Are you an employee? What does your employer owe you? To what are you entitled?
Are you an employer? What does your employee owe you? To what are you entitled?
Pay Day My former business partner distributed the paychecks every other Friday. He'd say, as he handed each paycheck to each employee, with a smile and a twinkle in his eye:
Here's your paycheck. This is your pay for the work you've done during the past two weeks. Good work! Thank you for that work.
With this paycheck, we are even. You are now fully paid for your service. If you think you are underpaid, or the company owes you more, that's not true. We're even. That's the meaning of this paycheck.
In fact, since it is only noon on Friday, and this pays you through the end of the day, you are actually a little ahead. If anyone owes something, it is you who owes the company the rest of the day's work. Keep working.
It wasn't the warmest message, but it did illuminate a truth to the transaction.
What Do Job Creators Want? The past six months in my newest venture has been truly enlightening. I've heard the candid minds and full hearts of the people who create jobs.
Everyone wants job creation. I think this video speaks volumes about the perspective of those who are actually creating jobs.
You need to see it all the way to the end to see that these employers fully understand the Ethics of Employment, that entitlement cuts both ways.
Thanks to Harry Robinson, a Vistage chair, for introducing me to this video at yesterday's monthly meeting of Vistage Chair Group 6069 in Cincinnati.
There's nothing like a trip to California to cause a refinement and readjustment of my beliefs and values.
Last weekend provided an opportunity to ask 28 other Vistage chairs to challenge gaps between my beliefs and my behaviors.
One of those gaps: spending too much time online, especially during the evenings. It's costing me incremental depth in my relationships here at home. So the computer has to be turned off at dinnertime.
But, wait. I'm online at night because I have real online work to do. And I have online work to do at night, because I am working out of the home all day.
Push has come to shove. Something has to give. So I decided to trim my workday work load.
Right now. Before I change my mind.
So I have just quit a beloved teaching assignment. This week, I asked Ohio State to remove me from the lineup starting in the autumn. That gives me one more academic quarter to try to get it right. (And, ethically, there are already students enrolled. I don't want to disappoint them.)
I told my current students about my decision. There was some argument that I should continue. But, mainly, we all agreed that I preach about (in the words of Pink Floyd) "exchanging cold comfort for change," so I should move on.
The Immediate Challenge I cannot slow down — even on the job I've just quit.
Here's a note to the students:
To a Most Memorable Class Of Students:
Someday you will quit your job, like I have with Ohio State. (If you have missed a few classes, I've asked Ohio State to leave me out of the teaching lineup starting in the autumn. Maybe it's a final quitting. Maybe it's a few years off. I don't know.)
If you have already quit a meaningful job, you know this: there's nothing like the old job.
By that, I mean: once you have quit a job, you are suddenly tempted to work less hard at it, preferring to coast toward the finish line. Your attention and passion are naturally drawn toward what's coming: the next job.
As a teacher, I need to serve as a role model on this issue. So I am committed to striving all the way through to the finish line. I will double my effort. I will double my accessibility. (Let me know if you want to meet with me during specially scheduled "office" hours.) I will work harder.
One Ball Dropped I have loved, loved, loved teaching creativity at Ohio State. I have felt like the Liberal Arts Department of the Business School.
I have thought that, in a world that teaches people how to be computers, I can be someone teaching them to be human. Pretty preposterous stuff. Ambitious. Somewhat successful, according to more than a few students.
Still, I can't juggle as many balls, because some of the balls are becoming heavier and taking on a more golden hue. So I had to put this ball down.
On the Death of SpeakerSite I long thought that the best thing to happen in business was big growth and profit. I still do.
I long thought that the second best thing to happen in business was survival — and the worst thing was going out of business. I have re-ordered those for many occasions.
Survival Can Be Toxic Survival — not thrival, just survival — can lull the business owner into complacency. The thought starts arising: "Oh, it's easier to continue rather than shut it down. After all, it pays the bills."
But paying the bills is not our goal. That's a minimum expectation. It is not why we are here. It is not the meaning of life.
And continuing on? For how long? A week? Fine. A month? O.K. A year? That's a high cost to pay.
A Mentor Calls My lifelong friend and mentor, Jon York, called me five years ago. He sensed some restlessness in me. I was still at my advertising desk at Young Isaac, an agency I owned.
"What do you want to do next?" asked Jon.
"Oh, I figure that I'd like to teach full-time," I said. "In about five or ten years."
