The monstrous recall from Toyota has served as a reminder that even the most prominent companies are sometimes vulnerable to having their reputations compromised. Although the business schools will be dissecting this case study for years as a prototype for overproduction, cost cutting, and poor corporate communications, the most important lesson may be the necessary meticulous selection of a company tag line.
Isn't it ironic that Toyota currently uses "Moving Forward" when they just announced a recall for a jammed accelerator pedal that will cause their cars to....move forward? The joke writes itself. But don't kid yourself. This is far from a unique situation for corporate America. It was just one year ago that AIG, in a weakened position and with the threat of their demise in front of them, had to live with "The Strength to Be There." If it wasn't for our tax money, they wouldn't be here.
I would be remiss if I didn't discuss the King of all Faux Pas from managerial consulting behemoth, Accenture. They chose to sign a sizable contract with Tiger Woods to be their corporate pitch man. However, the creatives didn't have a clue that when they chose the tag line, "Be a Tiger", that it would have less to do with Accenture's prowess in the board room, and more about Tiger's performance in the bedroom.
Sometimes corporate slogans aren't snakebitten by scandal at all, they're just too honest. Take Dunkin' Donuts for instance. Don't you find it slightly amusing that the notable sellers of coffee, a well known diuretic, professes that "America Runs on Dunkin"? Well, we can't argue with that. And let's not forget that American Airlines reminds us that "We know why you fly."With the current security measures in place, they probably know why each one of us is flying and soon they'll know the color of our underwear. I'm also not fond of Capital One constantly asking me, "What's in Your Wallet? Hey, it's none of your business.
My personal favorites are the names of the franchises themselves. I would have killed to be in the meeting when BJ's was approved. I wonder what the runner up was. STDs? And I just love Bed, Bath, and Beyond. For many, it reminds us of one of the best dates we ever had. First to bed, then a bath, and then something beyond that.
Now that's a shopping experience.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
"I Do...for 36 months"
The statistics haven't changed in years. Fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce. I think you could get better odds in this weekend's Jets/Colts game.
Now let's face the facts. Divorce certainly falls into the realm of our control, and yet many continue to repeat the mistakes of those who came before us. We marry too young, we don't choose well, we argue about money, and many cheat on their spouse. Perhaps "till death do us part" is too much too ask for such a fragile and fickle species. Maybe in this rare circumstance, we should emulate the philosophy of the car dealers.
Leases.
It sounds crazy, right? Or does it? A man and a woman decide to get married. Both sides must first select the terms of the "contract." Standard agreements start at 36 months. At the end, both parties have an option to "buy" and extend the original contract. If the couple decides to part ways, it's a clean break with no attorney fees or the division of property. Both parties would be free to begin a new lease, with a new partner and no money down.
A three year term is an ideal test for any marriage. We learn about what it's like to share the same bed, the ability to do chores, and spending habits. It provides ample time to go on vacations, spend time with family during the holidays, and even buy real estate.
But wait, what about children? Don't worry. The lease has a provision for this too. The only couples permitted to have children are those who get through the initial terms of the lease. If you extend, then and only then, will the baby window begin to open. I just have this gut feeling that more people would stay together, and no one would have kids before they're truly ready.
Maybe when Predident Obama speaks of "change", he should add marriage leases to his list. Just don't forget to order the Bluetooth and the DVD player.
Now let's face the facts. Divorce certainly falls into the realm of our control, and yet many continue to repeat the mistakes of those who came before us. We marry too young, we don't choose well, we argue about money, and many cheat on their spouse. Perhaps "till death do us part" is too much too ask for such a fragile and fickle species. Maybe in this rare circumstance, we should emulate the philosophy of the car dealers.
Leases.
It sounds crazy, right? Or does it? A man and a woman decide to get married. Both sides must first select the terms of the "contract." Standard agreements start at 36 months. At the end, both parties have an option to "buy" and extend the original contract. If the couple decides to part ways, it's a clean break with no attorney fees or the division of property. Both parties would be free to begin a new lease, with a new partner and no money down.
