Archive for 2013

Retiring from IBM 4: Accident & Emergency at Heathrow Airport

Friday, December 27th, 2013

I am a person of routine and habit. Such surprises some who know me well and most who do not. The devil of routine is travel which I both enjoy and, over the past five years, endure with frequency. I read that the airlines consider charging we passengers for carry-on luggage.

Prior to leaving London recently, I stocked my backpack in the airline lounge with two small cans of pineapple juice, an apple, and packs of crackers and cheese that I would wave away anywhere else. I bring my own pillow, eye shades and entertainment. If I am to be charged for my carry-on luggage, the irony will be that 75% of these items simply replace what the airlines use to offer. Such a charge for carry-on items will be the Tom Sawyer Fence Painting Con at 30,000 feet. “Well, Huck, ya kin hep paint this here fince, but it’ll kost ya $2.” ‘I’m gonna hav ta charge ya for the handbag that I’ma makin ya kerry-an-bord thisa here air-o-plane’.

International flights are long ones. I admit that its fun when heading easterly, usually back to the States, to rewind my watch instantly regaining four hours of my eclipsed life. Kind of like my personal episode of Lost or Groundhog Day. ‘Let’s do noon again. I’ll have that baby portion of faux cheese lasagna instead of the fake chicken pot pie.’

As we know, the body has its own routines guided by its own timing mechanism: a couple of mine are breakfast upon awakening, lunch about 5 hours later, dinner after dark, sleep at 10 pm in addition to other insundry, necessary and not-to-be-mentioned-in-public personal activities, unless one is French. One of my unspeakable routines occurs about 6:30 am daily. Adjusting for British Standard Time, this is about 10 minutes before American Airlines flight 173 departs London’s Heathrow Airport for its 8 hour journey to the USA.

Like a school student, I can usually wait until I get home. Last November, I could not even though I waited too long to calculate my urgency. Be alarmed not, dear reader. This will not be gross.

P_Emirate01

As I meandered past the numerous Airline Lounge facilities, all of which seem to elevate the unexceptional to the extraordinary by simply deflating the expected and customary to a variant of a visit to the dentist, I spotted the Air Emirates Lounge on my way to my departure gate. I knew that I could not get into the AE lounge. I did conclude that their departure gates must have excellent personal facilities befitting a high rolling, oil sheik, Airbus flyer. I changed course and headed in that direction. I found the AE gates, but only their gates?! As time was not on my side, I asked the courteous lady at the AE boarding counter for directions to the men’s facilities. She recommended the way back where I came from, near the center of the concourse! Like Columbus, I was not to be deterred by a slight navigational miscalculation on my part and a lack of inspiration on hers. I thanked her and carried-on my initial route.

Spotting the international symbol for personal convenience above a broad door- and this polished portal was configured to handle wheelchairs- I cautiously turned the handle and was granted entrance. All my own. Spotless. Vast. This chamber was the size of the sum of what all of the accommodations on my pending airplane flight would equal.

I’ll spare you the details, certainly. Everything proceeded according to plan and habit except for the conclusion. May I be quick to say that I am used to all manners of plumbing actuation, aka flushing: levers, knobs, switches, sensors, manual, semi-automatic, automatic and magic. I could not figure this dude out. Nothing looked like anything that I ever used before. And I needed to get back asap to my own departure gate. Confronted with a cord from the ceiling and a one inch square, illuminated button in the wall, I opted for the bright, shiny button and pushed it in.

This actuated the Call For Help light, at least on my side of the locked door. It was one of those moments when you are so frightened that everything moves slowly and you are aside yourself watching yourself behave. “I wonder what Chris is going to do now?!” Of course, I took some of the precious seconds available to me to wonder what will be the consequences of my greed, deceit, disrespectful and insulting behavior. I wondered if the Emirates had territorial authority in a handicapped bathroom? What language would my attorney need to speak? Would I suffer an incarceration similar to that dope-runner in Midnight Express?  Seriously though, I did envision a SWAT team in desert garb blowing the hinges off of the door to rescue what they had to perceive was the desperate soul pleading for assistance. As I stared at the amber, flashing light and enjoyed the melody of its whirring alarm, my only option was to try what works with computers and computer software. If one click makes it go on, maybe the same click will make it go off. I did. It did. Instant quiet and monochrome illumination.

I like to think that those assigned to rescue the truly needy in such situations don’t alert immediately the airport ambulance as false alarms are a common or not uncommon occurrence. Kind of like the aggravating car and home alarm systems.

Now that order was restored, at least on my side of the door, I squared my shoulders, channeled my best 007 look of aplomb- you know, while the bad guy’s vehicle burns, Bond slips into a taxi initially hailed by a beautiful woman and they head to the casino. Just as Mr. Evil’s car explodes into vicious flames, James quips, ‘that’s one way to be fired from your job’- and pushed open my door.

