Technology Ruins Life's Guessing Games

If "video killed the radio star" then smart phones are killing the music discussion.

A few weeks ago my husband, brother-in-law and his wife were sitting around a campfire in Northern Ontario. It was a beautiful night and much wine had been consumed. We were listening to Queen and the topic of Freddy Mercury's untimely death came up. We spent a mere 60 seconds trying to figure out how many years passed between Queen's first album and Mercury's passing. That's when one of us pulled out a BlackBerry, googled the question and read the answer verbatim from wikipedia, killing the conversation and effectively silencing the debate. Had this discussion taken place ten years ago, we might have passed an hour arguing about the year that Queen appeared on the music charts, sharing our recollection of how old we were and what was happening in our lives. The discussion would no doubt have included some unexpected revelations and surprises.

Later that same weekend, we were watching The Big Lebowski. Somewhere in the middle of the movie the Jeff Bridges character is experiencing a drug-induced trip after being poisoned. I mentioned to my husband that the soundtrack reminded me of a Kenny Rogers tune I used to know in another lifetime. He didn't believe me, but before I had a chance to defend myself, he whipped out his i-Phone and, thanks to Shazam, he was able to grudgingly confirm that I was right. Of course, that wasn't the point. Hearing the song had awoken a memory after almost three decades. As an adolescent I had a good friend whose mom idolized Kenny Rogers and played his records constantly to the point that I can sing along with all of his songs. In the years that followed my friend's family was shattered by some horrible secrets, she moved away and I lost track of her. But for those few years, playing Barbies in her basement, listening to country music, life was good. Of course, I never really got to share that story because, as with the Queen incident, technology had ruined the moment.

It's great that we no longer have to wait more than a few seconds to get the answer to life's pressing questions but the thing is, it's not really the answer that matters, it's the stories conjured up by the trip down memory lane that makes these debates fun. I don't know if technology makes us dumber or lazier but I venture it makes us less interesting.

Cyclists, don't hate me because I drive

To the young woman in the pink helmet on Sunday night:

First of all, I want to apologize. I was in the wrong. I slowed down to make a right turn and forgot to look both ways. You were coming along on your bike and, though you were still quite far away from me, you yelled loudly to make sure I knew you were there. I heard you and I don't know if you noticed but I tried to placate you with a guilty smile. I'm assuming by the look of disgust on your face and the way you shook your head at me that it didn't work. I know what you were thinking - that I'm just another environmental-hating, self-important motorist who doesn't want to share the road. We were the only two people on that stretch of the road so I bore the full brunt of what I assume is your accumulated anger at motorists who don't see you.

On this particular evening, I was on my way to a client event. Not wanting to be away from my kids on a Sunday, I left home a little later than I should have and I was beginning to worry about being late. I was in a somewhat deserted part of town that I'm not familiar with and I was trying to navigate a series of one-way streets and when you saw me, I was a bit confused from having taken a wrong turn. It's no excuse of course for not seeing you but I offer it by way of explanation.

But, while I slipped up this time, I want you to know I'm a very careful driver. I respect the fact that I share the road with other motorists, cyclists and pedestrians, all of whom are trying to get somewhere in a hurry. I always try to give cyclists a very wide berth and I often slow down or stop to let them pass. I'm constantly checking my sideview mirrors to see if one of you is approaching and if you are, I'll often just wait for you to pass because I can't judge how fast you're going. I really do try to share the road in a respectful way but sometimes I veer a little too far over to the right (perhaps I'm being squeezed by a motorist to my left) and you let me know by hurling profanities, shaking your fist at me or slamming it on the side of the car. I don't even get mad when you come out of nowhere, plough through red lights or weave in front of me, inches away from my engine because you don't want to sit in the traffic jam we're all experiencing.

Using a downtown Toronto road is a daily feat of skill, finesse and courage. There's so much to focus on at once - traffic jams, construction, street cars, parked cars, taxis stopping to pick up or let off passengers, doors opening and closing without warning, honking horns, police cars, ambulances and fire trucks, people crossing on yellow or red lights, pedestrians who are too busy texting to watch for oncoming traffic, not to mention an ever-changing and ever-increasing series of one-way streets, no left turns and lanes that are northbound one day and southbound the next.

I was just wondering if maybe, given everything we all have to deal with, we could approach it in a less hostile manner. Just asking.

Tire Kickers - A Little Respect Please?

I haven't blogged for a couple of weeks, partly because I was in the country with my family, squeezing out the last days of summer. It was a wonderful vacation temporarily disrupted by a major etiquette violation I've decided to share in the context of a troubling trend for us entrepreneurs - the professional tire kicker.


An expression from the used car lot, the "tire kicker" is a person who wastes the time of a salesman though he has no intention of buying. We're not selling used cars at Palette PR but we are getting calls from many people who feel that investing in PR might be just what they need to weather the economic storm. Only, they're not sure how much they want to spend, what their objectives are, or when the project might start.


