Four Cups. And Other Coffee Myths

Let me start with breakfast, since coffee plays a role there. It’s just my daughter and me in my household, and she doesn’t drink coffee. So long ago, I replaced my 12-cup automatic coffee maker with it’s 4-cup counterpart. My day starts with a couple of cups: one before my morning walk; one after. And rarely do I drink another cup until the next morning. So you might think that even a 4-cup brewer is too much. Why not one of those really expensive and temperamental designer single cup machines? I’ll tell you why. Because if I fill the water tank to the 3-1/2 cup level, I get exactly 2 cups of coffee. Not a drop more. Not a drop less. And I use a completely unremarkable 8 oz. coffee mug. Yup. One cup, of which I get 2 from my allegedly 4-cup coffee machine. Could it be that Mr. Coffee® has it’s documentation written in Lillipuitian? But here’s another head scratcher: the little scoop that comes with the machine, according to the instructions, holds a cup’s worth of coffee. ‘Nuther words, 4 scoops should be just right to make 4 cups. Right. Wrong. If I want to actually taste what I brew, I must use 5-1/2 scoops of coffee with 3-1/2 cups of water to get 2 cups of “Joe”. I wonder how many liters that would translate to were I brewing 2 cups “Johan”.

Next, drinking and driving — coffee, that is. In past creative critiques I’ve been pretty hard on BMW TV ads. As a basic transportation when public transportation isn’t available kind of guy, over the top high performance portrayals just don’t resonate with me. And among other’s, BMW’s über-machismo, screaming engine, auto-elitist approach turns me off. Of course, that’s just me (I’m also perfectly happy with house brand coffee for my 4-cup machine). But they do have two spots that I must admit I really like.

One is an ad that broke a little over a year ago that they run periodically. Macho guy is cruising fast in his 5 Series along a desolate stretch highway when a huge military jet fuel tanker approaches from above, drops down to tree-top level just ahead of the Beamer, and deploys the refueling umbilical. As the VO brags about 30+ mpg, the driver opens his sun roof and lifts his motion mug above the roof line as the tanker delivers a cupful of hot coffee. “Chances are,” croons the announcer, “you’ll run out of fuel before it does.” What a great way to marry power and fuel efficiency in a way that anyone — car buff or tree hugger — can appreciate.

The other is on that has never aired in the U.S. — for reasons I can’t find. Through the first :45 of this :60 spot, you don’t see or hear anything BMW at all. But when you do it is one of the most dramatic and salient suspensions of disbelief I’ve ever seen. So much so that I’d rather show you than try to articulate it.

Ok, so this one has nothing to do with coffee. Except that when I saw it this morning, I damn near sprayed one of my 2 cups all over my computer display!

-30-

A Eulogy for Professional Courtesy

Remember when people respected each other’s time? Customers, coworkers, prospects, vendors, bosses or reports — once upon a time they would give you the time of day if asked. But that was back in the day when most communication took place in meatspace. Face to face. Or at worst, by phone (those clunky things that were tethered to a wall jack, of course) or the occasional fax.

Now we live in a world of instant communication. Email, voicemail, social media, texting, and phones that are not tethered to anything. Yet despite the vastly enhanced communications capabilities these marvels provide, they are used — more often than not — as barriers rather than channels. Don’t want to sit across the table from someone else to discuss something, email it. And then enjoy the back and forth reply/reply all process until your eyeballs bleed. Or text it, if you have nimble thumbs. Don’t want to take a call? Caller ID and voicemail to the rescue. Too busy to utter more than 140 characters, Tweet it. Today’s common practice is to engage in an electronic dialog that might take hours or even days to yield the same results as a three minute conversation.

In short, the e-communication revolution has eroded the art of conversation to the point of near extinction. And with it, common courtesy — especially in the business world.

If you own a business — especially if you’re a freelancer like me — you know how much time, effort, and (sometimes) money prospecting requires. And the pursuit of a customer usually involves more than one hit via several channels. So a timely response — positive or not — from the object of your desire is always welcome. “Let’s meet.” is of course the dream reply. But “Not at this time.”, “No thanks.”, or even “Get lost!” is ok because at least you know if you should keep that party on your prospecting list or cut your losses and call it a day. Granted, if you’re emailing and your name or email address aren’t familiar to your target, your emails can end up in their junk mail bucket and never seen. Or if you’re mailing or delivering promotional or dimensional packages, there may be a “gatekeeper” deflecting such items. Phone calls aren’t always effective either, because VMs are so easy to ignore — if you can get to the inbox in the first place.