1242796267486489866Handicapped_Accessible_sign.svg.hi

To my relief, there were no Balaclava-clad men kneeling with weapons drawn- which I thought might be standard procedure for a false alarm; there was no gurney poised with an Accident and Emergency team; there was no one. I walked away as slowly as my desperate to run legs would allow me.

At the check-in process for my own flight, I was especially polite and thoughtful in answering the questions related to my journey and personal details. I was prepared for the Columbo retort,” thank you sir; have a good flight.” “Oh! By the way, where you the one in the handicapped restroom near the Air Emirates gates?” I would try to run and would be tackled by a dozen plain-clothes Bobbies and MI-6 types meandering nearby in disguise as fellow passengers.

I boarded alone and seemingly unobserved. I sat in my window seat. I ate and drank everything offered to me. I complimented the flight attendant on the quality and quantity of food. I paid for in-flight WiFi service so that I could email the Chief Executive Officer of American Airlines with a list of members of the flight crew that I felt should be immediately promoted. While online, I donated my frequent flyer account balance to charity. I purchased 4 bottles of Duty-Free scotch. I’m trying to change my habits.

You Don’t Want It, Monsieur; It Wants You.

Tuesday, December 24th, 2013

No longer permitted business-class air travel, even to Australia, India or a morning client meeting after an overnight flight to Europe. Since the 2008 financial crisis, employees have had to absorb ever more of our own business-related expenses. We pay for our own Internet access from home; our mobile phone allowances are capped. The company suspended the Thanks Award program where an employee could grant a nominally valued gift to a fellow employee. Instead, we can send e-cards.

Black-Tuxedo-Wine-Champagne-Bu-40162

I had a premonition of what would be because I played tennis in 2002-2004 with a veteran employee. He began in the heyday of the mainframe when Miss Connecticut, the beauty pageant winner, was automatically offered the receptionist job at the branch office in Hartford. This afforded last year’s Pageant winner a promotion to Assistant Marketing Manager. Don Draper would understand. As my tennis pal plotted carefully his retirement, “seven years and counting” (at that time, I wondered who worked anywhere for 7 years), he offered me some poignant career advice: “I never argue with women managers; I never argue with accountants; and I never, ever argue with a female accountant.”

Early in 2008, I travelled to Belgium to meet with the executives of a Brussels-based bank who wanted to spread the aura of innovation from their personal offices down the halls and around the building to those eager to think for themselves. I visited in June for two workshops. My first meeting was in their executive building, 11th floor, manned by two women attired in the blue company uniforms complete with Hermes scarves. The walls hung recognizable art; it was the largest office space I’d ever seen for so few occupants. I learned that these guys were the bank of record for a European government agency. After the bust later that October, the government rescued the bank, sold the art work and co-located all of the employees, except for these executives as they were no longer employees.

June weather in Belgium can be warm; absent air-conditioning, it can be hot. After the bank briefings and before spending the next week in London, I toured Brussels. The food is delicious, the architecture is interesting and there are battlefield monuments nearby ranging from Waterloo to Bastogne.

On a Sunday, I meandered about the the Grand Place in search of simple souvenirs that I could afford. At the chocolate boutique, I asked if the milk chocolate pralines would travel well. “Of course, sir” was the reply. “If you will keep them in the packaging on the floor of your car, they should be fine when you arrive at your hotel.” I asked, “how about the flight back to America?” Heathen-alert! I received the retail store version of the Terminator’s stare whenever they conclude that you don’t have what it takes to either appreciate or afford their goods. “Non, Monsieur.” End of pitch, conversation, dialogue and meeting. Au Revoir, Monsieur Mars Bar.

I am compelled to return with souvenirs when I am away from home for more than a few days. I feel that this helps to include the family in the journey and procures a measure of good will for the next extended trip. Although I do notice that the days of my departures are met with upbeat, hearty well-wishes from my son and wife as they make a list of places where they plan to eat-out in my absence.

Amidst the stone buildings and sea of outdoor cafes in the Old Town, I spotted a jewelry shop on a rounded corner of sturdy fortress-like building. I’m willing to buy dishes, linen, coats and even shoes for my wife. Jewelry is out of my comfort zone as I’m not confident that I understand the relationship between price and quality. I fall prey to the shiny object syndrome and am unsure of neck length, ear lobe size, width of brow, subtle eye color when queried by the sales clerk. I usually say, “she likes blue and green. Gold is good, too.” Then I ask for directions to the shoe department.

The windows of this particular jewerly shop, aka boutique, were decorated, as these upscale sort all are with the the tasteful, overt message that EU Ministers, Foxcom Moguls and Kim Kardashian welcomed.

The door was ajar. I peeked in to see a handsome woman; a small, rotating fan; and a bottle of champagne. Immediately, she beckoned me with a sincere wave and an entreaty to enter. “Entrez Vous, Monsieur, Entrez Vous.” As I ventured across the threshold, she switched to English because she recognized immediately Mr. Hershey Kisses.