Jon paused. Then: "Five or ten years? Huh. I don't know about you, Artie, but when I want to do something, I kind of want to do it now."
These words were very helpful. They fished me out of the water. I was drowning in survival.
The End of SpeakerSite This is newly posted over at speakersite.com.
Dear SpeakerSite Members,
As you may have seen on SpeakerSite Marketplace yesterday, we have decided to shut down SpeakerSite. This means everything: both the Community (SpeakerSite 1.0) and the Marketplace (SpeakerSite 2.0) are going away.
Both the social network and marketplace profiles will remain as-is until February 29th, 2012, so you can access your information during that time before disable existing features and remove the data. If you have used our tools to book speaking engagements (or to book speakers), any agreement that you made is solely between speaker and event planner and will not be affected.
Thank you for being a part of the worldwide SpeakerSite community. We were — and, who knows, still are the world's largest social network of public speakers. So, what happened? It's that old story in the new world: while we made a lot of friends, SpeakerSite did not generate enough revenue. All the same, we are very grateful for your kindness and collaboration along the way. Truly: it has been a delightful, heart-warming, life affirming experience. We're proud that we were, with you, a force for good: supporting the emergence of many new and seasoned speakers, providing entertainment and enlightenment for audiences, and helping to democratize public speaking.
If you have any questions or feedback, please don't hesitate to reach out. We wish you every success in public speaking. Don't let our disappearance dissuade you. SpeakerSite gone? Piffle. You still have a message. And every message has an audience.
With affection and admiration,
Artie and Rob
What happened? I don't know every reason why we didn't secure enough revenue, but here's my favorite. a lack of demand from the side of the market with cash.
The buyers (meeting and event planners) do not perceive a need for a solution. Buyers with few transactions each year can muddle through by asking around. Buyers with many transactions each year already have a pipeline of alternatives. We speakers (a broad group with very little in common) swamp the marketplace. As a result, the buyers do not seek efficiency.
I don't know of any direct substitute. While our implementation could have been smarter, better, faster, I don't think that's what put us out.
There are other reasons. When time weighs heavy on my hands, I'll make a list of them. But that sounds like a dreary way to spend the day today.
Admiration I am filled with admiration and affection for all the people with whom I worked.
At the top of that list, of course, is Rob Emrich, in whom I would never hesitate to invest. He's a role model.
My father wrote a few letters, some of them gems, most of them driven by his obligation to be attentive to his youngest child — which can produce gems.
Still. A telephone call. During the workday? Very rare.
Personal Phone Calls We only ever had one conversation about family telephone calls during the workday. I was driving, Alisa beside me, my father and mother in the back seat.
My father didn't understand why some of his colleagues called home every day or, even more so, several times a day. "What is there to talk about? If there were an emergency, of course, a call makes sense. But, otherwise, it can wait. After all, we'll be home together in just a matter of hours."
Frankly, I don't call Alisa unless there's a question or concern — or a delight. I don't just call to say, "Hi. Remember me?" Alisa is busy. And, I trust, she'll remember me, even if I don't call.
But I thought my father should know of my red-blooded love for my wife, so I told him that I call Alisa throughout the day. "Hello, baby," I said, trying as hard as I could to summon up Barry White. "Hello, baby. I gotta have you. I gotta have you right now."
Much laughter in the car. My parents knew that I was kidding. Alisa knew I was kidding. I knew I was kidding.
But I wish I had not been kidding. (Barry White was right.)
But this isn't about Barry White.
I answered the phone.
Dad: "Hi, it's Dad." Artie: "Hey, Dad! What's going on?" Dad: "Are you busy?" Artie: "I am now. I'm talking to my father. He doesn't call often, so it must be important." Dad: "I'm wondering if you have ever given thought to becoming a stockbroker."
My father was a stockbroker. He had entered the field around the time I was born. So he had been at it for more than 25 years. And he had built a strong reputation for ethical professionalism.
Artie: "Haven't thought about it lately. Why are you calling?" Dad: "Well, I'm looking toward my retirement. It will be in a few years. And, if you ever wanted to become a stockbroker, this would be a good time. You could take over my clients. That would be a lot easier than starting like I did, with a lot of cold calling. So, now would be your best opportunity to become a broker." Artie: "Thanks. That's nice of you. What if I say, 'No.'?" Dad: "Then I'll just turn everything over to Bill. So consider this a one-time offer."