I get emails (and sometimes LinkedIn invitations) almost every week from people who want my business. On average, 0.5% are of interest or use to me. Some are worth noting. And some are obviously scams. Except for the arguably dubious messages, I make it a point to reply to every one of them — usually within a day or two, and often, right away. Whether it’s one of those I referenced in the paragraph above, or something more specific, I reply because, having been there, done that, I appreciate the time the sender took to reach out to me. My replies take but a minute or two out of my day, but it’s my nod to a fellow prospector.

So why is it that so many business people now think that the best policy is to ignore the ambition of others? When did respect, courtesy, and professionalism die? When was the art of dialog deemed passé?

Yeah… this is a small rant. But it’s been a growing issue over the last few years, so I’m venting. But more important, I’m asking anyone who might be reading this that has adopted the ignore it and it’ll go away approach, to show a little respect — and a bit of professional courtesy — to those who value your patronage enough to pursue it.

-30-

Not since a crisp December evening in 1980 have I felt this way…

It was about 5:45PM on December 8, 1980. I was on my way from work to pick up my daughter at her day care center directly across the street from the Boston Common. The holiday lights were strung among all the trees in the park and along Commonwealth Avenue. Shoppers were out in throngs along Newbury and Boylston Streets, and as I waited for the traffic light at Dartmouth Street to change, the radio program I was listening to was interrupted by the news that John Lennon had been shot.

There are icons — and there are those that so permeate our lives; that have so deeply impacted our being as to become a conscious and unconscious expectation; that are just there in a way that feels like always have and always will be…

Among we long-time Mac users, the loss of that connective tissue is profound. But even more profound is the global loss of one who changed and advanced technology, art, communication, and by extension, modern civilization.

Alava shalom, Steve. And thank you…

The Unsuccess of an Unmarried Man.

Change happens. Sometimes it’s expected. Sometimes not. Sometimes it’s welcome. Sometimes not. Often times it’s needed. Regardless, it happens. And it happened to me recently — under all of those conditions when my marriage of 38 years ended in Dissolution on at 9:15AM, July 14, 2011.

We would have marked our 39^th year this coming October. I say “marked”, because we had not celebrated it for quite a few years. We had been a couple for 40 years, and had actually known each other for 50 years! When did things start to fall apart? Even that had become a contentious question. My ex-wife would tell you it began some 19 years ago. My reckoning says more like 11 years ago. Does that mean one of us is wrong, or that one of us was imagining things that weren’t there, or not seeing things that were? The answer is different for each of us, of course.

Is the responsibility for the breakdown shared or disproportionate? My view is that we were equal partners — if in different ways. My ex-wife feels I own the whole thing. So be it. Now that it’s over, we should be past assigning blame and pointing fingers.

Over the years, each of us committed words and deeds that were regretted instantly and still. The trouble with regret is that it neither undoes nor excuses anything. Done deal — live with it and learn from it.

I had, on a couple of occasions, felt that I should end it. But after taking a step or two, dropped the notion. I didn’t want to be the schmuck who walked out on someone who was neither equipped to cope with, nor deserving of such a turn of events. Didn’t want to be a schmuck, or didn’t have the spine? A little of both I guess. So when she came to that decision on her own a few months ago, I was shocked, impressed, saddened, and relieved — all at the same time. And less than a week ago, a judge in the Montgomery County courthouse in downtown Dayton erased, in fewer than five minutes, four decades of our lives.

Since that day, some friends and colleagues have expressed sorrow and offered words of support and encouragement. Others have congratulated me on my “newfound freedom”. While all those sentiments are well-intended, I’ve had to decline them. In answer to the former, there is no reason for sorrow. It was due, and all parties will be better off now. After all, 38 years is a lot longer than most couples stay together these days. To the latter, I submit that there should be no congratulations for failure. Because at the end of the day, that’s what the end of a marriage — no matter how mature — is. It’s the failure to solve problems. Whether one party or both failed, the net result is the same. Failure. Unsuccess, if you will.

The only upside to failure is the opportunity to learn from it. To not learn is an even bigger failure. Even greater unsuccess — of which, I think I’ve had enough.

-30-

Can BMW get any more irritating?

I’m not a “car guy”. At least not since my youth, when friends and I built a hot rod or two. But that doesn’t mean I still don’t appreciate exceptional engineering, aggressive aesthetics, and a dash of luxury in my ride (you’d never know that by what I actually drive). And let’s face it, those are the attributes that continue to be the most heavily featured in car ads (sex notwithstanding), despite the eco/social/intellectual issues of fuel prices and availability, and the environment.

