One Space. Period. One Space.

It really doesn’t seem so long ago that I was one of the youngest people in the office, and if not the whole office, at least on my team. I remember when I arrived in Saskatoon as the assistant branch manager, I was the youngest person in the branch. When I added Regina to my empire, there might have been one person there who was younger than me. Now, sadly, I’m always one of the oldest. While I think that things definitely change, almost immediately as you step over that chronological milestone called 40, I haven’t spent a lot of time lamenting the fact that I’m aging.

A lot can happen once you pass this magical mile marker

However, now at least weekly, if not even daily, I encounter things that make me feel old. I was at a conference the other day and the speaker was talking about the Energizer Bunny. Just as he began to say that the Energizer Bunny is a pop culture reference that our younger colleagues have never heard of, it hit me that there are a bunch of things that make me feel old. Like that freakin’ pink bunny.

He kept going and going...Now, apparently he's gone.

I made a reference to Issac the bartender on Love Boat the other day. Not only did my audience not know who Issac was, they didn’t even know what Love Boat was. Really?  Am I that old?  When I facilitate a meeting, I like flipcharts and markers. I had no idea that flip-charting was old school, but when my kids saw my marker collection a couple of months ago, they really couldn’t conceive of anybody writing on a flip chart. Dad, what’s a flip chart?

How could a whole generation not know about the Love Boat.  I had such a crush on Julie McCoy.

I work with a guy, a communications specialist. He’s a great writer, and like all great writers, he’s very ‘particular’ about things like punctuation and spelling and all that. Every time I write something he edits the hell out of it, and it’s usually better as a result. We have this ongoing argument about the period, and how many spaces follow it when you’re typing. I say two spaces, and he says one. "Two spaces," he says, "...is old fashioned."  I’m resolute when it comes to my two spaces.  And he's fanatical when it comes to getting things right.  That's what makes him such a good writer and editor.

I said ONE SPACE!!!!

To put this into context, I took a typing class in grade nine. My dad couldn’t understand why typing would ever be important. I didn’t really know either, but there were lots of girls in the class, and as a gawky, chubby grade niner, it couldn't hurt to have the odds tipped a little in my favour. My teacher, Mrs. Clendenning, roamed the class with a manual typewriter on a wheeled cart, yelling out, “F, Space, F, Space, Semi, Space…” and so on. We typed as she yelled. There were always two spaces after a period and if there weren’t, you failed. Then, when I got to journalism school, one space after a period also earned you a failing grade.

Turns out that even the improved odds of being the only guy in typing class didn't help.

The communications specialist is practically always right when it comes to grammar and punctuation, and I know he enjoys demonstrating his rightness. Just a wee little bit. He searched it up on the google, because God knows everything on the google is right, and as it turns out, computers have made putting two spaces after a period obsolete. There is apparently no reason to do it anymore. The brain inside the computer understands and spaces appropriately. Hmmph. I still put two spaces, first, because I just can’t stop, and second, perhaps, just to keep him on his toes. If I keep doing it, he's gonna hurt me.

"Really, Sean, do you need some electric shock therapy to get this one space thing right?"

I learned that this spacing issue annoys other people too…After I posted my blog last week, I got a call from my friend Vera who runs a magazine. She had read my post and called to offer her feedback. “Seannie…,” she said, “…what’s the deal with the two spaces after the period?  It just makes you look old.” Bloody hell.

If Andy Rooney would have had a blog, he would have written it on a typewriter. And there would have been 2 spaces.

Seriously? You have no cash?

If you’ve been following along, we’ve established that I’m a pretty avid business traveler.  For the last two years, I’ve traveled somewhere every single week.  I’ve almost exclusively traveled in Canada, but I’ve covered the country pretty well.  In the last two years, whether on personal or business trips, I’ve been to every province in the country.  Based on that, I can tell you that there are many differences between cities and region.

Johnny's been everywhere, man.  Me too.  Click to hear Johnny's version of Hank Snow's classic.

