Show Your Intelligence - Say You are Ignorant

The first challenge any mentor or trainer faces, even when confronting people who've paid for the instruction out of their own pockets, is convincing the trainees to shut up and listen. Fifteen minutes into journalism workshop I was leading last year, I stepped to the side of the podium and shouted, "I know you are all smarter and better at this than I am, but please pretend like you aren't. I'm a long way from home and you are hurting my feelings." 

At a writing workshop I attended a few years ago, I asked a highly regarded editor and writing coach what his clients expect when they hire him to edit their work. His answer: "In reality, most people just want me to sanctify their manuscript. They want me to fall down on my knees and thank them for the opportunity to read the product of their genius, and tell them that I would not touch a single letter in any of their beautiful words." 

Like many boomers, I've had several careers, ranging from journalism to politics to computer programming, so I understand why people just starting in a new career, are anxious to show their peers and superiors how smart they are. But many go about it the wrong way because they don't understand the difference between intelligence and knowledge.  

Knowledge can lose its value as abruptly as a mortgaged-backed security. I was pretty good with a slide-rule in my college days; it was considered essential in my line of study. Then one day it wasn't.  

My generation grew up thinking that everything was made out of atoms that look like little solar systems.  Now physicists tell us the world is made out of teenie little strings that dance in  eleven dimensions - much like Bristol Palin doesn't. 

.

Intelligence is the ability to acquire knowledge and take advantage of new ideas.

As my software business grew, I didn't look for programmers who knew it all. I looked for people who could learn quickly enough to keep up with constantly evolving programming languages and computer hardware. Change is not always good, but it is inevitable.  

How can you demonstrate your intelligence when you move into a new job or new career that may not even have a name yet? Here's one common sense way: If someone starts to teach you how to do something, even if you think you already know everything you need to know, LET THEM TEACH YOU. 

 Don't protest, don't try to impress them with how much you already know; lean forward, pay attention, ask a question or two and let them know you are paying attention. If the opportunity arises, compliment them on how elegantly they do the task, but above all watch and learn.  

If you let me teach you how edit video and your first project is better than anything I've ever produced, I am going to think that you are a genius. As a side benefit, you will make me look good and I will remember that. If your project does not turn out well, you'll have a reservoir of forgiveness to draw on because you are just learning the ropes and, as your teacher, I bear some of the responsibility. 

On the other hand, an employee who claims to know it all, then  turns in bad work, looks like someone who needs to be kept on a short  leash and given a chance to learn humility. Even if you perform well, your would-be trainer may turn into a competitor instead of an ally. 

As our generation ages, society seems to be growing more resistant to new ideas. If Copernicus was alive today, a Congressional panel would likely demand that he disavow his sun-centric view of the solar system, and Darwin would be lucky to avoid being locked up in Gitmo. 

But in the business world's real-life system of natural selection, people who cannot handle change are at risk. I know an information technology person whose expertise was in a computer system that became obsolete. Instead of learning new systems, he spent his time writing long, jargon-filled memos listing reasons why his employer should not upgrade to the new industry standard. The story does not have a happy ending for the IT person. 

The lesson? Be prepared to surf on the wave of change, or risk drowning in your comfort zone. 

The Perfect Word

I finally did it. Ordered the Oxford English Dictionary. 20 volumes, 21,730 pages - the holy grail of reference books on the English language. My overcrowded bookshelves have felt barren without one ever since I read The Professor and the Madman, an account of how the behemoth was compiled.

I love words. More precisely, I love hearing the exact right word used in the right situation to communicate an image or sensation or idea. And when the wrong word is used? It reminds me of the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail.

A friend of mine came to work one day talking about a "great monogram" he'd read. I joked that unless he'd read it on a towel, he probably meant monograph. The blood drained from his face and he plopped down in a chair. He said he had attended a gathering of humanities professors at a University the previous night and, to impress them with his intellect, he'd talked at great length about the amazing monogram he'd perused.

