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 management. Show all posts
Showing posts with label management. Show all posts
Friday, August 3, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
An Education at the Bar
In my early twenties, the economy was in full stagflation, and finding a job—even after graduating cum laude, ink wet on my diploma—was simply not easy.
I walked into a mall restaurant, no experience, wearing a jacket and tie, bearing a resume, to seek a job as a waiter. The hostess brought me to Mike, one of the managers (and a very nice guy). “We don’t need any more waiters,” he told me, “but let me introduce you to the bar manager.” Yikes. I knew nothing about bartending.
Mark, the bar manager, was also a great guy, and invited me to sit down for a chat. I was up front about my lack of bartending experience. “Oh, that’s fine,” he explained. “We can teach you to mix drinks. People who present themselves professionally is another matter.” So I became a bartender—and got quite an education.
I quickly learned that most people ordered the same basic drinks, so moving up to serving customers directly happened almost immediately. Mark was cool—when someone ordered a drink, he just calmly rested his hands on the appropriate bottles, pretending his attention was elsewhere, tipping me off. I once asked about the cost of drinks—wouldn’t we earn more if the drinks weren’t so expensive? “That’s intentional,” Mark explained. “The cost keeps the kids away, and that’s how our clientele likes it.”
I learned a few other things too, like the day Mark cornered me and asked, “Those two girls—did you proof them?”
I looked at the two attractive young women I’d just served, aghast and confused. “No, I replied—they’re clearly over 18” (then the drinking age).
“Yeah,” he replied, “but don’t you want to know where they live?” Oh. Got it.
I’d been working since I was fourteen with my farm papers, but this was my first full-time job, and thankfully, all in all it was a good opportunity—in particular because I was treated so well. Yes, I contributed to this, taking my dad’s advice (for once) and showing up 15 minutes early, ready to work, and staying 15 minutes late, still working. But really much of the credit goes to the wisdom of the owners. I earned above minimum wage, even as an inexperienced worker in a slow economy. Every three months, I got a small raise.
Once, the owners had some sort of special celebration in the bar, and asked for the lead crystal wine goblets we kept on a very high shelf, a restaurant warming gift to the owners. I climbed to retrieve them—and dropped two of them, watching them shatter. I was dismayed, stunned, shocked, immobile. The principal owner did not look happy. But he said not a word about it, then or ever. Accidents happen.
Another night, the same owner and several friends were drinking far into the night. We had always been instructed to strictly follow the law, and two a.m. was legal closing time. They wanted another round. I had to tactfully (and nervously) inform the owner and his buddies that I was sorry, but we had passed last call, and they would have to drink up. I got no argument. I also got a big tip.
Conventional wisdom—and likely true—is that bartenders cheat their establishment out of untold dollars worth of liquor. Not here. And not only that—we worked as a team. The night guy working past 2 a.m. busted his butt making sure the morning guy was well stocked, including cut fruit, fresh towels, everything sparkling clean—and every one of us did this. We were proud of our bar. When we took breaks or changed shifts, we quietly filled each other in on the customers, so that when they wanted another round, they didn’t need to repeat their orders. This led to some fun incidents, too. One of our bartenders, a flashy guy named Tony, took over my shift just before two elderly ladies reordered. Tony walked over, gave each empty glass a casual sniff, nodded, and mixed new drinks, to their utter amazement—and my utter amusement (we pooled tips, so this was all to the good).
Another time, Tony playfully tossed a few tip coins over his shoulder into our tip can. Only by dumb luck, they went in. Tony played it cool, I pretended nothing was out of the ordinary, and the customers all stared with their jaws hanging wide.
I had my own luck once. One gentleman ordered vodka martini after vodka martini after vodka martini, until finally I really had to cut him off—not something that happened often in this establishment. I was as polite and tactfully as I knew to be, but he nicely thanked me for my concern and insisted. Now what? I took a chance—vodka is tasteless anyway, and he was already smashed, so I grabbed a rocks glass, stuffed it with ice, then filled it with water and plopped an olive in it. I figured he’d be too drunk to notice—but I certainly couldn’t charge him for it. I quickly moved to other customers, deliberately missing his eye, while he waited to pay, before finally going back to his seat, no doubt figuring he’d settle up later.
