When It Rains, It Snowballs: The Maculate Reception

An all-too-obvious platitude we tell ourselves nowadays is that an excessive news media diet can gnaw at our minds, leaving a jaundiced, world-weary spirit.
Today was such a day for Travis.

Along the pavement he skulked, hands thrust in pockets, muttering about the incessant headlines.
 “Protesters. Protesting how Life Is Unfair. Paedo scandals. Grown adults acting like children. Cultural coat-tailers. The fatuous gestures of the creatively bankrupt. The suffusing stink of ubiquitous nihilism. The filth and the rot and the fraud and the waste and the p!ss and the swill and the...”
 Someone was having a bad day.
 But oftentimes the ills of the modern world are topped off with a layer of the ridiculous.
So let us take Travis’s litany of wrongs, ball them up and plop it all down in one steaming heap of absurdity.

In his foul humour Travis made his way down the walkway where he found himself amidst a group of protesters. Protesting how Life Is Unfair. A gloved hand jutted out of the crowd, and out of polite reflex he shook it whilst trying to place the face.
 “Travis! How you been?”
 It was Mr Melton. Former co-worker, aging boomer. Convicted paedo. Hanging around a group young enough to be his grandkids. Reliving his lost youth in the most pathetic way imaginable.
 “Hey, Lynn, look, it’s Travis,” he called over to his wife. [His wife was still with him?]
 She barely looked over her shoulder as she was more entranced with shaking an illegible placard at passing traffic. Her faced beamed with the crazed grin of self-importance as headlights reflected in her eyeglasses.
 “We’re having fun,” Melton smirked, trying to imply that this was all just a lark for them, not to be taken seriously. Somehow, that admission made the pair seem all the more sad and hollow.
 The Nostalgioid Opiate is a strong pill indeed.
 “Yeah... cool,” Travis mumbled weakly in response.
He stood dumbfounded at the scene, a seeming summation of the media miasma that had permeated ― nay, occupied ― his aching head.

Abruptly he drew away from the half-arsed conversation and crossed the street to get away from the crowd. He wiped his hand on his pants in visceral disgust.
 Not only was his psyche suffering in consternation with Today’s Malaise, but now his physicality was sullied as well ― contamination by handshake.
 Travis strode down the dark streets trying to shake off the taint of the encounter. But as he thought about it, he got a small chuckle at the odd confluence of events.
 More often, we laugh not at the humourous, but the absurd and the inficete.
 Still, he wanted a hot shower.

A Look Back: Ugand-A-Thon 2K Dry-Run

Quelle Affaire! The test prep of the various functions of Ugand-A-Thon 2K involved questionable planning as well as a shaky alliance between the Allied Pungeoning Front, Ugandoid Autonomous Prefecture and the respective UN Concordat.
  BubbaCabal interference with native sovereignty had previously resulted in the APF acting as clean-up agency during both the EBB Debris Field Incident and the EBB Contagion Drill. The worst of the crises turned out to be what was known as “Mission Manqué” (EBB010597), a real flaming burnout.
  Diplomatic relations were smoothed out in agrément once BBACBL was ousted, thanks to APF and envoy Johnny Gutts.
Community outreach programmes were then implemented with a considerable degree of success:

• UAP: Chui Sasa Hivi
• UAP: Ritual of the Fuju
• UAP: Wakili Kuku

Alas, in a reversal of the ‘Egg of Columbus’ precept, Ugand-A-Thon 2K was shelved, stirring sharp criticism over the proposed activities:

• Airport Re-Enactment
• Riding on Fumes
• Dead on Auto-Pilot
• Investigative Report

[TRAFSYS COMM ERROR: Distressed Directional Glyph]

By Y2K+1 (28th Stratum) the idea of a future brokered Ugand-A-Thon was in doubt...

Der Kuss der Gräfin: Dreams of the Mudlark

...The green of the grass, the murmur of small talk, and the balm of camellia in the 21st Stratum...