She apologized for the warm air in the shop explaining that the air conditioning unit was ‘out of function.’ “Please join me in a glass of champagne” – the bottle in silver bucket on the counter. I guess that she was in her mid-50s, dressed as someone who not only purveys jewelry but also knows how to wear the rocks too. I am not sure about other men on the road, but I’m easy prey when afar for a glass of champagne, decolletage with a french accent, in a spot where Lady Gaga might stop-by.

One has to pass the time when sipping fine wine. Madame showed me a few baubles, asked me a few questions, slid open a couple of concealed drawers, re-filled my glass. She introduced me to her friend of the same profile who dropped-by to complain of the heat – maybe she was summoned by a we’ve-got-one-on-the-hook button beneath the counter. They asked about my wife’s interests and qualities. Is she tall? Does she have fair skin? How does she dress?

The more they spoke, the more I realized that women have many facets. Or it could have been the 2:30 pm champagne buzz. At any rate, it was revealed to me by my new BFFs (Belgium Friends Forever) that the purchase of a bracelet designed in Austria would restore to my marriage an element of joy and mystery that I did not even realize was either relevant or missing.

I felt like a Beaux-Arts dandy amidst their well wishes of Au Revoir, Bon Voyage, Merci with hands waving their golden bracelets. Yep, got the cheek kisses before I left, too.

The lacquered, outsized shopping bag with the gold threaded, blue crinoline ribbons was probably worth more than most of the other downmarket souvenirs that I’d purchased on prior adventures. I still have the branded, telescopic pen that Madame gave to me after I signed the credit card statement impressing my investment with the gravity of an international treaty ceremony.

200px-Bruxelles_Manneken_Pis

There are ways to save money and there are ways to make money. What Madame understood is that the best way to turn a few Euros is to have the customer feel as though he is part of a singular, lifetime achievement. I didn’t buy an expensive bracelet in Brussels; my wife possesses a souvenir of an experience that I never want to forgot. A Votre Sante’.

Steve, Cher & Daycare: a memory upon retirement

Sunday, December 22nd, 2013

We live in an academic community in the small city of Durham, North Carolina; could be named Dukeham for the significance of Duke University to our local economy. Sometimes referred to with the “New Jersey of the South” moniker, but I’ve heard that as many students come from Florida. I don’t believe it.

As a consequence of the influx of these out of state, private tuition sources, Jersey or Miami, $58k per year per student including room and board, high achieving professors are recruited. Throw into the pot the doctors and scientists from the Medical Centers (only two cities have two such large and renown medical centers, ours with Duke and UNC, and the Bay Area with Stanford and Cal Berkeley) and pre-school for infants and toddlers costs plenty around town.

In the beginning, we carted our infant son to the other side of Chapel Hill, a 90 minute round trip twice per day, because that’s where the best-we-could-find pre-school was. Foolishly, we had waited until he was born to solicit invitations for our son’s attendance and our related funds. This is like trying-out for the middle school soccer team in order to get some exercise, have some fun and learn an internationally popular sport. One would be lucky to get an orange slice as a booby prize before a squadron of mini-vans with insulted parents escorted you from the field.

For awhile, we enjoyed the variety from routine and the car-time with the Howard Stern radio program. Then the call came that Our Child (OC) fell from his high chair, cut his head and ‘needed us to pick him up.” “Can’t we meet you at the doctors office?”, Mother implored. “Uh, no. We don’t have a car seat for a baby.” Quite the memorable occasion was the next hour as we motored over to the school then to the Emergency Room. Turns out, OC was ok – a few stitches now hidden by an eyebrow. Mother recovered also.

We dug out the phone book (remember? still had those in 1997) as well as the related tip sheets so that we could renew the begging of day-care directors. We found a sincere program at a Catholic school that was well managed and very diverse, although nobody was like us. Couldn’t enroll OC until he was 2, three months from now / then, and as spots in the “program” were going fast, our chances of securing one later were kind of like walking-on to that aforementioned middle school soccer team.

Luckily, I attended Holy Name of Jesus, a Catholic school in New Orleans, and felt that I should employ this ADMG connection. Knowing the lingo of the Vatican, I asked, “can we start paying now and send our child later, after his second birthday?” Our request was processed up the chain of command or being. By the time we got home, we had a positive reply, i.e. acceptance, with address for the check, recorded on our answering machine (still had those in 1997).

Alas, not enough natural light, the diversity was too diverse – gratefully, no high chair flights- so, with much guilt (Once a Catholic, Always a Catholic), we met with Miss Rosa, the school’s Director, to confess and to accept the blame (O a C, A a C). She understood, suggesting that we contact The Lakewood Avenue Children’s School as that program seemed to be more like us. Our kind of market regulated diversity as we were about to learn.