And, before taking the plunge, they need some assurance that it's the right step. This assurance comes in the form of a meeting in which we share our expertise, show examples of past work, talk about how we might help them and try to get a sense of what they're looking for. While we don't get an idea of the budget we are often promised that "while the initial amount will be on the low side, there is great potential for it to be increased if we're successful". This meeting concludes with a request for a two-or-three-page proposal in which we provide some free ideas for what a campaign might look like. A week or so later, we may be asked to come in and present the ideas in person to someone who is positioned as "the decision-maker". We are told that, if we can impress this mandarin, then the business is as good as ours. Sadly, all too often, this person has "difficulty understanding our vision" and asks for another memo with more detail on how things will play out. And on it goes until, after not hearing from them for a few weeks, we follow up with the potential client, only to find out that they have: a) decided they're not interested in PR after all, b) loved our ideas and have decided to do everything in-house, c) decided to work with another agency and haven't had a chance to inform us.

The person who disturbed the tranquility of my recent vacation was one such potential client, looking for PR assistance in an area in which I have considerable expertise. In order to make a decision, he needed a proposal very quickly. In a telephone conversation, I agreed to prepare a document for him within 48 hours. As an agency principal, I am always engaged in building the business so I begged forgiveness from my family, closed the door and put my work hat on. Five minutes after sending it to Mr. potential client, I received the following e-mail: "Thanks but we've already hired someone".


There is a professional way to look for an agency partner and many organizations respect it by clearly stating their budget, objectives and expectations for the project before meeting with agencies. Some work with search firms like Agency Link and some even compensate participating companies for ideas. When the process is over, these organizations call the unsuccessful parties as soon as the decision has been made and, in an ideal scenario, offer meaningful feedback that will help them do a better job next time.


I realize that, in trying times, it's tough to decide where to spend your marketing dollars and the wrong choice can have lasting consequences. But, that doesn't mean you have the right to waste anyone's time on phantom projects that may or may not happen, with a budget that may or may not materialize and the promise of future, more lucrative work that may or may not come to pass.


That's just not good etiquette!

A Great Example of Class in a Careless World

Like many bloggers, I often use this forum as an opportunity to rant and becuase my focus is etiquette in modern society, or the lack thereog, sadly, there is no shortage of fodder for my soapbox.

But today, I have the privilege of sharing a good news story - an old-fashioned gesture of class and gratitude that is just too rare these days.

We had a delivery in our office yesterday. We get many deliveries in the course of a day but this one was extra special with a cherry on top. It was a box containing 12 cupcakes from Sugar Baking - six with chocolate frosting and six with vanilla frosting. Might I add, the best chocolate frosting ever!

Our surprise benefactor? The stylish Ian Capstick, owner of Media Style, seasoned communicator and passionate advocate of social media.

Opening the box elicited squeals of delight from my colleagues as we racked our brains to remember what we could have done to deserve such a welcome and delicious treat on a Thursday afternoon. When nothing sprung to mind, I got in touch with Mr. Capstick himself, who said simply that he liked reading our blogs, appreciated retweets from our staff and enjoyed meeting with my business partner, Martin Waxman, a couple of months ago.

In my etiquette training, people often ask if it's really necessary for them to send thank you cards for large gestures - business referrals, weekends at the cottage, job interviews. I sometimes need to convince them that it's not only worth it, but an obligation. And, here is an example of someone who sent sweet treats, simply to say, "Hey, I like what you're doing".

A surprising, and very encouraging show of class in a world where too often, we forget to say thank you.

Loose Lips Sink Ships...or Trains

Dear Incessant Cell Phone User:

I would recognize your voice anywhere. After all, I had to listen to it for five hours straight on the train yesterday. You probably didn’t notice me at all. I tend to keep a low profile on train trips and use them as a time to relax and unwind. But I noticed you. How could I not? You kept me and several other passengers entertained with your non-stop cell phone conversations. I guess you didn’t hear the announcement suggesting passengers keep cell phones on vibrate for the comfort of other guests. I guess it didn’t occur to you that perhaps your captive audience would have preferred to pass the time without the soundtrack of your business dealings.

I know what you do for a living. I know all about your company. I know what clients you represent, what their annual revenues are, which ones are gearing up for an IPO and who is currently working a name change through the legal system. I know who you called to pitch new business and I heard your tips for dealing with the SEC. I know your full name, how to spell it, your phone number and your e-mail address. We all heard when you spelled it out for that guy you were talking to about funding.

Miss Manners likes to say “polite people don’t hear things they’re not supposed to hear” and she’s right. I’m not a nosy person and, had I not been traveling alone, chances are I wouldn’t have paid so much attention to your conversations. But you were right behind me, I was by myself, my iPOD battery was dead and I had only a book to keep me company. You were speaking so loudly that I couldn’t help but overhear.

I must say, I admire your tenacity. You worked hard on that train trip. You used up every single minute working that phone. You obviously work very hard for your clients and they are lucky to have you as their representative.