The garden party took place in the backyard of the Stuttering Barrister, a man who fancied himself a small-town media mogul, so many of the invitees were local politicos, reporters and uni law students.
  The event was catered by Mr Bobbs, who was dismayed by the guests’ upturned noses regarding his colourful hand-farmed spores. Stoddard should have been with the Nuts mixing down the Making Love For Now UK sessions but instead attended the soirée, not because he was any fan of the Barrister or for the opportunity for free grub. The presence of one Miss Tuddley had him overlook the mingling toffs and other annoying aspects of the gathering.
  She was landed gentry, a young woman from a family with a fortune in divinity treats. But she wore her privilege quietly as she studied law at uni whilst residing in the Stuttering Barrister’s attic loft.
  Stoddard had already met her acquaintance so the slide into cordial conversation came quite naturally, and was facilitated by a fellow law student by the name of Rhett, a sociable young man conversant in topical banter.
  The three chatted amiably away from the rest of the stiffnecks meandering across the lawn, and much punch was imbibed. Stoddard subdued his crush with nonchalance, but tacitly admired the favours of Miss Tuddley in her propinquity. Her raven hair and brown doe eyes captivated him, but he was under no illusion of anything serious, for her station in life was far above his. That said, natural beauty and natural smarts are to be relished and not resented, after all.
  With the sun setting the garden party waned and the trio retreated to Miss Tuddley’s loft for further refreshments.
  It was a charming yet humble abode. The hostess pointed out her snowglobe collection whilst she prepared convivial adult beverages.
  Stoddard lifted one snowglobe off the shelf and gave it a slight shake. Dusty flurries swirled down over a dark, sleepy village.
  Merriment ensued and was indeed entertaining to Stoddard, yet he felt both privilege and appreciation to be in the company of social betters who were no doubt heading for the haute monde in years to come. Rhett, probably a future barrister himself; Miss Tuddley, most assuredly destined for nobility. Stoddard recognised status hierarchies, but only in the context of merit. Is envy not an affront to aspiration? Though a humble tradesman, he aspired no less than his present company, so there was an unspoken camaraderie beneath the boisterous cheer in the room.
  The evening wound down and everyone’s groggy fog of incapacitation meant no one was going anywhere. Rhett volunteered to crash on the settee. Stoddard nervously eyed the floor, looking for the most comfortable spot.
  Miss Tuddley stood placidly across the room looking directly at him. She made a slight gesture with her hand and quietly said in an almost childlike voice, without a hint of guile, “You can sleep in my bed.”
  Mere seconds felt like hours. Her delicate face was expressionless, save for a faint trace of ...what? Wistfulness? Tiddly fatigue? A beautiful woman is offering you her bed. What to do?
  “Okay,” he replied with clumsy nonchalance.
  The lights doused, they both lay side by side above the covers. Stoddard was stiff as a corpse and would indeed fit in a coffin, given the nervous restraint of his posture. Yet he felt more alive than ever as he quickly faded to slumber with the lovely Miss Tuddley silently inches away.

I’m on my best behaviour out of respect. I’m on my... best...

He was fast asleep.

They say one’s dreams are all the more vivid when dozing far from the comfort of one’s own bed. Intense imagery, heightened spatial acuteness, the locus of dynamic circumstance. But lucidity itself often takes leave...

In the middle of the night the vision appeared somewhat abruptly before Stoddard. It was a silhouette seated beside his frozen, prone self.
 Soundlessly the figure watched over him for a moment, then bent forward as a moonbeam caught a glimpse of face.
It was Miss Tuddley.
  She leaned close and planted a warm but firm kiss on his cheek. One. Two. Three seconds and she drew back into the gray murk, staring for another moment. Stoddard blinked as the movie played in reverse and ended in darkness as suddenly as it had begun.

Years passed and the lives of Miss Tuddley, Rhett and Stoddard progressed quite nicely, both socially and professionally, though all three had lost touch. Stoddard didn’t think much of the odd dream -- it was simple wishcasting, right? Still, there was something about it he couldn’t put his finger on.

One nondescript afternoon Stoddard was strolling down High Street when he ran into Rhett, bearing a well-dressed and more mature mien. The two reminisced and updated each other on their respective professions -- Rhett, who indeed became a barrister; and Stoddard, who was a successful operative with the APF.
 Stoddard cooly brought up word of Miss Tuddley, who was no mystery, for she was now a countess with a current seat in Parliament.
“Do you ever see her? In the city?”
“Not too often. She’s busy. I’m busy. We’re all busy.”
“We are,” Stoddard nodded slightly, looking askance in the distance.
 They stood for a moment until Rhett broke Stoddard’s silent reverie.

“You idiot.”
“What?” Stoddard straightened himself.
“She always liked you,” Rhett muttered with a sly grin. “Don’t you remember that night at the Stuttering Barristers?”
“I... erm, yeah.”
 He stared out at the horizon, slowly piecing together something everyone else had seen as rather obvious.
 And he remembered the strange, paralytic visions in the attic loft all those years ago. And in them, he remembered having blinked at them.
 And he thought: Since when in the hell do people blink in their dreams?

Maybe he was an idiot.