On another occasion, a co-worker told me a story about a friend of his who had run up some gambling debts and had been visited by a couple of "pug uglies." He refused to believe me when I told him the correct phrase was Plug Ugly. "It comes from the word pugilist," he said. And he insisted that I admit my error or put some spondulics into play.

He stopped by my house the next day and handed over a ten dollar bill. When he started to sit down for a conciliatory coffee, he froze and stared at the center of the table. "You mean I bet on a word against a guy who has a freaking unabridged dictionary on his kitchen table?" he said.  (On a swivel stand. Hand-rubbed oak.)

I didn't tell him we also kept two pocket dictionaries in the glove compartment of our car.

Poorly chosen words can be ugly - and expensive, but a well-turned phrase is a thing of beauty.
Though, as a word, onomatopoeia sounds like how a Scilian would announce that he plans to relieve himself, onomatopoetic words are a joy. An automobile trunk actually thunks when you shut it, thunder does rumble in the distance, a fat raindrop splashes on your cheek and splatters on your windshield. Thin ice crackles under your boots while the wind whistles through the trees.

And I love words that sound like what they mean, even if they are trivial. The first time I heard someone ask for a "scrunchie," I knew exactly what they wanted (an elasticized fabric tie for a ponytail). You don't have to ask what a mournful howl sounds like, or what goes on in the club named Jiggles in Portland.
Word phrases with the right sound and rhythm can produce physical sensations. They can even make your sphincter twitch.

It did, didn't it.

On a more intellectual plane, it is a pleasure to encounter unlikely combinations of words that evoke precise meanings. I appreciated the Washington Post television critic who crafted the phrase "startlingly banal" to describe one of my documentaries more than the New York Times reviewer who called it, "responsible." If you are going to gut someone, please take the time to sharpen your knife.

But even the most precise words, used in the wrong context, can sound as out of tune as the Hallelujah Chorus, performed by an all duck choir.

You just don't say a petulant third grader needs a kick in the ass. A swift kick in the pants should do the job.
On the other hand, you wouldn't talk about a drunken lout getting a kick in the pants. Calling it a good, old fashioned ass-kicking would be more appropriate.

So what reprisal might someone who incessantly passes judgment on other people's word usage deserve?
A good, solid boot to the fundament may have a salutary effect.

You should be ashamed

No doubt the new kid would have fit in with some clique in a public school, but his parents - who had bought an old rooming house near the University campus - had the temerity to enroll him in the University's lab school where the classes were tiny and there were only two cliques:  "In" and "Out."

Jack Thornton wasn't an attractive kid. He galumphed into our tightly knit little 9^th grade class with a loose-limbed gait, funny clothes, and a bad haircut. Most of his new class had been together since kindergarten and I doubt any of us expected the new kid to make it through the  semester. Even the new University president's kids had left to enroll in public schools after nine painful months.

It wasn't physical intimidation that sent them running, it was verbal. Most of the students were armed with a biting wit and attitude forged in homes where the alpha parent's mastery of verbal combat had earned the title tenured professor, or a parent whose livelihood depended on exercising power over others.
Jack obviously didn't fit the mold. In addition to his unconventional appearance, his fingernails were dirty because he spent his spare time working on cars and motorcycles, and his idea of humor was to make rude noises. He was a whiz at armpit farts and he could make a basso profundo foghorn noise that seemed to resonate in his lower intestine.

During the first week of school he showed up looking like a bad imitation of a 1950's beatnik in black jeans and a black T-shirt; so some of the guys started calling him "Dad" (as in Daddy-O, the then-passe beatnik version of Dude).Jack embraced the nickname as a term of endearment.

Another day he showed up  wearing huge, scuffed motorcycle boots that hadn't been fashionable around campus since . . .  ever. One of the rich kids walked by with a bucket full of sarcasm and said,  "Nice boots."
"If you think these are wild," Jack replied, "wait until you see what I'm wearing tomorrow!" The kid was clueless.

