Thinking about Valeria’s post “Getting, Giving, or Being the Scoop,” I was reminded of the trap that is either-or thinking and how important I think it is to break that out of that mindset [...]]]> You can get with this – AND – you can get with that.

Thinking about Valeria’s post “Getting, Giving, or Being the Scoop,” I was reminded of the trap that is either-or thinking and how important I think it is to break that out of that mindset in favor of thinking in terms of and - in sales, journalism, and life.

Long ago, I tried my hand at selling insurance. I was terrible. Couldn’t get over the stigma. Didn’t believe in what I was selling enough. I’d frequently make the classic, rookie sales mistake; asking prospects simple, yes-or-no questions. Like I said, terrible. Here’s a couple examples:

Do you want to buy this car?
Are you a gearhead?
Should I care?

As I mentioned in my comment on Valeria’s post, one of the oldest tricks in the salesman’s book is the alternate advance question. Unlike the yes/no question, the alternate advance is a yes/yes question. The idea being, regardless what the choice, you advance your cause. Take a look:

Are you looking for a 2-door or 4-door car?
Do you consider yourself an enthusiast or a gearhead?
Should I invest more time in Gearbox or Penmanshift this year?

You can see how the second set of questions brings more information to light. In this way they’re awesome. If you’re looking to sell something (including yourself, on a job interview, perhaps), either answer advances your cause. If you’re an aspiring journalist, you stand to get more of a story (even if you might be leading it a bit). As Rob White will tell you, there is great power in language.

One negative side-effect to this kind of thinking, though, is our tendency to consider our options as either-or propositions. The 2-year old Blackberry on my hip still allows me to chat in almost real-time with people around the world. Drop a man at the North Pole and he can still update Facebook. Airlift a woman to the middle of the Sahara desert, she can live-Tweet the event. Why limit ourselves?

What if I would like a 4-door car that looks like a coupé?
What if I believe I am both an enthusiast AND a gearhead?
Why can’t I invest more time in Gearbox AND Penmanshift?

The jury is still out on the 4-door coupé-thing, but look how such a minor change of words completely alters the thought patterns, here. Even when either choice presented advances us on our path, why limit ourselves to one or the other? Couldn’t we go further with both? This is something I’ve been trying to keep in mind lately. When I find myself faced with a choice between two or more options, I try to remind myself to give at least a moment’s thought to, could I do both?

What do you think?

• Can you have your cake and eat it, too?

In the glovebox:

• When Everyone Googles
• 3 Projects Tops – Oops
• Update: Evolution of a Blog

Pompous, inconsiderate assholes. Jerks often seem to have achieved greater success than we have. I think that’s what pisses us off most. Jerks are a reminder that “nice guys finish last” and I wanted to explore some thoughts on how jerks roll to see what we might learn from them.

I have an iPod Touch. About the only use I can find for it is streaming Pandora out in the garage so I don’t get more overspray on my netbook. There’s no music on it. No apps, either. It’s the only Apple product I own and it was a [...]]]> Was impacted by Steve Jobs.

I have an iPod Touch. About the only use I can find for it is streaming Pandora out in the garage so I don’t get more overspray on my netbook. There’s no music on it. No apps, either. It’s the only Apple product I own and it was a gift – I’ve never purchased a single Apple product in all my life. I just can’t justify spending so much money to make a fashion statement; to fit into the consumer herd. And, as such, I’m pretty sure I’m what the sycophants would call a “hater.”

But I remember a time when Apple devices were mainly the precision tools of the creative class. I remember the one Apple IIGS desktop we had in my high school, and how, twice a month, I would pack it up and take it home to spend an evening putting together the entire student newspaper – layout, clipart, and all – in a single evening in my bedroom in Aldus PageMaker.

Almost 20 years later, I still look back at my time with that off-white plastic brick fondly. I remember the careful consideration of where each story would reside on the page, how image selection, size, and placement afforded the final product a feeling of gestalt, and how the glow of that tiny monitor on my childhood desk filled my room as the sun set outside my window.

In the morning, I would pack the IIGS into my red Pontiac Grand Prix and carry it safely back to school before dawn, where I would meet my English teacher, re-assemble the workstation on her desk in the classroom, print one copy, and make my way to the office to run 1oo or so front-and-back copies of the four 8.5″ x 11″ pages which made up that edition, which I would personally deliver to every classroom during first period.

I had created something of value. I had created a product which brought information and meaning and joy to the lives of my friends and neighbors.

And I couldn’t have done it without Steve Jobs.

