would regularly purchase (technology comes to mind). You’re a free lance salesperson working for commission—not a great job. I suppose it could work out with genuine interests—a hiker composing reviews of new equipment, for example (although somebody’s got to foot the bill for that equipment)—but if you’re going into sales, this is just not the best approach.
If my purpose were income, I’d fold the blog and start a webzine. Why look for a few clicks? Get readers there and keep them there! You could then pack the site with ads (as long as you paid attention to design with an eye toward load time). Readers could visit multiple times, and with live content, the ‘zine could always stay fresh. Instead of posting ad links, SELL advertising space! Make deals to sell their product for a share of the margin! Use the revenue to hire more writers, web designers and salespeople as required. If you’re going into sales, GO there! Don’t ignore your creative side—create a great publication, and you can sell subscriptions too.
Or, you could start yet another blog telling other bloggers how to make major money by adding ad links and cooking the books. You’ll have lots of customers.
Writer
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Calls for a Chicken Parm
As usual, my day had dragged on longer than I expected, and late in the afternoon, doing laundry at the laundromat, I still hadn't eaten.
Although I should be eating fruits and vegetables, avoiding salt, I figured "What the hell" and headed across the street for the New York Pizza shop. This calls for a chicken parm.
The pizzeria is staffed primarily with college students, mostly men, and they have never excelled at customer service. This time, I stood at the unmanned counter, waiting for quite a few minutes, with no results, although I could hear voices from the kitchen. Finally I leaned over the counter and saw three college age kids standing in a circle, talking. One of them caught my eye for a fraction of a second and quickly turned to pretend he hadn't. I waited some more, still with no results. I thought about leaving, but I was hungry, and in a small town, options are limited.
Then I had an idea. Looking around, I found a flyer with a menu and a phone number. While the few customers in the booths watched with interest, I reached for the phone on the counter and dialed the number. One of the guys in the back room came flying out when it rang, picking up another phone on the second ring. "New York Pizza--can I help you?"
"Yes," I replied, standing just four feet away. "I'd like to order a chicken parm." He hurriedly hung up the phone and took my order, while the gentleman in the booth to my right laughed his ass off.
About fifteen minutes later, as I enjoyed my parm while reading the newspaper, the boss arrived. He's a medium height, early middle age Italian man, quiet and reserved. He moves with the sure but understated mastery of someone who has done something for years and years. He rarely speaks, and then just a few words of instruction, unheard to anyone else. He seems like a nice enough guy, but I've never seen him smile. He seems detached, yet not disinterested either.
The place was all business now, the staff bustling about. It's usually this way--not friendly, but not cold either. Turnover seems high, probably not surprising given a staff of mostly college students. The walls feature photos of Italy and presumably family, giving a touch of warmth immediately dispelled by the stark decor and the not too dirty, not particularly clean balance common in the booths. The staff rarely talks to customers, even to acknowledge them. They don't smile either. The food is good, and consistent, but not extraordinary to the point that customers would seek it out. Phone orders clearly get priority. I wonder if the boss checks in by phone sometimes.
Writer
Although I should be eating fruits and vegetables, avoiding salt, I figured "What the hell" and headed across the street for the New York Pizza shop. This calls for a chicken parm.
The pizzeria is staffed primarily with college students, mostly men, and they have never excelled at customer service. This time, I stood at the unmanned counter, waiting for quite a few minutes, with no results, although I could hear voices from the kitchen. Finally I leaned over the counter and saw three college age kids standing in a circle, talking. One of them caught my eye for a fraction of a second and quickly turned to pretend he hadn't. I waited some more, still with no results. I thought about leaving, but I was hungry, and in a small town, options are limited.
Then I had an idea. Looking around, I found a flyer with a menu and a phone number. While the few customers in the booths watched with interest, I reached for the phone on the counter and dialed the number. One of the guys in the back room came flying out when it rang, picking up another phone on the second ring. "New York Pizza--can I help you?"
"Yes," I replied, standing just four feet away. "I'd like to order a chicken parm." He hurriedly hung up the phone and took my order, while the gentleman in the booth to my right laughed his ass off.
About fifteen minutes later, as I enjoyed my parm while reading the newspaper, the boss arrived. He's a medium height, early middle age Italian man, quiet and reserved. He moves with the sure but understated mastery of someone who has done something for years and years. He rarely speaks, and then just a few words of instruction, unheard to anyone else. He seems like a nice enough guy, but I've never seen him smile. He seems detached, yet not disinterested either.
The place was all business now, the staff bustling about. It's usually this way--not friendly, but not cold either. Turnover seems high, probably not surprising given a staff of mostly college students. The walls feature photos of Italy and presumably family, giving a touch of warmth immediately dispelled by the stark decor and the not too dirty, not particularly clean balance common in the booths. The staff rarely talks to customers, even to acknowledge them. They don't smile either. The food is good, and consistent, but not extraordinary to the point that customers would seek it out. Phone orders clearly get priority. I wonder if the boss checks in by phone sometimes.
Writer
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