After someone commented on his lousy haircut, he said, "My dad cuts it. He has to catch me and tie me to the chair before he does it." And he laughed.

It turned out that trying to insult Jack was futile. He would not accept a snarky remark as an insult.
And to the confusion of the polished round pegs who claimed ownership of the lab school's academically engineered round holes, Jack looked like and acted like a square peg; but  somehow he began to fit without changing who he was - like he was made of Silly Putty ^TM instead of stone.
It wasn't long until kids gave up trying to embarrass him and started calling for a Jack Thorton foghorn to punctuate a bad joke,  seeking his counsel about car problems, and - for a piece of locker room performance art - one of theintellectuals would strike a match to light a Jack Thornton fart.

Within a few weeks Jack had woven himself into the fabric of our class so seamlessly that it seemed like he'd always been there. He was, of course, human. He had frustrations and a few shouting matches and was wounded - as were we all at that age -  by incomprehensible disappointments in adolescent romance.
But he became a role model for some of us who entered our teens feeling the pressure to go against our own nature to be like the popular kids. He made us realize that people can't laugh at you if you are laughing too, and he taught us that we need not be embarrassed by things that are not important or things about ourselves that we can't change. Save your rage for things where it might make a difference.

Make fun of my mother and you've got a fight on your hands. Make fun of my shoes? Well, the fact is, no one cares what kind of shoes you are wearing when you cross the finish line.

Would You Do it for a Million Dollars?

In the early 70's, I was a wet-behind-the-ears news reporter at a Miami TV station, making roughly the same wage as a municipal garbage collector. At the end of one long day, I got a call from the assignment desk telling me to swing by the home of a young girl who had been missing for several weeks. The girl's body had been discovered earlier that day, and ours was the only local station that didn't have film of the grief-stricken parents in the story on its six o'clock news. The producer wanted me to get an interview with parents for the late news. 

Shortly after I'd joined the station, one of my colleagues asked the provocative question: "What would you do for a million dollars?" Answering that question became a regular post-work exercise at the neighborhood bar.  

It usually started with someone's complaint about an awful assignment. For instance, one night a diminutive, minority reporter with a swollen eye got us started by describing what happened when he'd carried out an assignment to stage an abduction on a busy street corner to see if anyone would try to help the victim. They did, forcefully. Then the question arose, for a million dollars, would you do that in a redneck neighborhood? Would you do it in a redneck neighborhood naked? And so it would build. 

But what created the fascination wasn't the bizarre, imaginary task. It was the fantasy that a person could sell out big once - abandon all pride and principle on just one monstrous occasion - then never have to compromise again. This was profound talk for reporters in a town where cannibalism seemed to be the only act everyone could agree was off limits when chasing a news story, and everyone knew they were just one botched assignment away from unemployment. 

To hang onto my job, by age 22 I had already chased a mob enforcer around a parking lot with a camera, climbed onto the roof of a stranger's car in little Havana to film through the window of a factory that assembled "Saturday night special" handguns, driven onto an operating runway at Miami International Airport and ticked off a lot of cops. But I really, really did not want to add knocking on the door of that heartbroken family's house to my resume. 

I suppose if standing on principle were easy, the principles worth standing on wouldn't be so damned narrow and slippery, and the turf underneath wouldn't look so inviting. 

I knew a woman who was asked, during an interview for a consumer reporter job at a big city TV station, if she would have a problem not reporting on the misdeeds of companies that bought advertising on the station. I don't know if she paused to think about it, but I do know that she said, "No problem." She got the job and was subsequently promoted to co-anchor of two of the station's newscasts. I would like to think she still feels an occasional twinge of guilt, but who's to say? She makes a good living. 