A Quantum Walk Through the Arcade: Answering the Tachyonic AntiTelephone

BIO-RITMO de DOS: A common device of the early strata, often found in emporium vestibules but mnemonically associated with the Echelon Facility. On the console displayed are date selector inputs and a posterised pentad of some chick’s changing moods. What is wrong with her?
  To a curious 8-year-old, this apparatus looks like some sort of Hippie Computer. Or is it a Time Machine? Maybe the Big Kids know what it is.

  Initial curiosity aside, the 8-year-old needed no epistemological epiphany to suss out the triviality of the contraption, for it sat amongst gumball machines and other frivolous bagatelles.
  Actually, scratch that. He saw the mechanism’s meta-essence for what it was, regardless of its superfluous surroundings: This year’s Pet Rock. This year’s Leg Warmers. This year’s Ironic Mustache.
  Everything that comes down the cultural pike is a constant déjà vu: Something chronologically new, yet simultaneously tired, old and boring. This is not mere jadedness. This is the Time Traveller from the future, with amnesia: He’s seen it all before, but it doesn’t register until he sees it again. The first time feels like the last time. A blind Möbius Roller Coaster with only a rear-view mirror.
  If there is irony in this unfolding pageant, it is that a dime-store gadget offered to illustrate internally what the 8-year-old already unwittingly possessed externally: A leg-up on the Rhythm of Life.

Organisational Health: Corporate Taphonomy in situ

ACT I: THE MICROCOSM OF WANTS VS. NEEDS
A: “This idea is shite.”
B: “But that’s what the customer wants.”
A: “No, that’s what the client wants.”
B: “The client is our customer, so he’s always right.”
A: “Perhaps so. But ultimately the customer is John Public. Shouldn’t the line of communication be tailored to that end, rather than to the whims of a fledgling shopowner with no business sense?”
B: “I guess. But that’s what they want.”
A: “As a sales rep, isn’t it your job to analyse the client’s business needs, market demographic and competition to craft an effective advert strategy?”
B: [Begins to softly cry.]
A: “I know: ‘It’s what they want.’ But look at it from the perspective of the reader -- who is the potential customer. Your idea creates little interest or curiosity. This tells the reader nothing aside from the sig [name, contact info]. I can’t even tell what sort of business this is. I can mock up some better specs myself if you can squeeze some better copy out of him.”
B: “Well, his nephew had already built it in PowerPoint, but the file got corrupted. And since he spent so much time on it --”
A: “--Then that’s the design he wants. Got it. You’re right -- the ‘customer’ is always right: He has final sign-off. If a man wants ketchup on his filet mignon, who am I to stop him? But let it be known that I made a good faith offer to provide a visual solution, to the best of my ability, in lieu of your lack of a strategy for your client. When the rateholder has ended its run, I will hear no complaints.”
B: “Can you get me a proof by noon...?”

Thirty days later...

ACT II: THE PREDICTABLE FALLOUT
B: “The client’s really upset. He got no calls. Or any response.”
A: “I offered a solution one month ago. Naturally, a stubborn client wouldn’t hear of it. But you’re the one who took the easy way out. You’re the rep -- the professional who’s supposed to know better.”
B: “But--”
A: “I’m not going to repeat myself or my volume will rise and I’ll see bloody tears again. If you think you have a case, take it upstairs to Mandley.”

ASIDE I: THE BASICS OF PERSUASION
Organisational decay and office neuroses aside, persuasion techniques are not too difficult to understand when one is familiar with human nature.
 There is one key approach that is sadly lacking in communication today, from puppet-filled protests of the street to the slick mass media avenues of 30-second TV spots and nattering network news commentators: Unless your prospect is a microcephalic 9-year-old, do not speak to them as such.

Thirty minutes later...

ACT III: THE SOLVENING
A: “Good day, sir.”
M: “Good day. How are we going to solve this problem?”
A: “One month ago, your rep failed to provide a solution. I offered one, which was left unconsidered.”
M: “I see. What can we do?”
A: “Sir, I just told you. What would you have us do?”
M: “...”
A: “To be blunt, sir, these kids you hire can’t do the job.”
M: “I need to fill those seats with warm bodies!”
A: “Rather than hire seasoned professionals at a premium, you hire college-aged kids with no experience.”
M: “I’m limited by the budget.”
A: “Yet no training or foundation is offered to the greenhorn and naif, which could at least attempt to bring them closer to parity with your ‘idealised professional’ who would work within your budget, albeit without an investment in the basics.”
M: “I’m limited by the budget!”
A: “Yes, I did hear you the first time. So the short term outweighs the long term?”
M: “Perception is everything.”
A: “Perception does not trump your numbers. Or lack thereof.”
M: “Do you like your job, mister?”
A: “Yes, sir. So much, in fact, that I stand up to face problems head-on rather than run away from them. Even when they’re other people’s problems that end up in my lap. But finger-pointing aside, let us clean up this mess. How about I sit down with the client myself and sketch out some possible solutions?”
M: “That is the rep’s job.”
A: “Indeed it is. Your point?”
M: “...”
A: “I’ll sit with the rep and client and sketch out their ideas and show what works, what doesn’t, what is best for both client and potential customer. I’ve done it before with Mr. Gutts and the Orville account...”