Bill Grafton and my father had worked at adjoining desks — and, later, adjoining offices — for a long time. Every afternoon, one of them would slide the quaint pass-through window that connected their offices, and ask, "Flip you for it?" One would flip a coin, the other would call heads for tails, and the loser would go to the little shop in the building lobby and buy a Hershey bar for them to share. High finance in Columbus, Ohio.
Artie: "One-time offer? Pressure's on. May I ask you a few questions?" Dad: "Sure." Artie: "Do you like being a stockbroker?" Dad: "Not a day of it."
That wasn't terribly surprising. My father was a consummate professional. He never told me the names of his clients. That was confidential, not his story to tell. I first learned who some of them were when they visited his deathbed. Even now, more than 20 years later, people are telling me that he was their broker.
Long after my father died, I met one of his clients at a community lunch. He told me: "Twenty-five years ago, when I had just I graduated from college, I was a bike messenger for a big law firm. Every week, [Big Lawyer] gave me an envelope and told me to run it over to Art Isaac. It was money for investment. I'd hand it to your father and say, 'Whatever you're buying for Mr. [Big Lawyer], buy me one, too.' At first, I was kidding, but your father always bought me a single share of the week's stock. I probably paid for it, but he never charged me a commission or a penalty for an odd lot transaction. In the end, I had a nice nest egg. I thought that was very kind of your father, to be so generous with a bike messenger."
He was kind, but he was no fool. I bet my dad figured, "Hey, if this guy is bringing me an envelope with cash in it every week, I'm going to be as nice to him as I can be!"
Back to the phone call. My father admitted that he didn't much care for the work. I knew he didn't like the clients who called, surprising him by barking out the name of a new company, and demanding to immediately know all about it. He didn't like scrambling around his desk reference materials for instant knowledge. And he really didn't like the clients who were angry — at him! — when their own investment decisions produced losses.
Anyway, he claimed to not have liked a day of his brokerage career.
Artie: "Oh. Well, the second question: would I be any good at it?" Dad: "I don't think so. I don't think you have what it takes." Artie: "Nice. Thanks. O.K. Last question: are you calling my sisters with this same offer and similar flattery?" Dad: "No."
I figured that either (1) as a man of his generation, he didn't think that his girls should be stockbrokers or (2) he loved them more than me. Probably, though, it was primogeniture. That's when the career and wealth of the father flows to the eldest (or, in my case, only) son.
Artie: "Really? Well, thanks for your answers. I've given them a lot of thought during the past 15 seconds and I think I'll pass on the invitation. No, thanks." Dad: "All right. Love you." [click]
He was a sweet guy, but this wasn't a sweet call. This call was inspired by Bill, I'll bet. My father and Bill had probably discussed my father's retirement and Bill's acquisition of my father's book of business. And Bill had, wisely, said, "I think you'd better check with Artie, first."
I like the idea that Google searchers will find this story of my father — Arthur J. Isaac, Jr, of blessed memory — in a deep search of Barry White. To help that along, I offer this Google poetry: Arthur J. Isaac, Jr. and Barry White. Barry White and Arthur Isaac. Artie Isaac loves Barry White. Barry White never met Artie Isaac. Love to love you, Arthur J. Isaac, Jr.
Why do our co-workers, children, and spouses miss what is clearly right in front of them? Why does our radar so often miss picking up the signals?
Here are two examples. They might work better if you click on the bottom right to make the video full screen.
Watch The Flashing Green Spot The lesson — from a flight instructor — is to not stare at a single point on the horizon, but rather scan the horizon. Otherwise, you risk missing items that are nearly in front of you.
Count The Passes Turn up the volume for your instructions...
Why are built to miss the obvious? I don't know. Ask Darwin. Or Mother Nature.
For the first time, after two decades of teaching, I believe I just might have reached the level of competence.
And you are invited.
Tomorrow, January 23rd, at 6:45 p.m., I return to CCAD for the first of a dozen weekly lectures on consumer behavior.
Come. This is your invitation.
There are 100 students registered for the class and it will be taught in a big, comfortable auditorium, so you can just blend in. Each class is only 75 minutes. You could come to this first Monday, any Monday, or every Monday.
Don't be shy. I would love to have you there.
(About a dozen folks accept this invitation each semester. They just show up. Nice!)