We followed this advice, met that Director who became a dear friend, and enrolled. $900 per month in 1998 dollars moving to $1,200 over three years. We later learned that we were given a Disney-like Golden Entrance Pass bypassing the application queue as the wait list exceeded 100. Maybe she was moved by the sight of a begging mother and her clueless to the ways of the world husband.

LACS was quite the set-up: in a renovated home, large back yard, vegetable garden, rabbit hut, fox predators :( 6 teachers, 32 children in 3 grade levels and parents ranging from big time science prize winners; plenty of doctors; former and current lovers; trust fund hippies; the mayor. Once for a party game, we counted how many different last names identified the kids. I recall circa 18 and there were twins and siblings in the program. It was the kind of pre-school that you wish your college had been like.

Now for the good part. The teachers were smart, kind and capable. Turn-over was slight as they paid above the average with health benefits. LACS won a national recognition award and a citation in the Wall St Journal, pre-Murdoch the Fox.

Of our six teachers, Steve was the sole male. Fit in well with the rest of the teaching team and was especially popular on the days that he brought Mr. Happy, his pet snake, to school. I was content because mom was happy and OC was buckled in.

One spring day, Steve announced his resignation from LACS. Selected parents in the know, yours truly excluded, were atwitter- meant something different then. OC’s mother had seen Steve perform in Raleigh, the state capital on the other side of the Research Triangle Park. His celebrity impersonations were so good that Las Vegas made him an offer that he could not refuse. With minimum fanfare and less explanation, he cordially and, in high regard, headed West to what I’ve come to classify as that hell-hole in the desert.

About the same time that Steve arrived in LV, I did, too, as IBM negotiated a multi-year contract for thousands of off-season room-nights. Consequently, seemingly every sales conference and many client events were hosted in The Venetian, at Treasure Island or The MGM Grand. A couple of times it made sense for me to stay the weekend there because I was due back the following week. After 6 or 8 seemingly surreal, week-long trips there, I shaped my own Rat Pack world of dinners at Brennan’s, exercise at the Canyon Ranch Spa and roaming the Frontier Mall. I never managed to feel like James Bond at the baccarat table. “I bet $15.00, Goldfinger” doesn’t have the requisite aplomb.

Somewhere in the middle of this period of professional purgatory, I stood in the long, incredibly long taxi line at the Vegas airport for the short ride to The Strip. Arrival at that airport is like being sent down a chute into a perverse wonderland of big luggage, odd people, glittering advertisements, exits without identity.

Anonymity amidst the chaos begins upon airport exit with thousands of riders queuing for hundreds of taxis. Oddly or maybe perversely, for Vegas, the dispatcher solicited passengers headed to the same locations. Bellagio? Mandarin? IBM conference? were examples of his sorting pattern. Things happened fast at this point. Two of us were paired and pointed to taxi down the queue. “Which one did he say,” asked my newly assigned companion. I replied, “the one with Cher on top, that’s was my son’s pre-school teacher.” I think he replied “nice ass” as this was him/Steve/Cher in her Bob Mackie outfit. Arm in arm with Steve in the mobile billboard atop the taxi were Judy Garland, Joan Rivers and Mariah Carey. How’s Mr. Happy, I wondered.

I caught Steve’s act three or four times during my Vegas incarcerations, usually joined by an adventurous or equally desperate IBM colleague. He always provided me with front row seats, once next to the bejeweled and bewigged Joan Collins. Astounding and fun were the impersonations and at every visit I was invited after the show to have a drink with Steve-Cher-Celine (he did her too) and “Michael Jackson” from Greensboro, NC. Just guys making a buck.

Steve and his partner lived away from The Strip, a necessary survival technique it seems. By day, Steve had resumed his work in pre-school education. Vegas, Baby!

It worked out for us, too, back in Durham, especially when OC entered kindergarten in the public school system. We added the former Lakewood tuition to the mortgage payment for our small home in Forest Hills- the mortgage payment was the smaller of the two- enabling the purchase of a much bigger place in Duke Forest adjacent to – irony alert – Duke University’s West Campus. Actually, next to their golf course and their Inn which is next to their West Campus.

Steve is still out there with the same gig at a different venue. I hope that Cherilyn Sarkisian,The Other Cher, finds a program for eternal life, or lifts, so long as it’s good for Steve. Owen will be off to college soon; I’m retiring from IBM at the end of the month. The beat goes on.

Since you ask:

cher2 StevenWayne

15 Rounds with IBM: Proposals, Prom-Mobiles and Phones

Saturday, December 21st, 2013

I wrote this on my 15th anniversary with IBM, November 30th. There will not be a 16th as I / we agreed to an 18 month separation process in June of 2012 cleverly titled Transition to Retirement (TTR). Our contract stipulated a 3 day work-week with a reduction in pay and the agreement that I, and others in the program, would not be subject to possible ensuing Reductions in Force (RIF), aka lay-offs. I kind of expected to receive a jar of blue blood that I would dab in the doorposts so that the RIF-Wraiths would know to pass me by.