DIAGNOSIS I: CORPORATE PATHOLOGY AND THE BIGGER PICTURE
The obvious dilemmas:
• A Mom-&-Pop shop proprietor with little savvy, saddled with confusing a hobby for a business. [Poor Planning]
• A sales/media representative lacking the training, tools and temperament to carry out their job. [Q.E.D.; also: Buck Passing]
• A designer given poor instruction on a thoughtless plan with no recourse for alternate proposals. [G.I.G.O.]
• A manager given to massaging sales figures, perceptions and busy-work, rather than providing direction and counsel. [C.Y.A.; Dilbert Principle]
• An unseen department head even more myopic than the manager, distilling everything down to hollow numbers. (“Quantity > Quality” delusions) [Dunning-Kruger Effect]
• Passive as long as the right numbers breeze in, Corporate-level brass sleeps soundly without any regards for oversight. [Peter Principle]
 [Other Symptoms Observed: Administrivia, Meta-Ignorance and “Weighing the Pig.”]
 [Across-the-Board Observation: Deterioration in Skills Ecosystem]

PROGNOSIS AND TREATMENT?
Obviously, an inexperienced business owner can be sensibly counseled by the experienced advertising professional. Hire them?
“Limited by the budget.”
Okay, hire someone with less experience, and provide some basic in-house training -- and not just on how to properly fill out paperwork, but on fundamentals in this field of work.
“Time is money. Get out there and sell.”
So, inexperienced reps are sent out with little tools to service both long-standing accounts as well as new ones. From a business owner’s standpoint, this amounts to a different face walking in the door every six months, asking the same inane questions repeatedly: “What do you want?” rather than “What do you need?”
 Constant turnover leads to rapport destroyed. Accounts dry up. Numbers go down. This ineffectual hiring pattern is a managerial problem.
 Should the hiring/promotion process into management involve some sort of “grooming process”? A vague and simplistic solution, perhaps. Would the initiative come from department heads or the corporate level?
 Comfortable with decades of cushy profits, Corporate had become loath to micromanage its far-flung properties, even whilst the internet’s growth was making their business model obsolete. The only “grooming” that went on was the nepotistic fast-tracking of favourite sons.
“What about...?”
“Yes, but...” [The Loose-Tight model]
 And so go the efforts toward any kind of solution. Not only is the business model outmoded, but the rot that has seeped in at almost every level has left the organisation unable to rectify itself. Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.

ACT IV: THE WISDOM OF OUR BETTERS
Several years later, after the whole structure had withered to a husk and profits inevitably dwindled, the company sold off self-amputated limbs and shuffled arrears in a panic.
 One day, word trickled through the desolated office that Big Honcho from Corporate would be dropping by. Whatever for? It couldn’t be more bad news -- that was done the brave and accountable way: over the phone. It had to be more than a pep talk.
 Cubicles tidied and shirts pressed, the staff stood at attention as Big Honcho strode into the office and mechanically made his way around the room, meeting each employee with a token handshake and a few muttered syllables.
 What message from on high could he possibly bestow?
A rousing vision of re-purposing the business model? A well-considered media re-alignment tailored to clients’ business demands deferential to changing market forces? Some Grand Plan, if not big words? After all, Honcho had access to the best and brightest of analysts and consultants.
 The exec finally came to this office drone, pumped his hand twice whilst beaming a most vacant smile and blurted two words:
 “Think digital!”

Tuesday Tipple: Michelada del Jefe

As the blistering dog days in Classic City slowly ebb away, so too do most people’s summer drink preferences. Johnny Gutts advises us not to say adiós so hastily to his particular beverage of choice, for whilst it makes a good quencher during hot August nights, it equally can add a Scoville-spiced savoriness to any drab December eve.