Ye Olde Rut I taught this course for years, years ago at CCAD. As one student wrote:
“The course was high-energy, optimistic, full of humor and most importantly: informative. It was one of the few courses that just about everyone who took it not only looked forward to the next lesson, but recommended it to their colleagues as well.”
But, I left after hearing this thought about teaching:
If you are teaching the same thing the same way for more than five years, then you lack either ambition or imagination.
(I think this might have come from Noam Chomsky.)
I was indeed stuck in a rut.
The students were generous and appreciative. But I was teaching the same thing, in the same way, year after year. The presentation slides were so ready, I would just show up and let 'em rip.
So it was time to go away.
The Course Is Sound Over time, I'd designed — and now redesigned — the course to help artists:
Make work that is more than beautiful. The course helps the artist think through the work, so it persuades others and changes behavior.
Justify each piece of work as more than beautiful. The course helps the artist describe work to executives in the workplace, to win more production budget for, say, the photography.
Live a fuller life. We must live for more than our art. We can live creatively and ethically. So: let's!
The legendary CCAD education — especially its intensive first year, "Foundation" — expertly develops each artist's technical skills.
But having hired dozens of CCAD graduates at Young Isaac, I have seen too many who are riding solely on their technical proficiency. They do have highly developed hands and eyes — but aren't always levering their minds.
That's where this class comes in.
Bridging The Gap After years of helping CCAD artists win the favor of businesspeople in the workplace, I've been teaching MBA candidates about creativity. This has me building the same bridge — over the creative gap — from the other side.
Now, with my MBA experiences, I'm really enjoying working with the artists at CCAD.
"May I Tell You A Story?" He didn't say why he wanted to tell it. But, as he shared, his motive appeared: he was processing a brutal fact of his life.
Here is the story, a story of love and loss. He said:
At college, back in the '60s, I was in love with a young woman. She was a delight and we were soulmates.
As we faced graduation, we mutually decided to let our careers take us to different cities. We intentionally discontinued our relationship, one thing led to another, and we fell out of touch.
So far, a frequent story. He continued:
A few years passed and I was transferred to a different city, placed in an office, seated at a desk, and — at the very next desk — there she was. Imagine that! What a coincidence! Kismet? I don't know. There she was. And she was as delightful and well-matched for me as ever.
But, while we were separated, she had married. She was happily married. But here I was. There she was. And she was married. Happily married. I understood.
The old man raised a finger, to stop me from commenting. He continued:
Time passed.
One or the other of us eventually left the company and the city.
More time passed.
It happened again. This time, I was traveling and we bumped into each other. Just like that. Can you believe it? A complete coincidence, again. What are the odds? Anyway, we were suddenly together. And between us: all the old feelings of admiration and longing. We chatted with heart, and a fact was quickly revealed: she was available, she had divorced.
But now I was married. Happily married! And so on. The situation had reversed to the same effect. Our conversation was limited by propriety; our meeting and parting, to a genuine embrace.
Time passed. Again, we lost touch.
He paused. He continued:
That phrase — "but I was married" doesn't convey the value of my marriage. You know of my marriage. Legendary. The envy of others. But, more than that, the treasure of my life. The font of our children. My wife, our love, were, to me, everything.
I had met his wife. I had heard about their love. I nodded.
He was quiet. I waited. Then:
As you know, my wife died several years ago. Cancer. Untimely. Awful.
And, so, naturally, I have increasingly wondered, where is my friend, my college girlfriend, that woman who I thought was my soulmate, but never knew because our good lives interrupted us?
I don't know. I just don't know. I can't find her. I don't know where she is.
We sat quietly. He clearly feared the worst. That she was gone. Dead. Or disappeared.
I muttered something about how — now, with Facebook — that won't ever happen to my children and their lovers, how people of the social networking generation can be gone but remain easily found.
I wondered why the old man didn't pay a private detective $100 to find his lost friend. If I suggested this to him, I'm sorry I did. The idea is too obvious. If he had done it, it obviously hadn't turned up anything. If he hadn't done it, he had a reason. Perhaps his reason was old-fashioned mores: one just doesn't do that. Or perhaps he placed True Love in the hands of Lady Kismet.
We all know this pain. The ache in the heart. A pressure in the chest.
I've seen it — and felt it — in childhood. In high school. In college. Beyond.
She said "no." Or "no more." Or "you? really?" Or, worse nothing of all. Once she spoke Russian.