Honestly, it feels good to go with a handshake and the semblance of a healthcare plan and not with a box and security guard escort, although I work from home. Maybe there is a business opportunity similar to the common working space / rent an office locations where one would just go to meet the actual boss and then be walked-out to the car. Might create employment opportunities for sad-seeming colleagues with the looks of shock and schadenfreude; the impassive security guard just doing his duty; the potted plant vendors and cardboard box suppliers; the gossip-around-the-coffee-mess distributor.

Isn’t it true that relationships can often be characterized by the way that they started?! Here’s how ours did.

In mid-summer of 1999, after traveling anywhere at any time to see nearly any customer, I was informed that I was the employee in the division with the second highest travel expenses. For a second, I thought that I was being encouraged to go for #1. This notion was dashed by the phrase, “And nobody wants to be known for that.” After 8 months, the team that I signed-on with, was organized out of existence as the cost could not be justified (n.b. trend developing). While scrambling to find a new team, I was assigned to manage a proposal process (RFP) for a promising deal with a German telecommunications company in Lake Mary, Florida.

I here learned that the support of your 6 degrees-of separation colleagues is related directly to the depth and width of the charge code or budget that you are able to offer them. We established a command center in the Atlanta Innovation Center- now gone which indicates who has the mightier sword, Accounting or Innovating. RFP support came from everywhere and in every form, including a software sales rep from Dallas in 5 inch powder blue heels. She relayed that her boyfriend played in an Atlanta rock band. I guess to stop the ‘what are your dinner plans?’ inquiries.

Encouraging was the wealth of information that each team, unit and division supplied to ensure that their product was specified as an essential element of the proposed solution. Less attractive was that nearly none of this information was directed towards the requirements of the client’s published requirements. Kind of like being tossed the dictionary and told to find the novel of choice. We cobbled together six binders of facts; factoids; paragraphs from other proposals; bios of experts, including many still with the company; graphs; architecture maps; web site addresses; and executive statements of commitment to partnership. Then they all caught the next flight from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport (note this location) leaving the entire RFP package, including printing, assembly and shipment in the custody of one individual whom I recall was a former National 10k Walking Champion (cue the organ music).

In our favor was our status as a major client of this customer. Helpful may be for you to know that once upon a time, in a land far away, IBM itself got into the telecommunications business. There are still Rolm phones on desks at the RTP facility, usually next to the skeleton of the COBOL guy whom we thought retired prior to the last facilities consolidation. IBM sold this telecom division to these guys in Florida. Can you spell Quid Pro Quo? We couldn’t.

After reviewing our 40 pound proposal, the client informed us that of the 3 competing companies, they would have ranked us 4 of 3 if the laws of arithmetic permitted.

As you would expect, how the helping hands from Corporate HQ descended upon us now that they were poised to renew a contract for a warehouse of this client’s phone equipment, switching gear and PBXs, while the client’s sister division was poised to toss us off the bus of brotherhood!

Our corporate support earned us a reprieve or Your Final Last Chance which came in the form of a mandatory meeting to better explain our proposal. This meeting would occur nearly immediately at the Atlanta Customer Innovation Center with the stipulation that another customer had to join this meeting to offer an in-person reference for our self-described relevant talents, skills and experience.

Who better to supply a reference to business executives from a German company based in Florida than an IT executive from a Japanese company based in New Jersey. He flew down in exchange for travel expenses and a company logo jacket.

Young, new to the company Dan flew from California to join the briefing as the German Telco in Florida was his account to manage. At dinner the night before the reference-infused briefing and after an afternoon of prep where we orchestrated the color, gender, charts, projectors and seat assignments, I asked Dan “have we arranged for transportation tomorrow from the airport to the briefing center for the visitors from New Jersey and Florida.” “No,” he replied, “and two additional guests will visit from California, so we have three flights to meet.”

This was one of those innocuous moments in the movies when attention is paid to the wrong clue or ignoring the thrown-away statement. I took the action to figure-out how to meet three sets of executives at different times at a large, busy airport while Dan reserved transportation with the agreement that an executive limo would do. We agreed to meet after breakfast and with plenty of time to arrive at the distant airport to corral all of our guests.

I stepped from the lobby into the 9am morning summer sun of Atlanta looking for our limo. As I walked in the direction of the expected and presently parked black Lincoln Town Car, it drove away revealing a 120 inch (10 feet of interior space), white in color, dated in age, what my sons would take to the high school prom limousine. Standing next to the prom-mobile was Dan. No comment. No explanation. No apology. Off we went in the Anytime Anywhere Limo.

Our driver was an older chauffeur, Quido (I swear) in a checked jacket, vintage 1970s, with a not Gone With The Wind accent. The back of limo could accommodate an entire wedding or prom party as it included bar, fridge and television. With just Dan and me, it seemed as though we sat in an empty swimming pool as we bounced along I-85. The shock absorbers on the car needed replacement and had so since the early 1990s.