 La Michelada del Jefe

• Fill 1 pint glass halfway with ice.
• Add Bloody Mary mix or tomato juice to halfway.
• Add 2 lemon wedges.
• Add 1 freshly chopped chilli pepper (Fresh jalapeño, serrano, or -- for the brave -- habanero).
• Top off with a lager beer and stir.
• Enjoy.

Vitello di Trota: The Fish Don’t Know It’s Wet

The advert proof came back from the client with their “Special of the Week” headline circled in red ink with an accusatory question mark: “Veal Trout(?)”.
To the designer: “What the hell is ‘veal trout’?”
“I dunno. [Looking at mock-up instructions] The handwriting is terrible.”
“[Looking at mock-up] ...Yes, it is. But why didn’t you get the rep to clarify his copy since it was illegible?”
“I dunno. I just typed in what I thought it said.”
“So no red flags or second thoughts arose when you ‘just typed in what you thought it said’? When it made no sense? And you sent it to the client for approval?”
“I dunno. I just typed in what I thought it said.”
“No wonder the client thinks we’re idiots.”

Her job title included the word “designer” and her department included the word “creative,” even though she had no creativity nor did any designing. “Data Entry Clerk” would be a more suitable job title, save for the fact that the data she entered was often given an erroneous and nonsensical quality, with her inputting terms like “Cadillac converters” and “veal trout.” For all intensive purposes. Sic.
 Though it’s taken for granite that the purpose of client approval is to prevent errors from reaching the publication stage, one must admit that much was indeed accomplished here. This time.

The efficacy of workflow safeguards is not the issue here, but the curious mental framework present that fails to see the context surrounding the immediate job at hand. That, and the repercussions of that job’s actions.
 In the “designer’s” case: In thoughtlessly treating all copy and text as asemic, context errors will obviously aggregate. [Something Spellcheck will not catch.]
 This amounts to a basic case of Information Illiteracy -- a human version of the aforementioned Spellcheck: going through the motions without seeing the larger picture.
 Fortunately, no persons were harmed due to these clerical errors, but outside the proverbial office this mindset can take a more injurious turn.

The decline of Situational Awareness (SA) in everyday modern life
 • The classic illustration of the importance of SA can be found in such high-risk fields as aviation. All too often in aviation accidents, pilot error is attributed to a failure of SA. Flight crew fiddles with instruments, unaware that their jetliner is about to slam into a mountain. If the aircraft itself was not on autopilot, surely the distracted minds of the crew were on it.
 • Witness the coed walking the dark streets wearing the headphones of her portable listening device. Senses are voluntarily hampered whilst in a high-risk environment. Lack of SA.

The distractions are not always the result of some new technology.
 • Substitute the coed’s headphones with a skimpy dress. A naive absence of SA or a brazen flouting of that very lack? One or the other. Blaming the (potential) victim? Freewill dictates the adult responsible for their own Poor Risk Assessment. [Cf. “Bad Medicine”]

The dearth of awareness is neither limited to one’s own behaviour, but also to that of those under one’s auspices.
 • Behold the befuddled mum, daunted by the vast variety of goods displayed before her whilst her feral progeny tear up merchandise and play grab-arse. Also, her mobile phone conversation is of prime import rather than the antics of her charges.

Information Illiteracy, a shortage of Situational Awareness and a lack of basic social propriety are all variations of a myopic “autopilot” mode all too common today, whether on the job or in public.
 • Parents, be they the lazy laissez-faire or the excuse-making, hypervigilant helicopter type, fail to impart the proper social tools, leaving their children in a cerebral cocoon come adulthood.
 • Employers fail to hire neither the able and broad-minded nor to nurture those towards competency.
 • Among armchair analysts, there is no scarcity of culprits in the “dumbing down” in the modern age. Schools, pop culture, socio-political forces encouraging dependence on the State -- all have fingers rightfully pointed at them for some culpability in societal demise.
 That said, parental and adult/workplace examples are cited emphatically in this missive because, 1) Parenting (or the lack thereof) ultimately trumps these secondary societal factors as to how their children develop; and, 2) Adult and workplace behaviour are the ultimate result of said parenting. [Two ends of a continuum with secondary factors in between.]

But perhaps Chicken Little has clucked enough, as there is a plethora of real-life examples extant, whether in neighbouring cubicles or stumbling down High Street.
 What do we call those flighty fish of our social seas with brains fatted on the empty calories of pop culture? Those with a voluntarily restricted mental motility? Those whose experience prolongs their own social and exploratory retardation? Those who are thus more susceptible to infotoxin ingestion?

“Waiter, I’ll try the Veal Trout.”