I don't think any of their judgements were wrong. Each was following her heart, as she must. (And, to be fair, at times, I was the one saying, "no." Those times don't hurt as much. Huh.)
Still, when my infatuation wasn't met in kind, I was left, holding my bruised heart, not knowing what to do, feeling humiliated, embarrassed. This seems pathetic, that I should have had the maturity with which to address the challenge: distraction, learning, recovery, renewed adventure.
I chose only distraction, the weakest of the alternatives. I placed my broken heart in the trunk of my car and drove on.
What is the cure? I thought I knew. Here's what I thought were the cures:
Time. Doesn't it heal all wounds? It doesn't. Decades pass, but heartache merely goes cryogenic, as easy to thaw as a frozen meal — Heart: Ready To Eat.
Next. Isn't new love, a true love the antidote? It isn't. The perfect marriage — of which I know, for mine, if not perfect, is surely the least imperfect — isn't a cure. The new relationship is a heart transplant, not a heart repair. The old heart lies beside the photograph, still beating its retreat in the trunk of the car, good for little else. Except, of course, to remind us we are alive.
Maturity. Don't we ever grow up? Not I. Another widowed friend in his 70s recently spoke of the pain. His heart was freshly broken. Not, this time, by bereavement. But rather by a week of dinners, on a vacation that had to end. "How dear," I thought shallowly. "How real," he felt deeply.
We are all freshman at the senior dance. We are all at summer camp.
Is this is a high-class heartache? After all, many of us are so contented in fruitful relationships.
But there are those whose heartache is based on loneliness. We must respect their sorrow. It must be greater. But from here, with these hearts on the floor, we can't tell.
We're looking at old hearts in the trunk, pained that we cannot live two lives at once. Driving on.
Will someone please call a surgeon Who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart That you're deserting for better company? I can't accept that it's over...
The Trip Within The Trip Of course, anyone who knows the power of a car — the intersection between environmental nightmare and relationship vehicle — knows that some of the best part of the ride will be the ride. On the highway.
Driving with a child illustrates the very meaning of it's the journey, not the destination.
For whom will you get up and go? What relationship is worth going far?
With whom — for whom — will you drive this year?
I wish you a 2011 of health, happiness, creativity, and many moments of true engagement in life. I wish you — from time to time — a passenger, a soul to cheer yours on the road.
When was the last time you logged into your online banking account?
Did you answer that security challenge, "What is the name of your first employer?"
I love that question. I type my first boss's name — which, by the way, is none of your damn business — and I always enjoy a momentary memory, a fleeting emotion, based on our interaction. I was young and impressionable. (Now I'm older and impressionable.)
My first boss was a substantial shaper of who I have become. I always type her name with a smile.
You always remember your first boss. In my Vistage practice, I'm meeting many people who run businesses. Each time, surely, I am meeting someone else's first boss.
The baker. The undertaker. The widget maker. Each has at least one employee — perhaps dozens — for whom their employment is their first job. And so each of my friends is, therefore, someone's first boss.
And I smile. I smile at the thought that each of their names have become banking passwords.
Throughout the city — far beyond, around the world — their current and former employees log into their own bank accounts and enter the names of my entrepreneurial friends.
What a strange and whimsical legacy! The final paycheck is long ago spent or invested. The boss wields no power.
But the boss's name is still the key to the vault. That's rich. That's irony. That's justice.
Who types your name? For whom are you the first boss?
Can you imagine them typing your name? Is it with a smile? I do hope so.
To Those Who Type "Artie" I hope our time together was useful in your journey.
If it wasn't, I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't the best boss you have had.
I hope you did the best work of your career when we were together. Until, of course, your next job, where I hope you did even better.
And I hope, whenever you type "Artie," your discover your bank account is a little fuller than you had forecast — like finding a $20 in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.
Recommended Reading You'll see eight small bookshops here:
1. Become more creative
2. Be happier
3. Communicate more clearly
4. VISTAGE Book Of The Month
5. Entrepreneurship
6. Fiction for businesspeople
7. All time favorites
8. On Theatre
For Marketing Strategy Development..."GET CLARITY!" The Tool is a handy outline for marketing strategy planning. In my class at CCAD, The Tool is the midterm exam, the group project and the final exam. Graduates take The Tool into work on the first day of a new creative assignment.
Creativity for OSU business students This is the most current (Spring 2012) syllabus for the wonderful, intelligent, hard-working business students at The Ohio State University's Fisher College of Business.
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