For example, in Saskatoon, I can, without any fear, drive down the street and stop at any customer site and pop in to say hello.   Even without an appointment I can be reasonably sure that I’m going to get a warm welcome.  In Halifax, there may even be a hug involved.   In Calgary, I get a warm western welcome, but they’re a little suspicious, as in, “…Um hi…how are you?  Why are you here?”  Toronto is a completely different story.  Not only does the receptionist look at me disdainfully, he or she will most likely not even call my client to see if they have a moment to see me.  “Um, well, you don’t have an appointment, and she couldn’t possibly have time to see you.   Come back when you have an appointment.”  And with that, I’m dismissed to the street.  My client doesn’t even know I was there.

Really?  You think you can just walk right in here?  Who do you think you are? 

The service at airports often reflects the region, as does the hotel service.  Car rental people are a pretty good gauge as to how people are going to be in the city.  The same is absolutely not true of cab drivers.  Now I can speak about this because for a couple of years, in a small town in Alberta, I drove a cab as a part-time job.  I’ll say up front that I absolutely loved it.  In that small town, people would just fall into the cab, sometimes drunk, and just expect that you knew where they were going.  “OK, Mr. Mayor, I’ll take you home.  I’ll wake you when we get there.”

You're the mayor of what?

In Vancouver the cab drivers are chatty.  They are fiercely proud of the Canucks and they like to talk about your day.  In Winnipeg, taxi drivers ride the brake.  A drive down Portage Avenue can give you whiplash…stop, go, stop, go, stop, go.  And trust me when I say that there’s no reason for all the braking.  Winnipeg cabbies also sit behind a big plexiglass shield that wraps around them for their safety.  It also takes up a huge amount of the back seat, and I’ve had my 6’2 frame wedged behind a Winnipeg cabbie more than once.  That sounds dirtier than it was meant to.  In most cities cabbies actually shut the meter off when you arrive at your destination.  In Montreal, they don’t shut it off ’til they’re damn well ready to.  No sense arguing.

Imagine getting jammed behind that thing.

Across all my trips, there’s one universal truth that I’ve discovered, and that’s that cab drivers, whether in Fredericton, NB or Kelowna, BC, or downtown Toronto, are allergic to plastic.  No cabbie wants you to pay with a credit card.  I’ve had some who pretend that they don’t know how to work the machine.  I’ve had some completely lose the ability to communicate in English at the mere sound of a card coming out of my wallet, and I actually watched one pull the cord out of the machine and tell me that it wasn’t working.   My favourite question from a cab driver is “Why don’t you have cash?” 

There's a Taxi Driver you don't wanna mess with.  He wants cash, you give him cash.

My practice is now to set it up before I even get in the car, making sure that they accept credit before giving custody of my luggage to the driver.  When I call for a cab, I make sure to arrange in advance that they’re going to take a credit card.  Neither of these has been foolproof since after using both of these methods, I’ve arrived at my destination just to hear those magic words, “What, no cash?”  

No, I don't have cash.  is that a crime?

For God’s sake, it’s a plastic world and I’m a debit man.  I’ve been known to buy a Slurpee with my debit card.  Where am I going to come up with 56.00 in cash for a taxi ride from the airport when I don’t even have a toonie for a double-double?

Apparently having this sign in the cab window doesn't mean you can actually pay with one of these cards.
Who knew?

Math...Beautiful Math...Huh, Who Said That?

I love numbers.  My grade 10 math teacher, Mr. Brunetti would flip his lid if he heard me say that.  He gave me a 59 at the end of the first term, and wrote three words on my report card that I’ll never forget…”It’s a struggle.”   He was right.  It was a struggle.  I struggled to come to his class everyday and sit there and learn about Pythagoras and his tricky little theorem.  I struggled to understand the importance of tangents and cosines.  I struggled to understand when and how knowing that to calculate the area of a circle it’s Pi R squared.  WTF.  Who needs to know that?

I'm grateful that somebody knows how to calculate the area of a circle...but it doesn't have to be me.

Maybe it’s really data that I love.  It’s not the numbers so much as the story they tell.  Once I got to work and understood that numbers tell stories and that they’re clues to other things, math became much less of a struggle for me.  Numbers became the basis of P&L statements, budgets, marketing plans, compensation plans.  They are clearly the foundation on which business is built, and on which it survives.  Now that’s a story that I don’t have to struggle so much with.

You can't love me, Data, but I sure love you.