Several minutes later, the glass half empty, he walked back to the bar. “Excuse me,” he asked. “This is just water, isn’t it?” Nervously, I admitted it. “I like your style,” he said, shook my hand, gave me a large tip, and left the bar. Whew. It could have gone differently.
Aside from learning lots of interesting drink lore and lots of ways to mix multiple drinks quickly and well when business was brisk, I also learned some fun bar tricks—and invented a few. One of my favorite standards was the disappearing drink—you mix a drink directly in front of the customer, shake it up, and when you pour the drink into the glass from the shaker, it’s gone. Not a drop. [Like most tricks of its kind, the secret is mind-numbingly simple, but people love to overanalyze.]
We had some house specialty drinks, and I learned what naturally goes with what well enough to invent new drinks. My favorite, stunning even the talented bar manager, contained both citrus and cream—something that shouldn’t be possible, since the citrus would curdle the cream. Yet there it was. [One hint—like many fancy drinks, the order in which ingredients are mixed is crucial. In this case, it meant getting that citrus into a solution.]
I also learned a great deal about women—my Catholic upbringing and college education had left me rather sheltered. One night, for example, I was quite taken aback when, in response to watching a dancer rapidly move his hips from front to back on the bar television, the cocktail waitresses wondered if he could do that in bed. And talk about naïve—one of the cocktail waitresses, a heavily made-up, snotty Asian girl drove a very expensive car and always seemed on remarkably friendly terms with many of the wealthy older gentlemen customers. Took me months to put two and two together.
I learned a few other things too—liar’s poker, for example. This became a bit of a fad during slow periods at the bar, and I was bitten by the bug. On my break once, though, I ran into Mike (remember the nice manager?), and asked, “Hey, Mike—do you play liar’s poker?”
“Not when I’m working at the bar where gambling is illegal and could get me fired,” he answered, not unkindly. Oh. Point taken. So much for liar’s poker.
That was Mike--responsible, but always able to see things from the other side. One incredibly busy New Year's Eve, one of our kitchen prep/dishwasher people, another great guy, got stuck working by himself, then asked to stay for four hours overtime. As good hearted and cheerful as he was, at the end of a frantic twelve hours, the poor guy was exhausted. I just happended to be in the kitchen when Mike came in with two bottles of champaign and a bonus check for $100. "I know you're beat, and you've every right to go home," Mike said, "but I'm asking if you'll please stay." He stayed (and got the next few days off).
I also learned to appreciate sports on TV, something that had never really appealed to me before. In particular, I remember the Winter Olympics, when the U.S. hockey team battled to defeat the quite frankly better U.S.S.R. team. None of the ridiculous fights that have marred professional hockey, but sports as they should be. Sheer determination—will against will, skill against skill.
And perhaps a job as it should be. Certainly it was an education.
Writer
I walked into a mall restaurant, no experience, wearing a jacket and tie, bearing a resume, to seek a job as a waiter. The hostess brought me to Mike, one of the managers (and a very nice guy). “We don’t need any more waiters,” he told me, “but let me introduce you to the bar manager.” Yikes. I knew nothing about bartending.
Mark, the bar manager, was also a great guy, and invited me to sit down for a chat. I was up front about my lack of bartending experience. “Oh, that’s fine,” he explained. “We can teach you to mix drinks. People who present themselves professionally is another matter.” So I became a bartender—and got quite an education.
I quickly learned that most people ordered the same basic drinks, so moving up to serving customers directly happened almost immediately. Mark was cool—when someone ordered a drink, he just calmly rested his hands on the appropriate bottles, pretending his attention was elsewhere, tipping me off. I once asked about the cost of drinks—wouldn’t we earn more if the drinks weren’t so expensive? “That’s intentional,” Mark explained. “The cost keeps the kids away, and that’s how our clientele likes it.”
I learned a few other things too, like the day Mark cornered me and asked, “Those two girls—did you proof them?”
I looked at the two attractive young women I’d just served, aghast and confused. “No, I replied—they’re clearly over 18” (then the drinking age).
“Yeah,” he replied, “but don’t you want to know where they live?” Oh. Got it.