But, in case you’ve forgotten, let me just take a moment to remind you of the basics of cell phone etiquette.
- One should try to refrain from using a cell phone in a place where others cannot escape from you ( a speeding train qualifies)
- One should try to refrain from using a cell phone within 10 feet of another person
- One should try to refrain from disclosing sensitive information on a crowded train

Best of luck with your future endeavours.

p.s. Hope things work out with the boat.

An Obituary for the RSVP

An Obituary for the RSVP

It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of RSVP, one of the finest examples of traditional European finery to cross the Atlantic. RSVP took his last breath on Saturday, quietly at home, surrounded by his close friends, the thank you card and the little wave when you let someone in front of you on the highway. Sadly many of RSVP's most cherished friends are also in poor health, having themselves succumbed to decades of atrophy and disrespect.

Although his final days were but a remnant of his earlier glory, RSVP enjoyed almost two centuries of respect and commanded a place of honour at gatherings across North America, whether they be gala affairs or backyard BBQs. In fact, there was a time when simply including RSVP at your event elevated it to a higher level of sophistication.

RSVP's storied life began in his native France where he was known as Repondez, s'il vous plait. In that country, RSVP enjoyed the same level of affection bestowed upon other well-known cultural icons including Edith Piaff and the Eiffel Tower. RSVP was well into middle age when he was lured across the pond to play a starring role at the parties of Americans who were experiencing newfound wealth and status due to the industrial revolution. Initially skeptical of this new land, as the years passed, RSVP grew to like and even embrace North Americans with the same fervour he had once reserved for his beloved France. Thad Manners, a biographer of RSVP, affectionately refers to this period in time as his "hayday" noting that in those days, RSVP was so highly regarded, those who showed up at an event without him were often turned away.

RSVP's health started to deteriorate about 50 years ago and, despite the best care from the world's most renowned etiquette physicians, attempts to restore his youthful vigour, were in vain. Always a class act, RSVP eventually accepted that nothing could be done and chose to live out his remaining days in relative obscurity. He made a rare public appearance a year ago, when he was coaxed out of retirement to receive a lifetime achievement award at a White House ceremony in his honour but, upon arriving, he was devastated to find that many of the guests no longer respected him and some didn't even know who he was. Like so many of these awards, it was bestowed too late in life to have any impact on his reputation.

Humiliated and beaten down, RSVP retreated to his summer home in Provence where it is said, he found a level of contentment and was able to forgive everyone who had treated him so shabbily in his later years.

The place where time stands still

Few things in life put the brakes on our hyper-digital, fast-moving society than standing in line at the bank. The whole in-person bank experience harkens back to a kinder, gentler and infinitely SLOWER time in history.

Yesterday, my business partner Martin and I walked to our bank to make a simple deposit. I won't reveal the identity of the bank, but, suffice to say, it's a large national one. Our intention was to do our business at the ATM, normally a routine 60-second transaction. Alas, it was out of order so we stepped inside (and back in time) to deposit a cheque the old-fashioned way and deal with a human being.

It's been a while since I've been inside a bank. I had forgotten how deserted they can be in the mid-morning. This particular site is actually quite aesthetically-pleasing. It has high ceilings, lots of white space and and the serenity of a library. Ceiling fans whirred above us and the staff (most of whom were sitting and chatting with each other) seemed to speak in hushed tones. and move in slow motion. There was no one in line and four tellers available so we were immediately served by a lovely, yet reserved gentleman. That's the good news. The bad news is, for some reason, what takes 60 seconds at the ATM took 10 minutes at the teller and consists of odious filling out of forms, answering of questions and signing of documents. I had also forgotten how difficult it is to sign a form using that pen that is physically attached to the counter with a 10-inch non-pliable wire.

My companion decided that, since we were already at the teller, it would be a good time to request a U.S. bank draft, something that was on his "to do" list. Bad idea! That took another 10 minutes with more forms to complete in triplicate. The capper came when the teller went to print the draft only to find out that not one, but two printers were malfunctioning. After minutes of pulling out and jiggling all of the wires and cables from the back of the machinery to no avail, a manager was summoned, the problem was fixed and the document was printed. I know it was a manager because unlike the tellers, his name badge had both a first and last name while the other employees, like Madonna, went only by their first names.

Throughout all of this, I was struck by complete lack of any sense of urgency exhibited by the people who work there. Even at the zenith of the printer debacle, no one appeared to be particularly phased. The funny thing was, I wasn't even upset. Granted, I didn't have anywhere important to go after that, but somehow, the slowed atmosphere calmed me in a way no yoga class ever has.

Finally, feeling good about a job well done, our teller asked if there was anything else he could help with. There was neither a hint of irony, nor any trace of the need to apologize for keeping us waiting so long. Most service-oriented businesses, upon delaying their clients waiting, will mumble at least a cursory, even fake apology. But not here, just a smile and an placid gaze which left me feeling that some insitutions are untouchable.

The next time I'm feeling overwhelmed with the fast pace of life today, I'll go stand in line at a bank. That will jolt me out of my nostalgic reverie.