As a father, I find myself trying to explain why fractions and algebra are important to my thirteen year old.  The only thing I can tell her is that without really thinking about it, I use math every single day.   Now, to be certain, I’m not measuring the angles of isosceles triangles, but every day, it’s math, math, math.  And some days, it’s still a struggle.  Damn you, Brunetti.

Algebra humour.  Who knew?

I was helping Haley with her algebra homework yesterday (flip, Brunetti, flip!), and I was surprised how fast it came back (after a little traipse through the interweb).  Crap, if we would have had the internet when I was in grade 10, it sure wouldn’t have been so much of a struggle.  So, the ease at which simple algebra came back to me leads me to believe that there must be some application of algebra in my day-to-day life.   Then it struck me…every day at work, we solve for x.  Clearly, I’m now an algebra freak!  I had a boss once that said to me, “…it’s all ones and zeroes…” in some lame geeky reference to binary code.   Who knew that work would be all about binary code and solving for freaking X.  I would have paid more attention.  Turns out, again, those ones and zeroes and x’s and y’s tell the story.  Like most things, it comes down to the data…and more importantly, what it’s telling you.  

Can life really be reduced to a series of ones and zeroes?

X=223,412.  That’s the current balance in my frequent flier account.  The last time I shared the balance with you, it was 100,240, almost exactly one year ago today.  In one year my balance has more than doubled (wish I could say that about my retirement account).  To use a math term, the delta (that's math-speak for 'change') is about 123,000 miles.  So what does that data tell us?  First, that I travel too freakin’ much.  Second, that I’m pretty loyal to Air Canada (many wouldn’t be, but I am), and third, that I’m chasing status (you know how much my Elite status means to me, and I’m on track to hit Super Elite this year).

Where you gonna go with all those miles? 

Here’s what I learned about 223,412 Air Canada frequent flier miles.  You would think that I could travel the globe for free on 223,412 miles.   Not so fast, sport.  I thought that a nice trip to Europe would be just the ticket for my family, who has, for the most part, taken my crazy travel schedule in stride without complaining.   So I dialed up Air Canada on the world wide web and started the travel planning.  I found 5 flights that took us to Paris, and returned us to Toronto via Dublin.  It took some figuring and playing with dates and times to make it all happen, but I did it.  5 flights in my shopping cart.  Success?  Not so much.

We were gonna be the Griswalds.  Hmmph.

“Click to go to next step” are words that would make you think you’re making progress, right?  That in the next step you’re going to be printing off tickets for your most awesome family trip.  Wrong again, sport.  This is the point where you pay the fees and taxes for your free trip.  $4,873.00.  For free f***ing tickets.  As it turns out, although you get the seat for free, you still need to pay for the gas.  Thank you, Mr. Slater for your loyalty to our airline, just deposit five grand and we’ll send you some free tickets.  #FAIL.  (That’s a twitter term for something that blows.)  No tix to Europe for us.  I expected to pay some security tax, but I didn’t think I’d be personally responsible for funding the Eurozone Bailout.  X=WTF?

Greek Rioters, or other people trying to book free flights on Air Canada?

502.  89.  17.  That’s the number of connections I have on Linkedin, the number of friends I have on Facebook, and the pitiful number of people who feel like I have anything of any value to contribute to the Twitterverse.  Now, you’ll recall that I set myself a goal earlier this year to exceed 500 Linkedin connections, only people I know, and I achieved it last week.  It was a sadly exciting moment.  I mean, what does that data tell you?   It tells you that of all the social media programs, I’m most addicted to Linkedin.   Between you and me, I’m as addicted to Linkedin as I am to that bloody flashing red light on my blackberry.  Don’t even get me started.  And for crying out loud, Sarah Palin has 843,345 twitter followers and she hasn’t said anything good for like, ever.

Yep...this is how Sarah chooses to use her national soapbox...

23.  That’s how many frequent flier, car rental loyalty, and frequent guest programs I belong to.  Because I’m loyal to Air Canada and Marriott, I carry around 21 cards in my wallet that I never take out.  It’s no wonder my lower back hurts on one side and I walk with a limp.  It hurts to sit on my big ass wallet.  Of the dozen or so other hotel programs that I belong to, I’m sure I don’t have enough points between them to get one free night at a Motel 6.  Westjet keeps sending me an email with an update to my Westjet Dollars account.  X=1.  One Westjet dollar.  I don’t even know how you get one Westjet dollar.  Clearly a pity buck.