On the other hand, a friend of mine - a single mom with two young children - walked away from her job as regional head of a national cable news network after the head office decreed that all stories about a political campaign in her region must begin and end with positive mentions of a specific candidate. She's making less money now, but she says she's happy in her job producing documentaries on issues that she thinks are important.  

There is one other story I want to tell before getting back to my own.  It caught my attention when it came over the AP Wire more than 30 years ago. 

The dispatch began, "Shrimp peelers in Thunderbolt, Georgia, have won an unfair labor practices lawsuit against their employer." The second paragraph reported that the workers had jeopardized their livelihoods to file suit to prevent their employer from forcing them to drop their work and perform a song and dance rendition of The Shrimp Boats Are A'Comin' whenever a tour came through the fish house.  

I remember parking a half-block away from the bereaved family's house in South Miami, just as the sun was starting to set. I stared at the house long enough to give my conscience a chance to quiet down, then I told my cameraman to grab his gear. I reached for the handle on the car door; but for the first time I could remember, my inner cowboy refused to mount up. I could not make myself get out of the car. Instead, I called the assignment editor and told him that the parents of the dead girl didn't want to cry on camera for us, so we were coming back empty. 

But would I have gone to their door for a million dollars?  

As it turns out, that's not the question at all. The odds that anyone who doesn't already have a few million dollars will ever have to make a decision like that are roughly a gazillion to none. But most of us face the prospect of creating a new scrape on our conscience every month, sometimes every day, in exchange for the price of another month of food, clothing, shelter, cell phone, cable TV, high speed Internet, and a few bottles of passable wine. 

In the end, did I win a courageous, if minor, victory on principle? Um, no. What I did was turn weasel and lie. And to my annoyance, and its credit, my hyperactive conscience has never cut me any slack for that.  

On the other hand those Georgia shrimp peelers probably understood exactly what they were risking to preserve their dignity, and they had the courage to lay it on the line for no money at all. 

Power to the peelers.

Dinner at the Desperation Cafe

My experience in the food service business lasted only 9 months. My mother told her friends I was a professional chef. The Pancake House called me a fry cook and paid me 15% less than the minimum wage.  In those days the kitchen was a male domain and the front was run by women, Front and back it was a tough way to make a living. But on its worst night it was nothing like the place my wife and I nicknamed the Desperation Cafe after dining there last week.

The intense competition in the industry makes restaurant owners try hard to distinguish their establishment from others and provide a unique experience. That can be hard on the staff.

Prior to last week, the worst I'd seen was a barbeque joint on SW 102 Ave in Portland where the wait staff was shod in cowboy boots and the manager periodically cranked up Isaac Peyton Sweat on the PA system and the staff had to drop everything and do the Cotton-Eyed Joe.

But neither my wife, Susan, who was once the project manager for a company that created theme restaurants in the midwest, nor I were prepared for our experience in Kent, Washington, at a place I'll call Bobby's.

As we approached front door of the restaurant the hostess practically leapt over the reception counter to jerk the door open it for us, as if she was afraid we might veer off at the last minute. Bobby's was billed as a sports bar with a difference. The difference was that it didn't look like a sports bar, have hot wings on the menu or a selection of beers that compared favorably to the average convenience store.

The wait staff was uniformly young, female and dressed in black outfits that left no doubt that they were young and female.

Our waitress, Hannah, rushed to greet us as we were seated. “Is this your first time at Bobby's?” She asked, bright eyes flashing. Yes, we were just overnighting and catching an early plane out of SeaTac.

“So you've never had our ahi tacos?” She touched us both with her young, beautifully manicured fingers and told us she would was going to put her considerable charms to work on the chef to see if she could convince him to slip us a couple of free ones. She came back a couple of minutes later wearing a worldly smile and reported that she'd been successful. I half-expected to see her straightening her clothing.

Because we were new, she leaned over the table and insisted on giving us a “tour of the menu”. The menu itself was large and unwieldy, but there was a lot of white space and the print was as large as the “E”  on the first row of an eye chart.