We arrive at the airport, parked in the limo lot and were informed by Quido that another driver would relieve him for our journey back to the Windy Hill Innovation Center.

Inside the Airport

The German executives from Florida arrived first. Dan met them. The New Jersey American customer reference arrived second; I met him. While waiting for team three from California, we 5 sat around a table for 4 enjoying styrofoam-flavored cups of coffee and looks-like-bagels. The conversation was sparse and awkward, mainly me conversing and no one taking the bait. Finally, at long last, thank heaven, team 3 arrived. I didn’t offer a coffee and bagel break. As we paddled our way through the crowds and their luggage to the limo, no one said much beyond introductions and grunting about the quality of their flights. Funny, though, was how similar the three teams of visitors looked as if we’d chosen a uniform of the day: black trousers, white shirts, no jackets, black computer bags and brief cases decorating an assortment of head shapes, facial hair, ages and heights. Could have been an Oceans Eleven promo.

I found the correct exit to the limo parking lot. No small feat if you know me. Then the real party started. The prom-mobile was even easier to spot than might be thought because a Fulton County police car was parked at 90 degrees to and 3 inches from our white whale’s front bumper blocking the vehicle from exit. This tactic reminded me of crossing the tee in the age Admiral Nelson: “Give ‘em the full broadside, lads.”

As our party approached the T-boned cars, we enjoyed the theatre of a short, round, anglican, female police officer – gun, mace, cuffs, nightstick, radio – the works – conversing with a tall, well proportioned, male, African-American limo driver. If for no other attribute, he was notable for the pigtail, rattail in the vernacular, that extended from its usual inception point, his head, to the middle of the back of his white shirt. They did not seem to be either high classmates catching-up or just two of us trying to make a living at the airport. I could tell this by the way she pointed her finger at him and the sound of his voice which you’d probably call shouting.

Team Calif-Fla-Jersey stopped so as not to get closer. After a couple of minutes in the heating sun, they looked about, spotted shade beneath a meager parking lot tree and sort of back-peddled towards this oasis. “Where do you think you’re going?”, asked the officer declaratively. I guess that she wondered if George Clooney’s pals were fixin’ to bolt.

I seized the opportunity to quell any misunderstanding by approaching our warring couple. Identifying myself as an IBM employee, hoping that she would think Executive and not ‘man whose role is prom-mobile coordinator’, I asked if anything was wrong?

I wanted to ask if now would be a good time to run for it. She replied that ‘this driver AND vehicle are not authorized on airport property, Fulton County or in the state of Georgia.‘ Me: “what should we do?” She: “Are they with you?” pointing at the trifecta in the shade. Me: “Yes, Officer.” She: “All of you, get into your car.” Us:
I motioned; they came; we did.

We splayed about the 10 foot cabin in silence without even the hum of the air conditioning unit. I thought to myself that I had figured I would, at least, be with IBM for one year before the company figured me out. Other visions and thoughts went through my mind mainly because nobody was talking to me or to anybody else. We occupied ourselves watching the officer deliver a sheaf of tickets to the guy with the pirate hairdo. Kind of like tv with no sound and a failing picture tube.

Prom Mobile

After a couple of hundred hours, probably 15 minutes, the officer and the driver separated. She motored off in her patrol car. The new driver fired-up the prom-mobile and away we bounced, just like a noble galleon on the high seas.

I stared at the empty faux-crystal liquor bottles on the side-board at my end of the entertainment cabin lamenting their dry condition. Not even I knew what to say about anything.

Unfortunately, our limo helmsman punctuated the silence with the his analysis of recent events by saying, “she’s lucky that I didn’t have my gun with me.” He might have used a vulgar substitution for ‘she’, but this is close enough.

Right on cue, all heads snapped in my direction as I was seated in the back seat at the back of cabin. Mustering all of my naval leadership training and bridge officer watching-standing command presence, I spoke for the group in reply, “I wish that you hadn’t said that.” Of course, I really wanted to scream for my mother, but fear makes cowards of us all.

We fought the seas of Atlanta traffic for about an hour back to Windy Hill. At one point near the end, the white, stretch prom-mobile, after bouncing on its former shock absorbers, so struggled up the hills of Windy just as our harbor was in sight that I would swear that we were passed regularly by joggers and moms pushing those jogging strollers.

We disembarked at the revolving door to the briefing center. I walked directly to front desk to order rides back to the airport at the end of the meetings. I received a longish look from the receptionist when I asked for a description of the ordered transportation.

Rolm Phone

This briefing went well and we were invited back into the ‘competition.’ I’m not sure who was awarded what or how many phones equal how many computers in a corporate horse trade. Ultimately, the Germans got out of the telecom game and sold their Florida facilities. The Japanese firm outsourced its IT department; Dan left the company and California.