Cadillac gives us the “world’s fastest production car” out-racing a fusillade of archers’ arrows. Infinity screams through a pseudo-historic panorama to deliver a 360 hp hybrid. And Mercedes harasses and taunts a trio of business-suited gentlemen in the middle of a dessert.

Ok, so they’re all very cool spots that appeal to the Indy driver in us — and as a creat!ve director, I truly appreciate (even envy) the craft that went into the ads. Yet, entertaining as they are, I’m always left with the question: “WTF do I need all that speed and power for?” Oh yeah, it’s that parenthetical “sex notwithstanding” remark above.

Enter the BMW Series 6. Another beautiful beast that will call to those who can’t afford it and drive the critical impulse within those that can. If, that is, the latest spot doesn’t drive us all to the mute button first.

I’m not talking about an obnoxious “puker” shilling his local dealership.  Nor am I talking about overdone hard rock-like guitar riffs. I’m talking about the urgent, gravelly whine of a high-compression engine straining to reach warp speed — through the entire commercial! True, there are a few random seconds of auditory relief as mystical voices-on-high play over poetic slo-mo angles of the car ascending a winding mountain road. There is no VO, save for a brief product ID. There are precious few supers other than the logo. And no music. Just. The. Annoying. Persistent. Strain. Of. That. Engine. Ugh! It sounds like a food processor left running unattended.

The footage is pretty, but predictable. And the idea of a copy-less car ad is, I’m afraid, not as original as one might think. Back in the mid-60′s Goodyear broke new ground with a TV campaign (authored by a former boss of mine, Mike Slosberg) that featured a progression of exciting road-kill POV shots of tires doing their thing on a variety of road surfaces. There were no audio effects — just an up-tempo, heavily brass and percussion arrangement of Goodyear’s theme music that punctuated the film edits and kept the viewer’s foot tapping and his/her eyes on the TV screen. And no VO whatsoever!

That Goodyear spot did, nearly 50 years ago, what this very new BMW spot tries but fails to do: Engage, entertain, inform, and excite — without annoying!

-30-

Old scars are itching today.

The killing of Osama Bin Laden has obvious global significance — and uniquely intimate importance for many.

I dodged a bullet on 9/11. Had I not decided to stay home one more day to kick a cold, I’d have been in a conference room on the 28th floor of the American Express tower, directly across the street from the WTC, for a 9:30 client meeting. That conference room is on the southeast corner of the building. A front row seat for the attack.

My email exchange with my office on the morning of 9/11/01

The email prior to the one above, as well as an office-wide voicemail, warned staff to avoid the Trade Center because “a small plane had apparently crashed into one of the Trade Towers…”. Those messages went out just a few minutes before 9AM (I deleted them — not recognizing the historic importance at the time). But some people were already on their way to meetings at AmEx.

My family and I had decided to disconnect our TV a few weeks earlier, and radio and internet reports were still all over the map. So I ran downstairs to the corner of 6 Ave @ W23 St and could see black smoke billowing from the top of the North Tower just a little more than 20 blocks away. Back upstairs, while trying to reconnect the TV, the news of the second strike came over the radio — along with the assessment that this was terrorism.

I tried to reach my wife, who was in class at the Fashion Institute of Technology just around the corner. But cellular service was now overwhelmed. My then 8 year old daughter, Hannah, was also in class at P.S. 11 on 21 St, btwn 8 & 9 Aves, and I sprinted like a madman to get her home. Other parents were converging on the school from every direction, all with the same purpose in mind. As I collected Hannah and turned for home, I met my wife rushing toward the school. Once assured that Hannah was safe, she opted to head back to FIT to help some of her classmates get on their way to safety. And then a short while later, the email above landed in my inbox.

The days, weeks, and months that followed were utterly surreal. For days after, there was a pall of acrid smoke hovering above the city, much of it drifting east over Brooklyn. You could not pass a wall or window or light pole that wasn’t covered with photos of the missing, the pleas of their loved ones written across faces staring out at a changed world. Manhattan was largely shut down, except of course, for emergency services. As the recovery process reached a steady but urgent pace, I watched round-the-clock processions of ambulances — led and followed by phalanxes of motorcycle police — as they passed directly below my window on their eastward journey from the Joe Dimaggio (formerly the West Side) Highway to the morgue at Bellevue Hospital. These were the remains of first responders, and at night when the ambulance interiors were illuminated, I could see the flag-draped stretchers within.