A three year term is an ideal test for any marriage. We learn about what it's like to share the same bed, the ability to do chores, and spending habits. It provides ample time to go on vacations, spend time with family during the holidays, and even buy real estate.
But wait, what about children? Don't worry. The lease has a provision for this too. The only couples permitted to have children are those who get through the initial terms of the lease. If you extend, then and only then, will the baby window begin to open. I just have this gut feeling that more people would stay together, and no one would have kids before they're truly ready.
Maybe when Predident Obama speaks of "change", he should add marriage leases to his list. Just don't forget to order the Bluetooth and the DVD player.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Save and a Beauty
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're not going to retire at 65. I'm not saying that there aren't exceptions to the rule. If you work on Wall Street, your firm may be coming off a record year in profitability in an industry that has proven it's Teflon even in the worst of times.
To those fortunate and successful enough to own their own businesses for a number of years, I say congratulations. Your company may be passed on to another generation, or sold outside the family at a sizable profit. But for the majority of us who still find ourselves immersed in the quicksand of corporate America, I'd recommend learning the rudiments of a cash register because you're headed for a retail job at the end of your career.
We've been brainwashed by the financial planners and by the many analysts on CNBC who like to toss around fancy terms like "dollar cost average", "diversification" and "compound growth." The problem with the suggestions of never timing the market, not putting all your eggs in one basket, and reinvesting profits is that they were all based on antiquated models. The world has changed, and the stock market has quickly followed.
The old mantras were based on a long term rolling averages of stock performance since the Great Depression. Unfortunately, that was well before airline passengers were placing bombs in their underwear and people were sold mortgages on property they couldn't afford. As a result, we're now all too familiar with what can happen to our portfolios when the bottom drops out.
So what can we do?
Save. We're a society of shoppers wanting the latest in technology, or hoarding up on clothes and shoes upon hearing about the next sale. We are surrounded by a sea of strip malls outside, and by retail websites when we're inside. You just break out the plastic, and you're off to the races.
Financial planners now tell us that we need at least 6 months of expenses sitting in cash in the event that you find yourself without a job. How many of us truly have that much on the sidelines.? Maybe it's time that our national pastime convert from shopping to something more constructive, like saving.
Then, maybe, just maybe our retirement years won't include asking about paper or plastic.
To those fortunate and successful enough to own their own businesses for a number of years, I say congratulations. Your company may be passed on to another generation, or sold outside the family at a sizable profit. But for the majority of us who still find ourselves immersed in the quicksand of corporate America, I'd recommend learning the rudiments of a cash register because you're headed for a retail job at the end of your career.
We've been brainwashed by the financial planners and by the many analysts on CNBC who like to toss around fancy terms like "dollar cost average", "diversification" and "compound growth." The problem with the suggestions of never timing the market, not putting all your eggs in one basket, and reinvesting profits is that they were all based on antiquated models. The world has changed, and the stock market has quickly followed.
The old mantras were based on a long term rolling averages of stock performance since the Great Depression. Unfortunately, that was well before airline passengers were placing bombs in their underwear and people were sold mortgages on property they couldn't afford. As a result, we're now all too familiar with what can happen to our portfolios when the bottom drops out.
So what can we do?
Save. We're a society of shoppers wanting the latest in technology, or hoarding up on clothes and shoes upon hearing about the next sale. We are surrounded by a sea of strip malls outside, and by retail websites when we're inside. You just break out the plastic, and you're off to the races.
Financial planners now tell us that we need at least 6 months of expenses sitting in cash in the event that you find yourself without a job. How many of us truly have that much on the sidelines.? Maybe it's time that our national pastime convert from shopping to something more constructive, like saving.
Then, maybe, just maybe our retirement years won't include asking about paper or plastic.
The Jet Set
If you worked or lived in Manhattan during the aftermath of 9/11, you must have noticed a strange phenomenon in the community. The divisiveness of the great melting pot suddenly congealed.