Click here to see George's exploding wallet in action.  That's how I feel.

153,553.  That’s the number of points I have in my Marriott account.  With those points, I can actually go somewhere.  I can have a week or more in almost any city where Marriott has a property.  It may not be their top of the line brand, but I can go.  And free means free.  I can have a week in Hawaii, or the Caribbean, or in most European cities on my points alone.  No cash top-ups, fees, or additional taxes..  Those points were going to take care of the accommodation part of the family holiday to Europe.  Marriott was going to stand by me, as I have by them, night after night of business traveling.  They were going to be my family’s home away from home on a vacation of a lifetime.  Until the whole thing got nixed.  Foiled again by Air Canada.  Usually they give me gas.  Now they want it back.  Five grand worth.  

Marriott...where free means free.

Where’s Pythagoras when you need him?  Or Angela Merkel…she’d get those fuel surcharges under control.

Angela Merkel, Chancellor of Germany, and also stimied at Air Canada's charging of the fuel surcharge on 'free' tickets.

The Most Important Question Facing the Modern Business Guy

I was recently in the US, on our annual back-to-school shopping blitz.  Usually, I’m the travel agent, chauffeur, sherpa, and wallet.  I do not typically partake in the shopping extravaganza.  I serve a specific purpose on these trips…get out of the way of my wife and daughters, and be prepared to pay, without asking any questions.   That’s the accepted, and expected, role of Daddy and Hubby on these family excursions.  Make sure there’s a pool in the hotel that’s more than 3 feet deep-(I learned that one the hard way), that there’s American money in the wallet (or at least easy access to it when we arrive), and that I’ve scouted out the nearest location of both IHOP and Chili’s.

I'm the mall sherpa

This time, while guiding my lovely daughters around JC Penney (my favourite US department store, by far), I spotted a pair of shoes.  A very suave pair of brown lace-up dress-shoes.  They were on sale (bonus), and they had a pair in my size (super bonus).  I tried them on, bought them, and slipped back into the rhythm of paying for my daughters’ purchases and carrying bags before they even noticed I was gone.  I’m a speedy and stealth shopper that way.

Spiffy brown shoes

The rest of the trip went according to plan, and we arrived home the next day, just in time to rip off the tags and start the first day of school.  As my daughters tried on their new clothes and new shoes and wondered what to wear on Day 1, I also contemplated my new shoes.  How nice they were.  How comfortable they were.   What suit to wear with them.

Piles of new clothes at Casa Slater after a US shopping blitz

What to wear.  OMG.  What to wear.  Being new to the brown shoe club, I had no freakin’ clue what to wear with brown shoes.  Well clearly a brown suit.  I don’t have a brown suit.  A beige linen suit?  Who has a beige linen suit?  Well, Roger Federer, for his days at Wimbledon.  That’s who has a beige linen suit.  I have blue suits.  Black suits.  And an ill-fitting grey suit.  And lovely new brown shoes.

Roger Federer can pull off a beige suit.  Betcha he's wearing brown shoes

I immediately felt like my wife every time I tell her that we’re going to an event that requires a dress.  With the exception that I was pretty sure that I didn’t need panty hose.  Staring at the closet wondering how I’m going to match these shoes with even one piece of clothing that I own.  How could brown be so challenging?   I have black shoes, just like every other dude.  And I also have a pair of ox blood loafers.

My oxblood loafers.  A safe choice.  I know how to wear them.

So I turned to a source that has never let me down.  It’s a little secret I call the world wide web.  I figured that if I had this question, some other guy, somewhere in the world has also had it.  So off to the interweb I went.    Well, as it turns out, when you google when should a man wear brown shoes you get 67 million responses.

67 million entries.  This is clearly a crisis

Yes it’s ok to wear brown shoes with a blue suit.  Yep, even with grey.  But never with black, and let me think about the grey again.  It depends what company you work for, and in what industry.  It depends which side of the Atlantic you happen to be going to work on, and for that matter, it depends on which side of the English Channel you call home.  OMG, I’m a schlub from Hamilton with a meeting in Toronto with an insurance company.  Can I wear the brown shoes or not?