My employment will conclude in ten days. I wonder what I could trade for a Rolm phone as a retirement souvenir.

First Night Raleigh 2014 Mobile App Available in iTunes

Wednesday, December 11th, 2013

First Night Raleigh 2014

Building on the popularity of the FNR 2013 app, which ranked among the top 200 downloads from the Apple Store, this year’s app, FNR 2014, takes advantage of the iPad’s larger screen size, improved camera and the new Apple iOS 7 design and operating system (faster and more fun).

Just like last year, the app provides a complete list of activities with an interactive mapping feature to show where the events are offered and the easiest routes for getting to the ones of interest. Photographs and bios of the artists and descriptions of their performances are once again included.

New features within this year’s FNR 14 mobile app are:
– Bookmark activitites of interest in order to customize an itinerary. These bookmarks can be shared with friends and family.
– Rate individual performances as personal reminders of sights and artists seen.
– Make notes that may be shared with friends and family.
– FNR14 will tweet event hightlights throughout the day and evening. Their Tweets, @FNRaleigh, may be followed within the app.
– Send feedback directly to the FNR team to help them plan for future events.
– Connect with the Facebook pages and Twitter messages of event sponsors.

This is the second in a series of FNR apps developed by Blue Pane Studio on behalf of Artsplosure Raleigh. The app is once again sponsored by Fidelity Investments.

22 November 1963

Friday, November 22nd, 2013

I recall in December 1961 an unlikely conversation between my father, a stockbroker, and Gerald Gelpi, a New Orleanian of the first order and an antiques dealer, reminiscing of their location when Pearl_Harbor was attacked. I sat in the corner or on the floor in our Broadway apartment fascinated by the tales and life experiences that appeared to have radiated from that historic episode.

It feels, although faintly, that this President’s assassination was a watershed moment for those nearly my age. To think that his astounding murder would characterize a decade of television amplified deaths from the individual, King and Bobby Kennedy, to the collective, race riots, including foreign, Vietnam. How nearly wonderful to be an oblivious teenager amidst the 1960s roller coaster.

We returned from noon recess at Holy Name of Jesus Elementary School. I was 11 and lived for sports at lunch. As the all-boys in khaki tramped up the stairs to our 6th grade class, Shorty Gay, a 7th grader, held the door open from the staircase. “the President’s been shot,” he said. We all watched Combat on tv and played army after school. Still, do President’s get shot?! Home at 3:30, my mother and sisters crying in front of the small black and white tv. JFK -we don’t use initials any more- visited New Orleans one year or so earlier. My mother with her 4 children and her friend, Jean Anne with her 7 (staunch Catholics for sure), carted us to the corner of Carrollton Avenue and Walmsley Boulevard to join the throngs gathered to see the presidential motorcade swoosh by. Can’t imagine the same today for a parade of presidential SUVs.

Our home was stunned and grieved over the weekend. Vivid is the ever-presence of Walter Cronkite detailing the multiple threads of concurrent events: new President, who shot the former President, plans for the funeral service, suppositions of foreign plots and haphazard interviews. Then Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald on television. I’ll never forget that sight. Those were still the days when families brought television sets to school to watch space launches and capsule recoveries. A live murder on tv was shocking. Then the funeral, John-John’s salute and the seeming loss of Jacqueline Kennedy as well.

The country stepped-back from its hopeful emerging self, from Eisenhower and the vestiges of the World War 2, to a modern future filled with promise for all as embodied by the Kennedy couple. Just a collective dream as we look back. In the present economy and with all of the immediate sources of news and opinions, it is hard to imagine the collective mood at that point in the 1960s. Naive, perhaps; confident, for certain. Then LBJ and a seeming return to a too near past. Then Nixon. then, then, then to the point where the President is nearly a side-show in the national wrangle to get something done on behalf of us all.

jfk

I sort of make my living talking in public, usually to corporate executives about technology patterns and trends. I realize now this aptitude was initially cultivated as I became interested at age 12 in all things alluding to an assassination conspiracy. My first public speaking class presentation was a book review of Mark Lane’s Rush to Judgement. As an adult, I’m persuaded that Oswald was the lone gunman, although I wonder why Jack Ruby was compelled to shoot him.

Camelot is past; so many Kennedys suffered tragic consequences to end their lives; just yesterday, the nephew of Robert and Ethel Kennedy, Michael Skakel, was paroled after conviction of murdering a neighbor in his youth and sentenced many years after the crime.

I’m certain that the past is best left to the past and what could have been was never a probability.

US Naval Academy Alumni Association Leadership Series

Wednesday, November 13th, 2013

Last night, 11/12/13, we joined with the local US Military Academy alumni to welcome Casey Carroll to hear his perspective on leadership. Casey is in his second year at Duke’s Fuqua School of Business. A better described and more complete bio can be read here: http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/more/news/20130510/casey-carroll-duke-lacrosse.ap/

Our audience last night included lacrosse players and parents from Durham and Chapel Hill. In a way, his remarks appealed to them as much or more than they may have to the nodding heads of the Navy types gathered. Casey enlisted in the Army motivated by the combat death of another Duke lax player, Jimmy Regan. After serving 4 tours in combat, Casey returned to Duke for his MBA where he qualified for a year of lacrosse due to the time lost as a result of the infamous lacrosse scandal in 2006.