I’d been working since I was fourteen with my farm papers, but this was my first full-time job, and thankfully, all in all it was a good opportunity—in particular because I was treated so well. Yes, I contributed to this, taking my dad’s advice (for once) and showing up 15 minutes early, ready to work, and staying 15 minutes late, still working. But really much of the credit goes to the wisdom of the owners. I earned above minimum wage, even as an inexperienced worker in a slow economy. Every three months, I got a small raise.
Once, the owners had some sort of special celebration in the bar, and asked for the lead crystal wine goblets we kept on a very high shelf, a restaurant warming gift to the owners. I climbed to retrieve them—and dropped two of them, watching them shatter. I was dismayed, stunned, shocked, immobile. The principal owner did not look happy. But he said not a word about it, then or ever. Accidents happen.
Another night, the same owner and several friends were drinking far into the night. We had always been instructed to strictly follow the law, and two a.m. was legal closing time. They wanted another round. I had to tactfully (and nervously) inform the owner and his buddies that I was sorry, but we had passed last call, and they would have to drink up. I got no argument. I also got a big tip.
Conventional wisdom—and likely true—is that bartenders cheat their establishment out of untold dollars worth of liquor. Not here. And not only that—we worked as a team. The night guy working past 2 a.m. busted his butt making sure the morning guy was well stocked, including cut fruit, fresh towels, everything sparkling clean—and every one of us did this. We were proud of our bar. When we took breaks or changed shifts, we quietly filled each other in on the customers, so that when they wanted another round, they didn’t need to repeat their orders. This led to some fun incidents, too. One of our bartenders, a flashy guy named Tony, took over my shift just before two elderly ladies reordered. Tony walked over, gave each empty glass a casual sniff, nodded, and mixed new drinks, to their utter amazement—and my utter amusement (we pooled tips, so this was all to the good).
Another time, Tony playfully tossed a few tip coins over his shoulder into our tip can. Only by dumb luck, they went in. Tony played it cool, I pretended nothing was out of the ordinary, and the customers all stared with their jaws hanging wide.
I had my own luck once. One gentleman ordered vodka martini after vodka martini after vodka martini, until finally I really had to cut him off—not something that happened often in this establishment. I was as polite and tactfully as I knew to be, but he nicely thanked me for my concern and insisted. Now what? I took a chance—vodka is tasteless anyway, and he was already smashed, so I grabbed a rocks glass, stuffed it with ice, then filled it with water and plopped an olive in it. I figured he’d be too drunk to notice—but I certainly couldn’t charge him for it. I quickly moved to other customers, deliberately missing his eye, while he waited to pay, before finally going back to his seat, no doubt figuring he’d settle up later.
Several minutes later, the glass half empty, he walked back to the bar. “Excuse me,” he asked. “This is just water, isn’t it?” Nervously, I admitted it. “I like your style,” he said, shook my hand, gave me a large tip, and left the bar. Whew. It could have gone differently.
Aside from learning lots of interesting drink lore and lots of ways to mix multiple drinks quickly and well when business was brisk, I also learned some fun bar tricks—and invented a few. One of my favorite standards was the disappearing drink—you mix a drink directly in front of the customer, shake it up, and when you pour the drink into the glass from the shaker, it’s gone. Not a drop. [Like most tricks of its kind, the secret is mind-numbingly simple, but people love to overanalyze.]
We had some house specialty drinks, and I learned what naturally goes with what well enough to invent new drinks. My favorite, stunning even the talented bar manager, contained both citrus and cream—something that shouldn’t be possible, since the citrus would curdle the cream. Yet there it was. [One hint—like many fancy drinks, the order in which ingredients are mixed is crucial. In this case, it meant getting that citrus into a solution.]
I also learned a great deal about women—my Catholic upbringing and college education had left me rather sheltered. One night, for example, I was quite taken aback when, in response to watching a dancer rapidly move his hips from front to back on the bar television, the cocktail waitresses wondered if he could do that in bed. And talk about naïve—one of the cocktail waitresses, a heavily made-up, snotty Asian girl drove a very expensive car and always seemed on remarkably friendly terms with many of the wealthy older gentlemen customers. Took me months to put two and two together.