Whites, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, Russians, previously siphoned off into their own individual silos, suddenly had reason to collectively root for home team: America. People were smiling at each other on the subway, spouses were holding hands again, the elderly were respected, and children revered. Without incentive or provocation, people were courteous, and proud to be an American.
But like the old saying goes, nothing lasts forever. Time passes, we get caught up in our daily lives, and pretty soon we're back to normal. This feeling of group cohesion is nearly impossible to duplicate over the long term. However, New Yorkers have found a temporary solution.
Sports.
When a team from New York makes the post season, something magical happens. The entire city comes together. The current version is courtesy of The New York Jets. On the eve of their next football game, this underdog finds itself just two wins away from the Super Bowl. So look around and listen.
The city is filled with green jerseys. People are discussing the upcoming game on the street, on trains, in rest rooms, in offices, on grocery check out lines. Complete strangers are conversing, or reconnecting with old friends. Co-workers are becoming a little closer. We even have a reason to call our families. Once again, everyone is on the same team.
It's sad to think that we need a national tragedy or something as trite as a football game to bring us closer. But who am I to complain?
J-E-T-S.....Jets, Jets, Jets!
Whites, Blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, Russians, previously siphoned off into their own individual silos, suddenly had reason to collectively root for home team: America. People were smiling at each other on the subway, spouses were holding hands again, the elderly were respected, and children revered. Without incentive or provocation, people were courteous, and proud to be an American.
But like the old saying goes, nothing lasts forever. Time passes, we get caught up in our daily lives, and pretty soon we're back to normal. This feeling of group cohesion is nearly impossible to duplicate over the long term. However, New Yorkers have found a temporary solution.
Sports.
When a team from New York makes the post season, something magical happens. The entire city comes together. The current version is courtesy of The New York Jets. On the eve of their next football game, this underdog finds itself just two wins away from the Super Bowl. So look around and listen.
The city is filled with green jerseys. People are discussing the upcoming game on the street, on trains, in rest rooms, in offices, on grocery check out lines. Complete strangers are conversing, or reconnecting with old friends. Co-workers are becoming a little closer. We even have a reason to call our families. Once again, everyone is on the same team.
It's sad to think that we need a national tragedy or something as trite as a football game to bring us closer. But who am I to complain?
J-E-T-S.....Jets, Jets, Jets!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
"SAWed" in Half
My grandfather loved surgery, like a man loves his dog. He would discuss his schedule of surgeries as someone else would speak about a timeshare. Instead of an upcoming trip to the Caribbean, he would mention his upcoming carotid artery surgery. Others would boast about Bali, he would proudly discuss his pending bypass surgery.
I didn't have my first surgery until I was 38, and unlike my grandfather, my preparation was nothing akin to an island vacation. Mine was much closer to being in a "SAW" movie. My procedure wasn't overly complicated or dangerous and the surgeon was the most notable expert in the field. But none of that mattered to me. In my mind, the whole concept of surgery was, stated in the proper vernacular......NUTS!
I often think that if you had to describe the process of surgery to creatures from another planet, they might consider it an act of barbarism. My description would go something like this:
First, they starve you for twelve hours. When arriving at a large building filled with sick people, they ask you to immediately strip naked. To avoid embarrassment, they clothe you with an oversized gown and funny slippers, which only causes further embarrassment. Next, for entertainment, you receive a needle in your arm which is attached to a movable pole that you have to drag with you like a new pet. After a long, unbearable wait, your number comes up, and they lead you through a set of double doors that feel like the entrance to a dungeon for top secret science experiments.
You're led into a room where you're immediately surrouded by several men and women in outlaw masks. There's a great temptation to put your hands in the air, then hand over your wallet(if you only had pants). They toy with you further by asking for your name and the reason for your "visit." To complete your outfit, you're given a hat which is a cross between a shower cap and a chef's hat. So you don't see how ridiculous you look, they put you to sleep. Then, with a series of sharp instruments, they take your body and slice, dice, and trim until completion(maybe that's why you get a chef's hat).
