John R. Brandt's Blog

Recently bid on a project...

...and the executive in charge refused to give anyone his email address.

Because.... I have no idea. Maybe he's in the Witless Protection Program.

And that was not a typo in the line above.

Every good project...

...started out as a bad idea that somebody fixed.

Smart client told me that today. Wondering now if it was just a random pearl of wisdom, or if he was trying to tell me something about the concept I had just presented.

Note to Self:

Buy more shampoo.

Ran out of it at 5:30a and had to steal some of my 16-year-old daughter's. I will therefore be conducting business and meetings today with hair that smells like "Pumpkin Pie Paradise."

Upon Reflection

I am more certain than ever that "Twitter" is simply the verb form of "twit."

Hello, bobslappypants

Registered for Twitter at the request of a friend who's now twittering away. Then received notice from Twitter that bobslappypants is now following me on Twitter.

Bob — it's all right if if I call you Bob, isn't it, because although we haven't met, I know you're hoping that I'll share intimate details of my day with you (Brushed teeth. Mint toothpaste a little too minty)? — I hate to break this to you, but I'm not actually Twittering yet. I've thought about it (Made nachos in office microwave. Too much cheese! ;>), but I find it hard to believe that my life (Writing the Benwick Proposal. BORING!) or anyone's life, for that matter, is interesting enough to justify constant updates. There's a reason we read fiction, after all; because fiction is life with the boring parts left out. Most of the Twitter (and blog) content I see, especially from business types, is so excruciatingly dull (in car headed home, traffic is awful. Avoid 77) that it makes me want, as Jack Nicholson said in Terms of Endearment, to stick needles in my eyes. Twitter content that would intrigue me — personal, unexpected, maybe shocking; i.e., probably just what somebody with a name like bobslappypants would like — wouldn't be appropriate in a business context (Went for the Tigger tattoo, you know where. Bouncy bouncy!), in which old-fashioned social boundaries still help to create an environment conducive to positive, task-focused interactions.

Bottom line: I don't want to know where you have a tattoo, and frankly, I wouldn't tell you where mine is either, or whether I even had one. It's not that I don't like you, Bob, it's just that... well... I don't know you. And it creeps me out a little that you want to digitally stalk me. I even worry that you're not a real person at all, but just somebody's bot, hoping to get a chance to trick me into buying something I shouldn't. Whatever the case, I truly hope this doesn't mean we can't still be electronic acquaintances, introduced by a server farm at Twitter, who've never even heard of each other and will never, ever have a real interaction.

Because I really do like the name bobslappypants.

Welcome to the Future: Must-Watch Demo

If you haven't seen this clip yet on how modifications of existing technologies will create a Sixth Sense for all of us, delivered via cell phone, enjoy.

No flying cars yet, though.

Euphemism Alert: "Passengers of Size"

It's rare to find an article that tries as hard not to smirk as this one, which discusses the delicate manuevers of airlines trying to deal with euphemistically designated "passengers of size" challenged by standard 17-inch airline seats. The piece manages to straight-facedly quote the spokesperson for the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance as well as the new policies of Air Canada and Westjet, both of which now require doctors' notes (complete with cheek-to-cheek measurements) from those trying to avoid paying for a second seat by claiming to be "functionally disabled by obesity."

You can't make this stuff up.

Strategic Planning

Taught my 12-year-old son to cut the lawn over the weekend — with a very fancy new lawn mower — and was reminded of his reaction last winter when I let him choose his own high-tech $29 snow shovel at Home Depot.

"Dad," he said in the parking lot, "I can't believe you bought me such an expensive shovel. There were others for $10 or $12."

I told him I thought the shovel was inexpensive, one of the best investments I'd ever made.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because now I'm not going to have to shovel snow for the next six years."

Some Assembly Required

Installing a wall bracket for a new basement television today. The incredibly heavy contraption has nearly 100 parts and its own instruction manual, and is sold by the manufacturer, tongue-in-cheek I assume, under the name "Simplicity."

You can't make this stuff up.

Memo to Swollen-Headed Bosses #287

The fact that somebody stops arguing with you doesn't necessarily mean that you've convinced him or her of your brilliance. It could mean:

1. He or she is tired of trying to save you from self-destruction.
2. He or she has an actual life of his or her own, and doesn't need to win every argument to prove his or her self-worth (unlike someone we know).
3. You're a complete idiot, with a skull impervious to fact and reason.

When was the last time you lost an argument? Or admitted you were wrong? If it's more than one week, see Option #3 above, and good luck. You'll need it.