Which shoes go best for a meeting with an insurance company?

So the 67 million responses effectively created 67 million more questions.  As it turns out, black shoes are black shoes.  Black.  White shoes are white shoes.  White.  Brown shoes are not necessarily brown shoes.  They’re Oxblood.  They’re Chocolate.  They’re Tan.  They’re Burgundy.  They’re Cognac.  They’re Walnut.  Holy Shit (coincidentally, another shade of brown).  Not only do I not know whether I can wear my dandy new shoes, I don’t even know what colour they are.

Who knew BROWN came in its own rainbow?

In my desperate search of the web, I learned that there is a long-standing controversy about brown shoes.  Who knew?  Well, clearly the 67 million searchers before me.  The one thing that seems very clear is that brown shoes are definitely out for a job interview.  This from a website called wallstreetoasis.com.  How could Wall Street be wrong?  I learned that in Europe they think Americans (and I’ll include Canadians in this too) look ridiculous wearing black shoes and a blue suit.  Well call me ridiculous, because I’ve been doing it for 30 years.

Old faithful, the black dress shoe.  Who knew you were ridiculous when worn with a blue suit?

I learned many things on my serendipitous trip across the web that day.  Some people think the belt has to match the shoes, while others think that’s an outdated fashion rule.  I did learn that your belt doesn’t need to match your shoes if your shoes are white bucks.  I also learned that white bucks are badass.  Thumbs up, Pat Boone!

Oh, please don't let white shoes be making a real comeback

I learned that the Queen’s banker, Cazenove, apparently never promoted anyone who wore brown shoes to work.   A sample of the comments related to that particular news story (yep, it's a news story) included:

·      Brown shoes are not ok in the city.  Never have been, never will be.  Remember,  never wear brown in town.

·      No brown in town

·      Brown shoes are fine.  So long as you work in IT

·      Maybe on a casual Friday in the summer if you’re wearing chinos, but never, ever, with a dark suit

·      As a young person, well under 30, not only would I never wear brown shoes, I also always wear a tie.  A gentleman should always present himself well.

Black shoes for the Queen's banker?  Black shoes for me.

So the long and the short of it is that I got dressed in my navy suit and brown shoes.  I took a long look at myself and changed to black shoes.  I immediately felt the stress drain away.  Ridiculous?  Maybe.  Stressful?  No way.  So off I went to the big city for my meeting with the insurance company.  I was met in the lobby by my counterpart.  He is far more dapper than I could ever dream to be.  He was wearing a summer-weight grey suit and what else?  Brown shoes.  And he looked swell.

I just don't think I could pull it off.

Out of 26 Letters in the Alphabet, How Did 2 of Them Get So Important?

I’ve had a mistress for the last 10 years.  She’s gotten progressively sexier over the time we’ve known each other.  She does more for me now than when we met.  She used to be a bit boxy, and she definitely weighed me down, but now, she’s beautiful and sleek.  Who is this divine creature?  My blackberry, of course.  (Where did you think I was going with this?)

Not sexy Jessica Rabbit, silly, my mistress is my blackberry

We visited my Dad over the weekend, and the subject turned to new mobile devices.  He’s just about ready to trade in his flip phone (yep, somebody still has a flip phone) for a smartphone.  The question of course centred around whether he should get an iPhone, a Blackberry, or an Android phone.  I think you know where I came out on this subject.

No, Dad, there's no send key.

As I was valiantly trying to make the case for my friends in Waterloo, I found myself wondering what exactly it is about the blackberry that keeps me so addicted.  I can get email on any device, and I can text on any device.  Both Android and iPhone arguably have better apps, and a case could be made that both of those devices are sexier and more cutting edge.  So why am I still carrying a torch for my, well, Torch?

I love it...there, I said it.

I keep saying that it’s all about the keyboard.  There is no way that I could manage my email on a virtual keyboard.  That, even I think, is a fairly lame excuse.  First, many Android devices have keyboards.  Second, I think that when it comes to the virtual keyboard, it’s all about getting used to it.  I have a virtual keyboard on my torch, but I never use it, because I don’t have to.  I have a virtual keyboard on my iPad (inherited from my lovely wife when she upgraded), and frankly, I really don’t like it, but I use it, and I manage to spell most of the words right.