Jobs was a great man. A respected man. He made a difference. In your life. In mine. And his passing is significant to the fabric of our digital culture; from the earliest equipment enabling the creation of quality printed journalism, to the latest gadget used by the masses to thoughtlessly consume it today, Jobs was at the center of it all. And I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge his passing and impact on my life, personally.

Thank you, Steve. You will be missed.

In the glovebox:

• TWICs XXX
• Social Workplace V: Storming
• TWICs XXVIII

This past Sunday morning, I woke up before dawn in a stranger’s second home on a hill above Creede, Colorado. I shoved four days’ dirty laundry into my black, Greatland backpack, made sure I remembered my toothbrush, and stepped out onto the deck to look out over [...]]]> Back inside, looking out.

This past Sunday morning, I woke up before dawn in a stranger’s second home on a hill above Creede, Colorado. I shoved four days’ dirty laundry into my black, Greatland backpack, made sure I remembered my toothbrush, and stepped out onto the deck to look out over this once bustling mining town for the last time.

My brother-in-law, Patrick DuLaney, a stage actor based out of Iowa City, had been performing at the Creede Repertory Theatre since April or so, and since this would be as close to home as his acting would bring him for some time, we – his mom, dad, sister & I – piled into the new Nissan Juke for the 10+ hour drive, Phoenix-to-Creede, to see him in action. He – and co-star Chad Afanador – did not disappoint. We laughed our asses off.

Our entire trip revolved around this single, closing performance of The Mystery of Irma Vep, on Friday night, but I think the weekend proved more transformative than any of Patrick or Chad’s costume changes. Each time we’d make the leisurely, five minute drive into or out of town (at 20mph or less), we’d pass the original gravesite of Robert Ford – the man who shot Jesse James – literally within yards of where we were staying.

At its peak, Creede boasted a population of over 10,000. The 2000 US Census put the population at just 377. I knew we were visiting a small town, but I had no idea how small.

There were deer everywhere. The locals call them “Creede Gangs,” so as to better identify with the big city. No one here locks their doors. The volunteer fire department has the only underground  facilities in the country – something like six pieces of equipment stored in a man-made cave, next to the mining museum, which was mined into the side of the same mountainside for effect.

They say “There is no night in Creede,” but before the sky begins to turn colors, signaling the end of the day, the businesses begin to close for the day, leaving only the Tommyknocker bar open, it’s patio lights and Coors Light neons casting shadows across the tiny creek running through the middle of town en route to the Rio Grande in the valley below.

Chad, a full-time Creede resident, told us how the local K-12 school, probably the largest building in town, has maybe 30 students a year, grouped maybe 2-3 to a grade. They’ll combine grades where they can, have a couple sports teams, and he drives the bus to away games. Recently, they got a new bus, but the old one still had a stickshift and an ashtray. He knew everyone and it seemed like everyone knew him. Man, the stories he told.

A timeline hanging in the theatre lobby gave a simple history reporting 2005 as the year cell phone service came to town. The Old Firehouse hotel/restaurant (which has incredible food, by the way) had wi-fi, as did one or two residential locations I could find, but they were all smartly locked down, leaving me to the spotty-at-best, 2G connection on my Blackberry.

Saturday afternoon, we took the Juke on a scenic drive around the “Bachelor Loop,” which climbed sharply up and out of the north end of town, past the weathered, wooden remains of several mining operations, long since closed down. The narrow dirt track wound through the Rio Grande Forest, where evergreen pines mingled with 40-foot Aspens on fire in shades of brilliant yellow. Again, deer would appear seemingly out of thin air, darting across the road ahead of us before pausing to look back and question our taste in vehicles.

Saturday night found me standing alone on the wooden deck off the back of the house down the road from Bob Ford’s grave, staring up at the stars – more than I’ve seen since visiting Switzerland decades ago – marveling at how they really do twinkle, bracing myself against the breeze in my thin, black, Mitsubishi hoodie, and allowing the sound of the tiny creek racing through the town below to lull me into a sense of wonderment.

Today, I spent upwards of nine hours sitting in a color-neutral cubicle, staring at a pair of LCD computer monitors, occasionally glancing over and beyond to South Mountain out the window, from my air conditioned cell on the 7th floor of Corporate America and I wondered, why?

Even if I could telecommute, would that really be what I want? Stepping outside – truly outside – revealed the senselessness of the everyday in the big city. I do not see the stars. I do not hear the wind dancing with the Aspens. Instead, I see the white-blue glow of smart phones opened to the triviality of social media. I hear the dull, never-ending roar of tires on pavement.