His remarks were thorough and brief. He recited how lessons of youth, at his father’s knee nearly, served him well preparing others for combat. Casey suggested to the high schoolers in the audience that bluster is not the mark of leadership, credibility and authenticity are. His preferred leader is competent and genuine. And these traits are not gifts but the results of consistent, personal initiative. These attributes apply to winning a national athletic championship, directing soldiers in combat or working in teams in business school.

Privileged were we for the benefit of this man’s experience. As Casey recited, “We Few, We Happy Few..”

130510172715-casey-carroll-1-single-image-cut

Twitter: what’s the value?

Friday, November 8th, 2013

After several months of wondering why anyone would care why anyone else was having a latte, I met Phil Whitehouse, now the GM of Ogilvy & Mather in Australia, then a manager in a British Telecom internal start-up (you can guess the end of that story). We spent a day together at the 2008 Wimbledon (sounds posh?!), the year that Nadal defeated Federer in the 5th set in the dark. You can tell whom I rooted for.

After a couple of 10 am Pimms Cups, we talked about how his small team survives the currents of a much larger company. He replied,”we don’t ask for budget beyond our salaries. We use whatever free tools that we can get our hands on. Twitter, for example. It’s a fast, easy to use, no-cost tool. Plus you have to get your message across in 140 characters.”

We don’t’ use the BT CRM system. We’ve agreed that each day, each of the nine of us on the team will try to share one item that we think may be of interest to the other eight on the team. By the end of the week, we’ll have nearly 50 items of, hopefully, useful customer information.”

I’ve been a fan since to an extent that I’ve never rallied in Facebook’s favor. In my own realm, Twitter is, indeed, a valuable learning tool. I know the music, travels, personal interests, professional discoveries and humor of many people with whom I’d be lucky to have a 5 minute conversation at a conference. Twitter is the best source of my own professional development.

office-art-twitter_ipo

Two aspects of this media make me wonder. How many of a certain age still perceive Twitter as waste of public bandwidth by those who believe or hope that the world cares that they’re having a coffee? And if Twitter cannot make money given its membership and audience and near ever-presence, are we returning to the days of the dot com busts?

As answering machines replaced phone messages, as email replaced answering machines, as texts replaced email – for those of a certain age- I believe that the near instantaneous sharing of examples, photos, videos, links, insights and events will transform broadly how we connect and how we share. Twitter describes more an evolving capability for grand scale collaboration than it does an opportunity to make money an old fashioned or familiar way. It’s another step forward in a new way of sharing. I guess that if you are reading this, you probably know this. Let’s have a coffee sometime.

So, I bought a Liberace song….

Friday, November 8th, 2013

Liberace Boogie Woogie

iTunes offered me a prescient warning but I didn’t listen.

Búist er við því að gagnamagn muni aukast gríðarlega á næstu árum.

Sunday, November 3rd, 2013

Áttatíu prósent allra rafrænna gagna hafa verið búin til á síðustu tveimur árum. Þar af eru 80-90% þessara gagna ómótuð eða hálfmótuð, eins og umsagnir fólks á netinu, tíst á Twitter, bloggfærslur, myndir á Facebook og tölvupóstsamskipti. Þetta sagði Christopher Perrien, hjá IBM, á Smarter Business ráðstefnu Nýherja og IBM í dag.

IBM býst við að gagnamagn og umsýsla gagna muni halda áfram að vaxa hratt á komandi árum. Fyrirtækið hefur því þróað ofurtölvu sem gerir fyrirtækjum mögulegt að vinna úr og halda utan um sívaxandi gagnamagn, ekki síst ómótuð gögn.

Nýja tölvan heitir Watson og byggir á hugrænni tölvun (Cognitive computing). Hún getur lært og átt samskipti við fólk á miklum hraða. Watson sameinar mannlega vitsmuni og býr yfir getu til þess að vinna úr og geyma áður óþekkt magn gagna.

25b076bb432bc3b806c15b0e4e6838d1

Translated: every man is a hero to the Vikings. Correct citation here.

I spoke about IBM’s Watson and the opportunity for Cognitive Computing to audiences at the University of Iceland, Reykjavik University, a surprisingly well-attended CEO Roundtable and about 160 as I was the keynote address of an afternoon of discussion about trends in social media and computer storage. The former creates opportunity for the latter.

Please email me if you’d like a copy of the chart deck: ibmchris@mac.com.

Three short videos overview well my remarks:
A Boy and His Atom

TED Talk addresses Cognitive Computing

Watson Paths Demo