Hours later, your eyes open and you awaken in a room with other victims, without any recollection of how you got there. I've had two surgeries now, and there's a third one pending.
I just wish it felt more like a timeshare.
I didn't have my first surgery until I was 38, and unlike my grandfather, my preparation was nothing akin to an island vacation. Mine was much closer to being in a "SAW" movie. My procedure wasn't overly complicated or dangerous and the surgeon was the most notable expert in the field. But none of that mattered to me. In my mind, the whole concept of surgery was, stated in the proper vernacular......NUTS!
I often think that if you had to describe the process of surgery to creatures from another planet, they might consider it an act of barbarism. My description would go something like this:
First, they starve you for twelve hours. When arriving at a large building filled with sick people, they ask you to immediately strip naked. To avoid embarrassment, they clothe you with an oversized gown and funny slippers, which only causes further embarrassment. Next, for entertainment, you receive a needle in your arm which is attached to a movable pole that you have to drag with you like a new pet. After a long, unbearable wait, your number comes up, and they lead you through a set of double doors that feel like the entrance to a dungeon for top secret science experiments.
You're led into a room where you're immediately surrouded by several men and women in outlaw masks. There's a great temptation to put your hands in the air, then hand over your wallet(if you only had pants). They toy with you further by asking for your name and the reason for your "visit." To complete your outfit, you're given a hat which is a cross between a shower cap and a chef's hat. So you don't see how ridiculous you look, they put you to sleep. Then, with a series of sharp instruments, they take your body and slice, dice, and trim until completion(maybe that's why you get a chef's hat).
Hours later, your eyes open and you awaken in a room with other victims, without any recollection of how you got there. I've had two surgeries now, and there's a third one pending.
I just wish it felt more like a timeshare.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Mentally Handicapped Parking
Despite all the hoopla over the possibility of a new, national health care bill, once again a critical area is being severely overlooked: Mental Health. Not that this represents anything new. For years, insurance companies have treated mental health patients like second class citizens, with a sophomoric view of wellness(don't worry, he'll snap out of it).
As a rule, there's little we can do to change this perception and relying on our politicians is akin to plugging up the hole in the damn with your thumb. However, there is one area where we can make a significant difference.
Parking.
Why have we allocated spaces to the physically handicapped for years, and nothing for the mentally disabled? I think it's time we stand up and make a difference. I know it isn't much in the grand scheme of things, but I think these people have earned their stripes, and deserve their own designated parking.
This doesn't mean that these additional spaces will also be located closer to the front entrance of the mall. We certainly don't want the mentally and physically challenged to have a mixer. I just think that an area designed for specific ailments could really be beneficial.
Multiple personalities are automatically designated at least two spaces so they can rotate depending on mood. The obsessive compulsives will have a very large area to themselves, the size of a playground. They'll need to pull into and out of spaces several times, without getting in the way of other drivers. Manic depressives will have a traditional spot, the only difference is they get a free car wash while they're shopping. A clean car always lifts the spirits. Bipolar disorder can be tricky, so as a precaution their spaces will be surrounded by a sea of bumper cars.
I know what you're thinking. We're all a little nuts, so how can we distiguish the drivers who truly live and suffer with these disorders?
Simple. A rearview mirror tag.
The wheelchair is the universal sign for the physically disabled. Therefore, as a mental equivalent, the new tags would have a picture of Freud. It's easily identifiable, and no questions asked. In an era of much needed health care reform, it seems that mentally handicapped parking is the least the government can do.
It should work much better than Cash for Clunkers.
As a rule, there's little we can do to change this perception and relying on our politicians is akin to plugging up the hole in the damn with your thumb. However, there is one area where we can make a significant difference.
Parking.
Why have we allocated spaces to the physically handicapped for years, and nothing for the mentally disabled? I think it's time we stand up and make a difference. I know it isn't much in the grand scheme of things, but I think these people have earned their stripes, and deserve their own designated parking.
