Color Me Invisible

red and blue

In many issues of communication, color does matter. Some colors evoke strength, some safety, some progress, and some security. Some project cowardice, and others royalty.

The mistake is in assuming too much – that a spectrum of colors will cover every flavor of difference and distinction.

American politics has divided down Red and Blue lines, so chosen because the media of the time needed simple charts with easily-distinguishable colors to project the presidential races. Red equals Republican, Blue equals Democrat, and that’s probably the way it is going to be for the parties moving forward. It wasn’t really standardized in any way until 2000, and it just fell that way. If you tried to change it now, you’d likely get a lot of resistance from people who have freely chosen to identify as a Red-State voter, or that Proud Blue Dot in a Very Red State. The colors have come to represent more than just the parties, and cut to the very core of a conservative/liberal division.

While we’re on politics, it’s fairly-well understood that a Green is one who pushes an agenda with a strong environmental focus. In fact, the environment and sustainability drive just about every policy issue for one who is Green.

Beneath, Behind, Between

So where does that leave the rest of us?

I am a lowercase-L libertarian. I have at times been accused of being a brainless lefty, and at others of being a heartless conservative. You might paint me as a little bit red and a little bit blue. Which adds up to purple?

My problem is that my views don’t wash out that way. I have a strong axis toward fiscal conservatism, anchored by a belief that people in the aggregate spend their money more wisely and efficiently than when their money is pooled together and spent by someone who didn’t earn it. I also don’t trust “government” as an institution to stay out of the individual’s way, and leave people alone to their peculiarities.

There is nothing muddled about my thinking. Just ask me my position on just about anything, and I’m certain you won’t get a wishy-washy magenta out of it. Yet the current framework of color doesn’t have a place for people like me.

It’s entrenched in the notion that our two-party system is the best way to proceed – and both of our predominant American political parties have a vested interest in seeing that continue. (Don’t pretend the Democrats were happy with Ralph Nader’s Green Party siphoning off enough votes to turn the 2000 election on its ear.)

Essentially, this is rah-rah bumper-sticker boosterism. I steal from Rush’s “Territories”

They shoot without shame in the name of a piece of dirt
or a change of accent, or the color of your shirt

Better the pride that resides in a citizen of the world
than the pride that divides when a colorful rag is unfurled.

Reject the Premise

The Red Blue divide does more than polarize, it freezes the thinking. What color would you use to describe someone like me? Orange? Yellow? (Because cowardice is so politically appealing.) Pink? Brown?

How about just taking me off the map. I reject the notion there is a single prism through which to view issues, and I reject the premise that such a continuum can even exist. The Great Divide has become so much about different core values to the extent that “common ground” is difficult to navigate in the increasingly rare instances where the overlap remains.

We need a multi-dimensional approach to dissecting the issues that divide us. Viewed through one lens, the course of action is clear. Viewed through another, a diametrically-opposed strategy is apparent. But the language for seeing the differences from an angle that makes sense becomes impossible when the sides are conducting purity tests for their Red or Blue.

Color me invisible, color me blind. Better yet, challenge yourself to remove the goggles others are using to obscure your vision, so you only see the world in a way where the colors matter.

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The Greatest Pickup Line Ever

This is from the archive at my old blog. But it’s still relevant.

“You never get a second chance to make a first impression.”

Boy, we all sweat over that one, don’t we? To know that a potential lifetime relationship, be it personal or business, swings in the balance of a single encounter. It’s enough to make you sick. Some people do get sick, as a matter of fact. It’s not necessary, though, if you understand the science of first impressions, and the most important part: Some might call it “The Icebreaker,” but essentially we’re talking about a pick-up line.

Whatever your application — phone scripts — sales pitches — some are designed to win another over, some to get your foot in the door. Some are milked to death, and some are cheesy. You’ve probably seen a list or two of the worst ones in your e-mail. We all know what makes them bad, but don’t always recognize what makes them good.

With that in mind, let me tell you about “the best pick-up line ever“:

Rail Genius

It was the summer of 1984, and I had just turned 15 years old. We’d been in Alabama for a year, and I was still making adjustments. I guess that’s why my parents let me take the trip back to Idaho to see my old friends. I couldn’t drive, but I snagged enough money doing odd jobs that I could pay for the trip: Amtrak, all the way. (Remember, this was 1984, and I had shown signs of being responsible.)

The trip would take three-and-a-half days each way, and I was to spend two weeks visiting in between. As eager as I was to get there, I was just as eager to relax and enjoy the countryside.

Till it all got flat.

Then I went back to my books.

Along the way, though, I started admiring some of the sights inside the train. You meet all kinds of people in coach — All kinds: Overburdened moms, with screaming kids. Grandparents, with nothing but time. Wedding guests, funeral parties, and angels.