Virtual keyboards.  Argh.

So if I can get past that big excuse, what exactly am I left with?  The blackberry is not widely regarded as the best telephone (it’s improved for sure over the years, but I still drop a lot of calls), and who actually makes lots of calls anymore anyway?   It’s no longer even considered cutting edge.  In fact, people look at you like you’re a bit of a fuddy-duddy (that’s right, I said it) when you whip it out in crowd.  So why do I do it?

Say it ain't so...blackberries out of vogue? 

You want to know the answer?  It’s BBM.  Blackberry messaging.  I get that it’s just like texting.  But it’s not.  Not one little bit.  First, nobody pays by the message for BBMS.  I can BBM to my heart’s content and all I’m using is data…and not very much of that.  I can text beyond the limited number of characters allowed in SMS texting without the system breaking up my messages.  I can send a voice message, a video message, a picture message, and I can set up a group.  I can even scan you to add you to my list.

BBM...I love you Mike and Jim

But that’s still not it.  I text with my daughters and lots of other non blackberrians and I live.  I still have not forgiven my lovely wife for trading her blackberry in for an iPhone (traitor), but somehow we’ve managed to stay together.  One by one my friends are abandoning their blackberries for other devices, and I manage to stay in contact.  But the reality is that I just don’t like it.  Jim and Mike got me hooked on BBM, and now I can’t give it up.  This weekend I finally figured out what it is, as I was teaching my dad to text on his flip phone (yikes).  It’s about two letters.  D and R.

If you’re a true blackberrian you know what I’m talking about when I talk about D and R.  If you’re not, you have no idea what I’m saying, but trust me, my friends, you have no idea what you’re missing.  When you send somebody a BBM, and it hits their device, a little ‘D’ pops up beside the message on your phone.  It’s ‘D’elivered.  You know that your message is no longer bouncing around cyberspace, and it’s ready on their blackberry for them to read.  They now have a flashing red light announcing your message.

Notice the magic R and D

Once they pick up their device and read your message, that little ‘D’ turns to ‘R’…’R’ead, or ‘R’eceived.  At that point, I know that the person I’ve BBM’d has received and read my message.  Now I get to wait for the response.  I’m sure it all comes down to my inner control freak nature.  When I send a BBM, I know when it’s arrived, and I know when it’s been read.  When I send a text, who knows?  I could be bouncing from satellite to satellite for hours and I’m sitting around waiting on a response.  So yes…I know if I’ve BBM’d you and you’re ignoring me.  If you’ve read it, I know it.  That’s what makes me love my blackberry, and it’s what makes me not want to give it up.  It’s the knowledge that my BBM has been read.

Is that my text message up there?

 

So in the big picture, it’s really three things that keep me in love with my sleek and sexy mistress.  First it’s the keyboard.   I know it’s not a great reason, but it’s a good one.  It’s as much about what I’m used to as anything else, and I’m just not that into change.  Especially when I like something.  

Please, Please, Please don't make me give it up

Second, it’s that soothing flashing red light.  I’ve written about its impact on me before, and it hasn’t changed.  There’s something special about that red light.  Once,  I downloaded an app that allowed me to change the colour of the flashing red light for different people, or different programs.  I thought it would be cool, but really it just stressed me out.  I missed the red light, and within a day, the app was deleted.  I know that other people are driven crazy by the incessant flashing of the red light, but not me.  It calms me.

The right light...a stronger pull than the bat signal

 And finally, it’s those BBMs.  I love that application, and I don’t want to lose it.  I love its functionality, its ease of use, and most of all I love that I can tell who’s read my messages and who’s ignoring me.   When I text, I feel like a fish out of water.  When I BBM, it’s home sweet home.

Please Thorsten (he’s the new dude at the helm of RIM)…whatever happens to the company, make sure that the BBMs and the flashing red lights never go away.  Take my keyboard if you have to, but at least leave me the D and the R.

Thorsten Heins...the dude to whom they've entrusted the future of my flashing red light.  Don't screw it up, Thor.  Can I call you Thor?