This doesn't mean that these additional spaces will also be located closer to the front entrance of the mall. We certainly don't want the mentally and physically challenged to have a mixer. I just think that an area designed for specific ailments could really be beneficial.
Multiple personalities are automatically designated at least two spaces so they can rotate depending on mood. The obsessive compulsives will have a very large area to themselves, the size of a playground. They'll need to pull into and out of spaces several times, without getting in the way of other drivers. Manic depressives will have a traditional spot, the only difference is they get a free car wash while they're shopping. A clean car always lifts the spirits. Bipolar disorder can be tricky, so as a precaution their spaces will be surrounded by a sea of bumper cars.
I know what you're thinking. We're all a little nuts, so how can we distiguish the drivers who truly live and suffer with these disorders?
Simple. A rearview mirror tag.
The wheelchair is the universal sign for the physically disabled. Therefore, as a mental equivalent, the new tags would have a picture of Freud. It's easily identifiable, and no questions asked. In an era of much needed health care reform, it seems that mentally handicapped parking is the least the government can do.
It should work much better than Cash for Clunkers.
Friday, January 8, 2010
"Appy New Year"
I remember a time, and not so long ago, that a discussion about "apps" had to do with whether or not you wanted to share the potato skins or the mozzarella sticks. Naturally, this was long before appetizers like kobe beef on toast, and California rolls became de riguer.
In today's vernacular, apps have taken on a whole new meaning. Thanks to the proliferation of Apple's I-phone and I-touch, thousands of developers have created these app-lications that enable users to play games, get directions, buy stock, order dinner, play blackjack, listen to radio stations and much more. As the commercial says, there truly is an app for just about everything.
But are apps for everyone?
I didn't think so at first. The earliest adopters just wanted to be the new kids on the block. Soon after, these groupies gave way to a more mainstream demographic who viewed apps on their mobile devices as pieces from a living toy box with I-tunes itself being Toys R Us on crack.
It wasn't until I bought my 9-year old daughter her first I-touch that I truly realized the awe inducing power of the app. She navigated through the App Store as if she had been born inside, quickly moving from game to game and downloading her favorites. In a matter of minutes, she had collected 20 apps and had her eye on several more. How could something so new to her be so natural? Simplicity. Even a caveman can do it.
These applications are more than just mere child's play. They may be the second coming of the internet boom. In the 90's, every brick and mortar entity had to have a website. High speed internet was dawning, and those who didn't have a web extension would be left for dead. But the sexy, new arrival in town is the mobile device and now every website has to have an app. In fact, these applications may soon be the primary portals to the internet itself.
One day, my daughter will ask me why I ever owned a stationary computer and about the wire that was attached to it.
In today's vernacular, apps have taken on a whole new meaning. Thanks to the proliferation of Apple's I-phone and I-touch, thousands of developers have created these app-lications that enable users to play games, get directions, buy stock, order dinner, play blackjack, listen to radio stations and much more. As the commercial says, there truly is an app for just about everything.
But are apps for everyone?
I didn't think so at first. The earliest adopters just wanted to be the new kids on the block. Soon after, these groupies gave way to a more mainstream demographic who viewed apps on their mobile devices as pieces from a living toy box with I-tunes itself being Toys R Us on crack.
It wasn't until I bought my 9-year old daughter her first I-touch that I truly realized the awe inducing power of the app. She navigated through the App Store as if she had been born inside, quickly moving from game to game and downloading her favorites. In a matter of minutes, she had collected 20 apps and had her eye on several more. How could something so new to her be so natural? Simplicity. Even a caveman can do it.
These applications are more than just mere child's play. They may be the second coming of the internet boom. In the 90's, every brick and mortar entity had to have a website. High speed internet was dawning, and those who didn't have a web extension would be left for dead. But the sexy, new arrival in town is the mobile device and now every website has to have an app. In fact, these applications may soon be the primary portals to the internet itself.
One day, my daughter will ask me why I ever owned a stationary computer and about the wire that was attached to it.
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