Angel’s Among Us

Oh yeah — Angel. That was her name (although I didn’t know it yet.) She was a glorious sight to behold inside that train. She looked to be about 19, with medium-length blonde hair, a healthy tan, and a smile that could melt titanium. It was all I could do to keep from drooling. And it was all she could do to keep this other guy from drooling on her!!!

If Angel truly was an angel, then this guy was be-deviling her. Or at least trying to tempt her. He was in his early-to-mid thirties, rather unkempt, and had the kind of body that was just an NFL season or two away from landing him in the Bud Bowl Hall of Fame. Not quite a beer gut, but a promising start. She really wasn’t interested in “Bud.” But he sure was interested in getting her to follow him back to the bar car. She was in the window seat, and he was in the aisle seat, boxing her in.

I would have given anything just to talk to this girl, but I didn’t stand a chance with “Bud” in the way. I needed the perfect line.

I marched up to the seat in front of his, squared my shoulders, took a deep breath — and stomped like Rumplestiltskin while uttering the greatest icebreaker in the history of interpersonal relationships:

“Dad wants to see you in the sleeper car right now!!!”

(You would think there should have been trumpets or something, maybe a cascade of balloons and confetti, or a trip to Disney World — but I digress.)

Angel looked up at me, and her perfect eyes flashed a perfect mix of some perfectly raw emotions. Shock. Confusion. Abject Terror. She looked at me like I had been smoking crack (another stunning accomplishment, considering that crack was another five years away from being patented.)

She stared at me for an eternity, or one second, whichever one was shorter.

She turned and looked at Bud.

She shot a quick glance at me, turned back to Bud, and said “I gotta go.”

We walked the length of the train before sitting down next to each other in coach. I shook her hand and said “My name’s Isaac.”

Angel turned out to be a sweet person. We sat on that train and talked for hours. As far as I was concerned, I SCORED! (What did you expect? I was fifteen, she was nineteen, and we were sitting in coach!)

Lessons Learned

Little did I know it, but I had stumbled on a formula that replaces the guesswork of “breaking the ice” with pure science.

1) Recognize a need
This was clearly a damsel in distress. She wanted a way out of the situation.

2) Propose a solution
I gave her an alternative (me) that was better than the one she had (Bud)

3) Make it relevant to your shared reality
“Wow, look at those cows whiz by!” “Have you been to the caboose?” or even “Can I get you anything?” would have been completely useless. Only one thing mattered to her at that point. My hopes and needs weren’t going to get satisfied until hers were.

4) Make it timely
If a line works more than once, then it is just a line. If it only works on that one occasion, then the other person will know that you are truly communicating with them, and not seeing them as a means to an end.

Not every pick-up line or icebreaker will follow these rules, but it has been my experience that the most effective ones do. They don’t have to be offbeat, and they don’t even have to be memorable. They must, however, open a channel to the other person by sending an important signal: We can interact in a way that will benefit us both.

The best icebreakers are developed in an instant. The attitudes of recognizing another’s needs, being open-minded, and losing your fear of embarrassment are developed over a long period of time. Work on those things, and the memorable icebreakers will flow right from you.

(Angel — if you’re out there somewhere — you’re welcome. Just wanted to let you know I got something out of it too.)

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My Audience, My Enemy

(Another classic from the mcarp archives… the prophetic genius and brilliance are his;
the ones/zeros, pixels, pictures and subheads and pull-quotes are mine.)

The ordinary viewer is just so… ordinary.

“You know what your problem is?” My news director was putting the question to me — not in an accusatory or critical tone, but with the demeanor of a doctor telling his patient he has a terminal illness. “You have no style and no class.”

That was actually part of an employee evaluation I was given. (And here’s a bit of free career advice: if, during your first evaluation, you’re given an assessment like that, don’t think things will get better if you just hang around another 17 years.)

When I was recruited for my first TV news job, just five years earlier, I had gone to work in a newsroom full of people from working class families just like mine. Some were liberal and some were conservative, some Protestant, some Catholic, some Jewish.

But no one was there with the sense that the circumstances of their birth, or the fact that they were on TV, entitled them to some special place in the social order.

But five years later, Ronald Reagan was president, and the Ewings of Dallas were America’s TV family. And the term “working class,” at least in my profession, had become pejorative.

And although it is no longer my profession, the profession’s attitude seems the same.

Before Joe the Plumber

Have you ever heard of “Joe Sixpack?” He’s the ‘typical viewer’ for whom television news managers program their product. He is, by most accounts, an overweight, undershirt-wearing, lowlife who plops down in his ratty, squeaky, vinyl-upholstered easy chair at six pm, rips a Bud out of the plastic six-pack ring, and props his feet up for the news. Every morning, in newsrooms across the nation, executives and producers meet and talk about what Joe Sixpack will want to see on the news that evening.