I learned a few other things too—liar’s poker, for example. This became a bit of a fad during slow periods at the bar, and I was bitten by the bug. On my break once, though, I ran into Mike (remember the nice manager?), and asked, “Hey, Mike—do you play liar’s poker?”
“Not when I’m working at the bar where gambling is illegal and could get me fired,” he answered, not unkindly. Oh. Point taken. So much for liar’s poker.
That was Mike--responsible, but always able to see things from the other side. One incredibly busy New Year's Eve, one of our kitchen prep/dishwasher people, another great guy, got stuck working by himself, then asked to stay for four hours overtime. As good hearted and cheerful as he was, at the end of a frantic twelve hours, the poor guy was exhausted. I just happended to be in the kitchen when Mike came in with two bottles of champaign and a bonus check for $100. "I know you're beat, and you've every right to go home," Mike said, "but I'm asking if you'll please stay." He stayed (and got the next few days off).
I also learned to appreciate sports on TV, something that had never really appealed to me before. In particular, I remember the Winter Olympics, when the U.S. hockey team battled to defeat the quite frankly better U.S.S.R. team. None of the ridiculous fights that have marred professional hockey, but sports as they should be. Sheer determination—will against will, skill against skill.
And perhaps a job as it should be. Certainly it was an education.
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
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Demotivation
Wouldn't it be great to work in a place where all of the people were excited about their jobs, enthusiastic about coming to work each day? It's a great vision, but few organizations reach it. Instead, managers are often frustrated in their search for motivated employees. At the same time,workers are often bored with their jobs, putting in far less effort than they could, generally because they've been frustrated in their attempts to change.
If neither managers or workers like the situation, how do organizations get demotivated people? All too frequently, they are unintentionally, but routinely, created.
It starts on the first day of work. New people arrive full of energy and ready to show what they can do. And those people are asked to wait. And watch. And get out of the way, because something more important came along. Don't worry, you'll catch on. OK, try this. No! Not that way! Try something else. No! You're doing it wrong. Here, just watch me. And so it goes.
Pretty quickly, the energetic new person learns (1) that he/she seems far less important to the organization than what's going on, and (2) do as little as possible, so that he/she won't get reprimanded. And a few months later, management notices that sure enough, another new person "decided" to just slide by doing very little. It's so hard to find good help...
Some people become good at their jobs despite the odds. Frequently, these promising leaders are never challenged, become bored, and eventually take new jobs--usually for a competitor in the same industry. Sure, the boss has a vision, and tries to get his/her people excited about it. But, while the boss was able to exercise some creativity, the people who work in the organization just had it sprinkled down from on high. Why would they feel excited?
Now add the clinchers. Avoid being clear with people; expect them to just somehow know exactly what you mean. Then, when they don't do what you expect, chew 'em out. They'll not only be careful never to take any initiative, they can also waste hours complaining about management when no one's around supervising. And they'll certainly avoid sharing any useful suggestions about how to improve the organization! Make sure the work environment is not conducive to accomplishing required tasks. Ask people to follow a lot of rules, but never let them understand the reasons for them. Better yet, just set policies, without clear reasons. Avoid any validity to job tasks.
And once a year, have a performance review, where people can be irritated by having a year's worth of stuff thrown in their faces all at once. (If any people have somehow stayed motivated up to this point, the performance review should kill it for sure!) Treat the newly demotivated people as intrinsically demotivated people, aggravating the situation further.
It's not that management isn't well meaning. Rather, our society has developed work related habits that just don't work well. And that applies to employees, too.
Writer
If neither managers or workers like the situation, how do organizations get demotivated people? All too frequently, they are unintentionally, but routinely, created.
It starts on the first day of work. New people arrive full of energy and ready to show what they can do. And those people are asked to wait. And watch. And get out of the way, because something more important came along. Don't worry, you'll catch on. OK, try this. No! Not that way! Try something else. No! You're doing it wrong. Here, just watch me. And so it goes.
Pretty quickly, the energetic new person learns (1) that he/she seems far less important to the organization than what's going on, and (2) do as little as possible, so that he/she won't get reprimanded. And a few months later, management notices that sure enough, another new person "decided" to just slide by doing very little. It's so hard to find good help...