I didn’t lose any immediate family or friends, but friends and co-workers did. The husband of one of my account executives was trapped on the 90th flr of the South Tower. A cousin of one of my writers was an electrician at the WTC, and the ex-wife of a long-time friend of my wife’s family died on Flight 11. And those are just the closets calls. Dozens of friends and colleagues lost someone that day.

Something that would have otherwise been trivial is that a musical snow globe of Manhattan that we had bought years before had gotten bumped a few years later during a move, and upon unpacking it we saw that the miniature replica of the Trade Towers had fallen over. I still feel a shudder when I look at it. Especially today.

Today is bittersweet. The man who is responsible for this tragedy has finally met justice. But it doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t undo the pain and the loss so many thousands have experienced…

-30-

I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.

You’ve seen the long running TV ads for Rosetta Stone®, the language-learning software product. Nothing exceptional about those ads. Reasonably believable and satisfied “students” or credible enough spokespersons telling us how quickly and easily one can learn to speak new languages by using this product.

The creative, the production values, and the casting have always been passable. And the underlying strategy and message have been adequate. In other words, not killer spots. But they never had to be, because the one thing those ads did quite well, IMHO, was tell the consumer what the product does and how it benefits him or her. And that’s what any ad should do.

But let’s face it, unless you consciously study another language in school because it may be a useful or required tool in your future endeavors, picking up a foreign lingo is more often an expediency-driven decision: you’re planning an extensive vacation in Tuscany; you’re opening a business in Brighton Beach (next door to Coney Island), where almost everyone speaks Russian; you want to carry on normal conversations with your new in-laws from Portugal; or you’re traveling to Wuhan province or Bogota to adopt a child (been there, done both). You leave in six weeks and you want to make sure you can get around where you’re headed, so you need an effective crash course in that language.

It’s a normal, ground level, personal problem, and Rosetta Stone promises to be the solution.

But in their new ads, Rosetta Stone has gone all lofty and politico-philosophical on us. Language learning has left the individual need/purpose on the ground and ascended to a 40,000 ft., globally-good-for-mankind POV.

“I understand.” is repeated by a procession of diverse ethnic types, intercut with vignettes of people in presumably international settings, engaged in animated conversations with other diverse ethnic types. There’s even a video snippet of the Berlin Wall being dismantled! Is there a lump in my throat, or is it just heartburn?

Ok, so let me back up for a second. Speaking the languages of others does mean better understanding. I get that. But within the narrow focus, it just means understanding what’s being said. And without an intimate knowledge of the culture and nuances attached to that language, any understanding is, at best, superficial. However, it is a start. I get that, too. But does the Rosetta Stone program include related history, social studies, psychology, political science, and anthropology lessons? Didn’t think so.

So while the new creative is cinematically well done, and the emotional content very strong, is Rosetta Stone trying to achieve relevance way beyond its purpose? Has this advertiser abandoned it’s key brand benefit and the promise that most resonates with the consumer? Has Rosetta Stone drowned out their own message with too much choir music? Fuhgettaboutit! (That’s Brooklynese for “You Bet!”)

-30-

Oh my, look what I found…

In just four weeks, my future ex-wife will be — as the John Denver ballad laments — leaving on a jet plane. What that means, in a purely pragmatic sense, is that there’s a lot of discovering, sorting, and purging of the stuff of a 38-year marriage to be done. For her and for me. So, as I’ve been digging through old documents and photos and the like, I came across a folder of spontaneous stories I had written during the summer and fall of 1986. I guess these could have been blogs, had their been such a thing in 1986, and since there now is such a thing, I figure it’s time to post them — along with the illustrations my then 7-year-old daughter, Heather, drew for me.

Why was I writing so much during that period? Beats me. But it’s fun to be thrown back to a period when hard-core bicycling was pretty much what I lived for, and how I had woven  it into the cloth of my life. What do these essays have to do with the life-change I’m about to encounter? Nothing and everything, I suppose. But that’s for me to sort out.

So climb up into my attic and explore…

November 86: A Winter Tour.

An Amtrak express thunders by on the track across from me, sending waves of vibration through the concrete platform beneath my feet. But I can’t tell if it’s the rushing locomotive or the 18-degree temperature that’s causing my legs to shake so.

Gawd! Why is it so cold before Thanksgiving? Boston has already slid and cursed through its first major snowfall, and the weathermen are predicting a sunny outlook for the ski and snow sports industry this year. Whoopee (not).

Finishing the Pan-Massachusetts Challenge

Daylight Savings has just ended a few weeks ago, and my daily 40-mile round-trip cycle commute has been called on account of darkness. Ahead of me lie three and a half months of inevitable midriff spread and feeble attempts at a regular wind trainer schedule.