Want to see a picture of him? Go look in the mirror. Because, unless you’re a doctor, lawyer, stock broker, or someone similarly situated, you are Joe Sixpack.

TV news personalities, in their need to separate those with “style and class” from those without it, have informally divided their public into two groups. The first group consists of the aforementioned doctors, lawyers, stock brokers, plus a few charismatic politicians — and, of course, TV news personalities.

The other group is ‘trailer park trash,’ consisting of everyone else.

But the grim reality for these provincial news celebrities is this: the affluent, fashionable folk with whom they want to associate, and be associated, don’t watch television news.They’re all tuned to the Discovery Channel, or Crossfire. The local TV news constituency is the very mechanics, convenience store clerks, letter carriers, plumbers, insurance salesmen, and the like whom one of my coworkers once dismissed with a single word, or rather, sound effect: “Ew.”

Dual Citizenship?

For the TV news reporter, the quandary is this: how to produce a news product for the mass of citizens who actually watch the newscast, and buy the products advertised — while simultaneously nudging the rich and trendy with a wink and a smile, as if to say, “Don’t pay any attention to that. Really, we’re just like you.”

One afternoon at an upscale shopping mall in the city where I lived, two gang members got into some kind of friendly scuffle outside the Swiss Army shop, and one of them accidentally shot the other in the butt with a small handgun.

We didn’t make any bones about it in our live coverage: the story was not that a black teenager had been shot. The story was that a lot of upscale white bystanders, whom our anchor described as being from the city’s ‘select neighborhoods,’ could have been shot.

Years later, we interrupted programming to report on a shooting in a similarly exclusive mall — 250 miles away. One indignant caller demanded to know why we thought anyone in our audience cared what happened in the Dallas Galleria. One news executive shrugged and said, “Everyone I know shops there.”

You Might Be Surprised…

A pipe bomb exploded one evening in a suburban, semi-rural community east of the city. The teenager who had assembled it was seriously hurt. Our reporter on the scene — born and raised in one of those ‘select neighborhoods’ — began her live report by saying, “You know, you might be surprised. There are actually some pretty nice homes out here.”

In fact, though, TV reporters generally aren’t like the affluent upper classes from whom they seek acceptance. They may have been raised in those kinds of homes, but in the competitive, cost-conscious world of modern TV news, they’re paid far less than they would be making if they’d actually become doctors, lawyers, or stock brokers.

So, they try to make up for it by just toadying and name-dropping (“Omigawd! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a Rolex repaired in this city?”), and leveraging their tenuous status as celebrities for the chance to stand on the fringe of sophisticated society. They’d rather be the lapdog of the establishment than the watchdog.

But frankly, the glamour of exclaiming “Just take a look!” in front of a nightly procession of car wrecks, house fires, and drive-by shootings is often lost on people who have spent ten hours performing open heart surgery, or made new case law, or gotten in on the ground floor of an IPO that tripled in value in eight hours.

Life Without Apology

The guy who first tagged me with the ‘no style and no class’ criticism eventually got fired. His boss — chief enforcer of what the company described as the ‘aura of affluence’ — was escorted from the building under armed guard one day, along with most of his family, while auditors pored over the fat leaseback deals and inflated expense reports he’d written for himself at the owner’s expense. That’s how he’d gotten his ‘aura of affluence.’

I’m more than two years out of the business myself, now. I decided to go do something else for a living — something that didn’t require me to start every day by apologizing for having ‘no style and no class.’

I’m not dramatically wealthier than I was, but getting off the ‘best car/best restaurants/best neighborhoods’ merry-go-round left me financially more independent than I ever was as a reporter.

But there’s another kind of independence that’s even more valuable. That’s the freedom to be your own person, choose your own friends, form your own values, and not portray a semifictional character created by a boss, or a consultant, or your coworkers — or even by yourself — to please someone else.

(originally published by Michael Carpenter, republished with permission.)

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Well, I Had to Kill the Kids’ Hamster

(Another classic from the mcarp archives… the prophetic genius and brilliance are his;
the ones/zeros, pixels, pictures and subheads and pull-quotes are mine.)

“But I gave him a fighting chance.”

- Former television news director (1978)

I never understood why anyone wanted to be a news director, anyway. Talk about a thankless job. Now, it’s gotten to where some of the big companies won’t even let their ND’s go to the RTNDA convention once a year and least pretend for a week they’re doing something besides signing their own names to consultants’ faxes.

I worked for 17 news directors over 25 years, which gives you some clue about the average job tenure of news directors. Some of them were solid leaders or solid journalists, or sometimes both. And about a fourth were people I wouldn’t have hired to mow my lawn. Of course, then again, the guy who mows my lawn doesn’t need a focus group to tell him how to do it.