Some people become good at their jobs despite the odds. Frequently, these promising leaders are never challenged, become bored, and eventually take new jobs--usually for a competitor in the same industry. Sure, the boss has a vision, and tries to get his/her people excited about it. But, while the boss was able to exercise some creativity, the people who work in the organization just had it sprinkled down from on high. Why would they feel excited?
Now add the clinchers. Avoid being clear with people; expect them to just somehow know exactly what you mean. Then, when they don't do what you expect, chew 'em out. They'll not only be careful never to take any initiative, they can also waste hours complaining about management when no one's around supervising. And they'll certainly avoid sharing any useful suggestions about how to improve the organization! Make sure the work environment is not conducive to accomplishing required tasks. Ask people to follow a lot of rules, but never let them understand the reasons for them. Better yet, just set policies, without clear reasons. Avoid any validity to job tasks.
And once a year, have a performance review, where people can be irritated by having a year's worth of stuff thrown in their faces all at once. (If any people have somehow stayed motivated up to this point, the performance review should kill it for sure!) Treat the newly demotivated people as intrinsically demotivated people, aggravating the situation further.
It's not that management isn't well meaning. Rather, our society has developed work related habits that just don't work well. And that applies to employees, too.
Writer
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Excellence vs. Grades and Measurement
Quantitive analysis, useful though it be, is frequently problematic. Grades are an excellent example.
Imagine an airline, XYZ Airlines, advertising “Fly XYZ, where 9 out of ten planes land safely!” 90% -- an A minus! Pretty good, no? Or how about this: “Eat at Joe’s , where only 1 in 10 people get sick.” Imagine your favorite music. What would happen if the musicians played one of every 100 notes incorrectly? Get those bozos off the stage!
Suppose you buy a toaster. When you get it home, will you accept that it “mostly” makes toast? Or “eventually” makes toast? Probably not--if it doesn’t make perfect toast on demand, you’ll be back at the store with attitude. And when you’re there, will you care that they worked really hard on it? Or that they had a difficult week? I think not. Here’s the problem with clinging to grades, to numbers—yet people do.
That is, as long as it suits them. When a management consultant team moves into the workplace and purports to measure performance, the employee response is generally “You can’t really measure what we do.” As Kenneth Blanchard puts it, “Well, if we can’t measure any difference, then why don’t we just eliminate it?” People get interested in measuring performance quickly.
On the other hand, all too often a “survey” or “study” is reduced to a questionnaire. Easy to collate data, yes, but such approaches, all to common, also amount to little more than leading questions. The form’s authors assume the position they’ll find, thereby dictating them. Thus, what should have been a learning experience becomes nothing more than self-affirment, not merely ignoring, but preventing all unforeseen views—and the messy, time-consuming process of collecting that information.
What’s the point of setting out to learn what you think you already know?
Excellence and its measurement don’t match.
Writer
Imagine an airline, XYZ Airlines, advertising “Fly XYZ, where 9 out of ten planes land safely!” 90% -- an A minus! Pretty good, no? Or how about this: “Eat at Joe’s , where only 1 in 10 people get sick.” Imagine your favorite music. What would happen if the musicians played one of every 100 notes incorrectly? Get those bozos off the stage!
Suppose you buy a toaster. When you get it home, will you accept that it “mostly” makes toast? Or “eventually” makes toast? Probably not--if it doesn’t make perfect toast on demand, you’ll be back at the store with attitude. And when you’re there, will you care that they worked really hard on it? Or that they had a difficult week? I think not. Here’s the problem with clinging to grades, to numbers—yet people do.
That is, as long as it suits them. When a management consultant team moves into the workplace and purports to measure performance, the employee response is generally “You can’t really measure what we do.” As Kenneth Blanchard puts it, “Well, if we can’t measure any difference, then why don’t we just eliminate it?” People get interested in measuring performance quickly.
On the other hand, all too often a “survey” or “study” is reduced to a questionnaire. Easy to collate data, yes, but such approaches, all to common, also amount to little more than leading questions. The form’s authors assume the position they’ll find, thereby dictating them. Thus, what should have been a learning experience becomes nothing more than self-affirment, not merely ignoring, but preventing all unforeseen views—and the messy, time-consuming process of collecting that information.
What’s the point of setting out to learn what you think you already know?
Excellence and its measurement don’t match.
Writer
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