A moment later my train is wheezing to a stop in front of me, melting the dark, icy morning air with the hot, acrid smell of diesel fuel. A smell that seems almost pleasant when its source is the rush-hour traffic I’m whipping past on my road bike in the middle of July. But now, like the other wool-enshrouded clones around me, steam rising from behind scarves, I’m being absorbed by the 6:13 to Boston. The cocoon-like warmth of the train’s interior suddenly replaces the crispness of the outside air. Voices still not fully free of sleep, the muffled rustling of newspapers and the soft clicking of brief case latches blend with the low hum of the idling diesel.

Had my prayers for the abolition of winter been answered, I would have been strapping on my helmet right now, instead of peeling off a heavy overcoat. I would have been settling my cleats in their pedals instead of settling my body into a big vinyl bench. I’d be embarking on 50 minutes of hills, sweat and solitude. Instead, I’m facing a morning wedged between two yuppies loudly discussing their investments and the Patriot’s chances of another Super Bowl shot, and a change at South Station to the T’s problem-plagued Red Line (a.k.a. the “Dead Line”) for the noisy, crowded and usually delayed ride to Dorchester. Double-whoopee.

As I sit back on the seat, I adjust the Walkman headphones and begin scripting this morning’s escape from reality: It will be an all-out assault on the Alpe d’Huez. Hinault will lead two-thirds of the way up, then bonk. LeMond will flat, and lose too much time. Kelly won’t quite get his attack started. It will come down to a dramatic duel in the final meters between Herrera and me. Since my daughter is Colombian, maybe I’ll soften a little and give Herrera the stage by a wheel. I’ll decide before I get to South Station.

The train begins to move. I close my eyes and the peloton rolls out of the village at the mountain’s base. It will be a good race. And tonight, I promise myself, I’ll do 45 minutes on the wind trainer.

Yeah, sure…

-30-

October 86: On Cycling to Work on a New England Autumn Morning.

Drawing by Heather Greenblatt, age 7

5:30AM: Still dark on this chilly mid-October morning. It seems only yesterday that I was waking up a half-hour earlier to a warm, already eager sun. What happened to summer?

A cold instant breakfast drink and grapefruit half have been replaced by a cup of hot chocolate and a steaming corn muffin. To what used to be just Lycra shorts and a tank top, I have added tights, wool socks and jersey, gloves with full fingers and a reflective bib. The cool refreshing shower in the office at ride’s end has been abandoned in favor of a hot one at home to warm me before hitting the road. Even the dog, which used to leap off the bed in anticipation of his morning walk, huddles defensively under the covers and shrinks from me as I approach with leash in hand. What happened to summer?

6:30AM: Time to roll out. As I carry my bike up from the basement, the dark morning air clasps cold hands over my face and ankles, and I am reminded: That’s what happened to summer!

A few stretches, a quick application of Chapstick, a check of my headlamp and ankle strobe, and I’m off, tires whispering in staccato phrases as they cut through the blanket of dew-coated leaves that cover my driveway. Through the tree line I can see the faintest tint of rose on the eastern horizon. Orange-yellow squares within larger dark ones tell of neighbors starting their day. Here and there white flumes rise from cars being warmed up for the morning commute.

Out on the main road a small soft circle of illumination from the ankle strobe dances rhythmically on the pavement before me. The rosy tinge on the horizon ahead of me is growing broader and more intense. By the fourth mile the inky hue above me has faded to a lavender-gray. The mist on the pond rises tentatively, like an awakening sleeper, arms stretching, back arching, then falling softly back to bed for a few minutes more of precious slumber.

The morning rush hour, such as it is along my route, is now in high gear. Great Blue Hill is anything but blue. For most of its height, it’s a murky brown hump. But the summit is a raging firestorm of fall colors, ignited by the sun’s first serious rays. My safety lights have begun to pale in the maturing morning and the air has lost much of its bite. I can even feel a tiny trickle of perspiration down my back.

7:30AM: As I swing into the office parking lot, the sun is now a large orange ball hovering a few feet above Boston Harbor and the sky is previewing the deep, crystalline blue that marks this time of year in New England.

Leaning my bike against my office wall I realize that in just a few weeks it’ll be time to hang up the bike for the winter and reacquaint myself with that punishment known as “public transportation”. I envision myself scrunched between an overweight government clerk having a cigar for breakfast, and a 50-ish secretary who just bought out and drenched herself in Kmart’s entire inventory of Eau-de-Texaco.

And I’ll wonder, What happened to Autumn?!

-30-