One ND was an alcoholic. One was a drug addict. One was both an alcoholic and a drug addict. Another made management decisions based on ‘psychic dreams.’ And the nuttier they were, the longer they seemed to hang on. It was the rational ones, with a grasp on reality, that usually cratered most quickly.

Remains of the Day

A bunch of us were sitting one evening at a local media hangout, rehashing the day. It was the usual shop talk: two-hour drives to stories that had fallen through, items that didn’t make slot, who was in and who was out in our competitors’ newsrooms.

During a brief lull in the conversation, our news director — working on his third or fourth margarita — offered how his day had gone.

“Well, I had to kill the kids’ hamster this morning.”

The rest of the table, not surprisingly, fell silent.

“He had gotten out of his cage and chewed a hole in my fishing waders. So, he had to die.

“I gave him a fighting chance, though. I put him in the middle of the garage floor, and turned the schnauzers loose. I figured if he made it under the lawn mower, well… survival of the fittest, you know.

“But he didn’t. Too bad.”

So, our news director had amused himself before coming to work by watching his dogs tear his children’s pet to pieces.

Setting His Sights

The ratings were not being good to this guy. The network had jumped from third to first place, but our local news was still mired in third. A complete reworking of the product — new set, new name, new promos and graphics — had made no impact at all. He had brought in a new, glamorous ‘pretty boy’ anchor from another city, whom the viewers had greeted with howls of laughter.

(“We didn’t hire him just for his pretty face!” the promos announced, as an attractive young woman followed him with her eyes, licking her lips as he walked by.)

And as the ratings chugged along in the basement, his demeanor worsened.

One day, he brought a rifle to work, and propped it against his desk.

“What’s that for?” a slightly nervous employee asked.

“I cracked the stock over the weekend,” he replied. “I’m taking it by the shop after work to get it fixed.”

But the next day, the rifle was back. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Finally, as the days stretched into weeks, we just got used to seeing the gun propped up against the desk, or laid across the top, and we quit asking about it.

He ended up getting fired at the station Christmas party — which is a story in and of itself. Thank God he didn’t have the gun with him then.

While the rest of the staff was in Studio One, getting wasted on punch and margaritas after the late news had wrapped, he was going on a rampage through the station. He tore excutives’ nameplates off their office doors, and tossed them in the toilet. He ripped pictures off the walls, and smashed them over his knees. On his way out the front door, he pulled the pole lamp down in front of the terrified night receptionist, and used it to to chop down the station Christmas tree.

But you know what? As news directors go, he was one of the better ones.

I had to work for a few who were really nuts.

(originally published by Michael Carpenter, republished with permission.)

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ABC: Always Be Cutting

abc2

Network news is being outsourced, more than you knew.

Read here about how ABC News is “transforming” itself through cuts and reorganization. At least they didn’t call it “right-sizing.”

(And bear in mind that ABC News had a larger staff than NBC News and MSNBC combined…)

But how do you do the job with fewer people? You outsource.

Check out Good Morning America’s coverage of tornadoes and storms in Arkansas.

I apologize if the image isn’t clear, it’s not always easy to shoot an old-style curved television surface.

But just about everything you need to know about the future of network news is in this piece.

Particularly in the little white letters across the top.

The ones indicating the source of this interview.

Five years ago, this would have been inconceivable, that a television network would run video shot by a local newspaper.

But the key elements for this piece came from many sources outside of the ABC editorial umbrella.

So, what are your predictions for what is to come for network news?

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Regression to the Mean

trending

It’s time for the return of the Demotivational Devotional.

(made with the Despair.com Do-It-Yourself De-Motivator)

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Mount Everest is in Alaska

(Another classic from the mcarp archives… the prophetic genius and brilliance are his;
the ones/zeros, pixels, pictures and subheads and pull-quotes are mine.)

“You mean it’s not in Wisconsin?”

The phone rang, and an intern picked it up. She listened for a moment, then put her hand over the receiver and looked at me.

“Where is Mount Everest?” she asked.

What am I, the World Book? “Tell ‘em it’s in Wisconsin,” I replied.

“Nuh-uhhh,” a coworker interrupted. “Mount Everest is in Colorado.

“Mount Everest isn’t in Colorado,” a third responded. “Pike’s Peak is in Colorado. Mount Everest is in Alaska.”

The intern turned back to me. “Where is it, really?”

Then I realized I didn’t know for sure which country it was in. So, I weaseled. “It’s in the Himalayas.”

“No, it’s not,” replied the coworker who had placed it in Alaska. “The Himalayas are in New York, and I know Mount Everest isn’t in New York.”

(originally published by Michael Carpenter, republished with permission.)

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