Susan ordered salmon with grilled veggies and crispy mashed potatoes. I ordered the featured salad – mixed greens, goat cheese, chicken and savory croutons. Hannah moaned and gushed over our selections until I could almost hear her taste buds writhing in sympathetic anticipation.

The tacos arrived, with two pairs of chopsticks and a vat of what appeared to be wasabi sauce. Not quite sure what to do with the chopsticks, I used one to smeared a little wasabi on the tuna and bit into the taco. Then I dipped a chopstick in the sauce and licked it off. It tasted like Miracle Whip ™.

“Isn't that incredible?” Hannah asked. Yes, incredible.

Hannah went to take care of another table, and we relaxed and admired the place. It had a nice, dimly lit décor, though the multiple TV screens near the bar seemed a little out of place.

After a few seconds a smiling young man with short hair, a white shirt and black tie appeared and stood by our table. He had very good posture. “I understand this is your first visit to Bobby's,” he said. We confessed that the rumors were true. He took some time describing what a joy it was to have us dining with them and how he hoped we would make Bobby's our headquarters whenever we were in town. We smiled and tried to minimize eye contact.

Our food arrived in good time. It was fine, but uniformly bland. I couldn't detect any vinegar in the vinaigrette. The croutons in my salad were the size of small hamsters, so I had to break them up with my fork before they became food. Susan said her salmon was a little dry, the crispy mashed potatoes were plain mashed potatoes stuffed into a thin rice wrap and fried a bit. Her grilled vegetables were rubbery.

Hannah returned. “How is everything, perfect?” We were both chewing, so we nodded and broke eye contact as quickly as possible.

Just as we began to chew more easily, the hostess who had endangered life and limb to open the front door interrupted our conversation to tell us that word had spread that we had never eaten at Bobby's before and she wanted to make sure that we had gotten our complimentary ahi tacos.  She'd ratted out Hannah. But after the hostess left, we talked it over and decided that since Hannah had said she was new at Bobbies, perhaps she really thought that she had to give it up for the chef in order to score appetizers for a couple of virgins.

“Is your salmon exactly right?” Hannah was back and she looked like she really, really needed positive feedback.

It made me want to say, “Relax. You are young and beautiful, you have great smile and dark eyes that reflect the candlelight. Just make eye contact from time-to-time, we'll let you know if we need anything.” But I didn't.

“And everything else is perfect?” She asked.

That was one step too far. I started to feel like we were in a wine press and some ungodly force was pressing down on the staff, trying to squeeze superlatives out of us.

“Hannah, nothing is perfect,” I said. “And that's okay. We just want a place where we can relax and eat and drink. Good – better yet – nice is all we want. Comfortable, not perfect.” Hannah smiled, but she looked a little panicked, and left quickly.

As we were leaving, the hostess rushed past us to open the door and she begged us to come back soon. It felt like she was handing us a to-go bag full of stress.

I tipped somewhere between 15 and 20 percent. I probably should have left more. They were all working hard. Too hard.

But I can't write about wait staff without mentioning a neighborhood pub in St. Louis that was famous for its disinterested servers. The servers were so unintrusive you wondered if they were paying any attention at all, except that somehow someone would appear when you were ready to order, your drinks got refreshed and your food arrived before you started to get restless.

They never offered conversation; and unless you asked, you never learned their names. It was a small, intensely comfortable place in an old neighborhood. Susan and I went there the evening after I'd walked out of a nasty meeting at work and given two-days notice. 

After I'd finished my shepherd's pie and a bottle of Newcastle, and Susan her burger and Chardonnay, she asked me I was going to have dessert. I said, no, we'd better economize since I was going to be out of work.

A few moments later our waiter appeared with a slice of hot apple pie topped with white cheddar. He nodded toward the host at the front of the restaurant who was smiling back at us and said, “If it's okay, Joe and I would like to buy you dessert tonight.”

That was nice.