I suppose I could still work on Gearbox Magazine, Penmanshift, Gearheads United, and this blog from Creede, but it strikes me maybe I need something more. I want to see the fireworks over Creede in July. I want to enter the 2nd annual “gravity race” down Main Street. I want to live within walking distance. I want to see the stars again.

In the glovebox:

• No Related Posts

Because I’m, like, eleventy-billion in debt to America’s most beloved bookie, Sallie Mae, from time to time I’ll participate in a survey to add a couple bucks to my E-Rewards account which, eventually, might help me cough up Sallie Mae’s 115% profit satisfy my financial obligations. Most [...]]]> Chalk this one up to musing…

Because I’m, like, eleventy-billion in debt to America’s most beloved bookie, Sallie Mae, from time to time I’ll participate in a survey to add a couple bucks to my E-Rewards account which, eventually, might help me cough up Sallie Mae’s 115% profit satisfy my financial obligations. Most of the time, they’re nothing special, but every so often, I get one that just blows my mind.

The first one really caught me off guard, because it started by asking me if I had read a particular issue of Road & Track magazine. Because I hadn’t, they (or their PR/marketing firm) was either not interested in my opinions or unprepared to truly survey me. The survey I took this afternoon began in similar fashion, asking me if I’d read a particular issue of Fast Company. Conveniently, I had, so I made my way through.

Here’s how the survey broke down (subjectively):

• 80% advertising, brand recognition, impact
• 15% article/content consumption, impact
• 5% personal and household demographic collection

Now, in the case of Road & Track, because I hadn’t read that one issue, they weren’t necessarily interested in my opinions. That’s fine, but talk about your missed opportunity. Here I am, a dyed-in-the-wool gearhead, who eats, sleeps, and breathes automotive culture, who’s been a former subscriber, has started his own automotive publication, and is pursuing the creation of an online automotive journalism workshop – you’d think they’d be interested in why I didn’t read that issue?

So today, as I was filling out the Fast Company survey, I was mostly going through the motions. They’d display a somewhat grainy scan of two pages from the issue, showing an advertisement, then ask the following questions:

• Do you remember this ad?
  
• Did you recognize this as an advertisement for [insert brand or company name]?
  
• Based on this advertisement, which of the following are true:
• I think more highly of the brand/company now.
• I will buy whatever it was they were selling.
• I will consider buying whatever it was they were selling.
• Some other action
• None of the above

First of all, yes, I remembered most of the ads. I’ve also seen them in other magazines, recently. Second, I recognized these as being advertisements for the brands mentioned. (Duh.) Third, they showed me a list of potential outcomes of my viewing the ads and asked me to check which were appropriate. There were something like seven of them, but I didn’t plan on writing about the survey yet, so I didn’t really make note of them. (Needless to say, most of my responses were the last two, above.)

Any chance there’s a marketing/pr veteran among the readership here who might be able to shed some light on what they were looking for with this survey? Because it just doesn’t make much sense to me. Are they trying to ensure the ads they run are remotely interesting to their readership?

Back to missed opportunities (and the picture above). I started to fill in this page when it hit me. Look what they’re asking in that picture (click to enlarge).

So I go through the first entry. Aflac. These are the choices from which I can select:

• Do they have a good reputation? I’d say so.
• Good value? (shrug)
• Good quality? I guess.
• A leading brand/company? Sure. Who doesn’t know Aflac?
• One of my favorites? Um, an insurance carrier?
• Not familiar with this company.

Easy enough, right? Now consider the second company on the list, Ally Bank. For those who don’t already know, Ally is really GMAC with a friendlier, less-bailout-y name. Personally, I would not consider them reputable, a good value, quality, leading, or one of my favorites, but that leaves me with just “Not familiar with this company.” Doesn’t matter which box I select, it’s inaccurate.

I’ve come this far, I want my $10. I’m not going to leave these (exceedingly poor quality) questions blank and accept a quarter for my time (the payout for incomplete surveys). So, it’s either I agree to a kiss some ass or play Gumby.

So who writes these things? Somebody paid good money to have this survey developed, delivered, and documented (plus about $10 to everyone who completed it). What kind of results are they going to get?

I’m not suggesting I’m any kind of survey mastermind, but if I’m asking people who read a particular issue of my magazine for feedback and someone willing to participate tells me they haven’t read that particular issue, I think I’d want to know why not. And if I’m asking readers to share their thoughts on something, I’d want to get their actual thoughts. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Thoughts?

In the glovebox:

• Onboarding & US Rail Fail
• Social Workplace V: Storming
• Social Workplace IV: Forming