@ Work

Digital marketing, social media, SEM, SEO, Adwords – for some they are buzzwords. They become amorphous objects, loosely collected in the back of their minds and there it’s gripped onto for fear of losing relevance. Utilizing the buzzwords are no longer about ‘keeping up’ but about following the pack, pretty pictures and likes only get you so far, brand building is not just an about creating a great landing page or a growth of followers year over year, but about making an impact. It’s one to one – meaningful marketing. There is a reason your boss wants you to look for influencers, there is a reason influencers are a thing or were.

I’ve built a brand from next to nothing to fully realized; something with supporting documents, direction, and real soul. The general public doesn’t want to connect with a brand – they want to connect to a person, an idealized entity that lives somewhere on the other side of the screen. They are connecting with their favorite celebrity, they collect ideas, feelings, pictures from across the hum and din of spinning fans in a server room. Our job, as social media and digital professionals, is to close that gap. It’s up to us make it feel less like showing up late to a speed dating event and more like finally getting the attention of that cute barista – something they know, maybe something fun or unexpected, but they want to know they’re okay, they’re heard.

Obviously, that isn’t always the case. Some people, many people live a life of complaints on twitter or facebook like it’s their personal megaphone to the world at large. They cry foul and only relay how they’ve been slighted. I’ve dealt with my share of that type – as anyone in customer-facing social would. Sometimes they happen to be someone who comes in 3-4 times a week, or spends thousands of dollars on hotels a week, or… well your “best” customers. Some folks just have an ax to grind and you’ve got to find out how sharp it is. Sadly, many companies feel as though this is what ‘social’ is all about; running searches and algorithms to mitigate damage and running press releases through 140 character ticker tape.

This misses the point.

Of course, this begs the question – what is the point?

You’ve got to find that out for your company, brand, store, etcetera. We are living in a world where you’re allowed to not be on a platform for whatever reason. You can sass your customers. Be a style brand. Collect likes as if they’ll stop giving them out. Do you need to post cat videos to be relevant? Maybe for you, but not for everyone.

My advice: don’t get caught up in the “we’re not on [x] platform” talk – it’s useless; don’t get wrapped up in everyone else is doing – find where you thrive; keep active and watch where it ‘feels’ right to grow. Get out there, kid.

I had about two full paragraphs here about getting people motived before I cut them all. About the challenges I’ve faced as we roll out “the agency.” I’m not sure I have any good advice but to try everything you can and then go back through your list and try those things again. In short, my job relies on people that don’t answer to me, nor do I entirely work “for them;” their success in what I do heavily depends on their involvement. It’s a constant struggle to find new ways to say “help me, help you.”

Current thoughts: Expose clients to ‘the new world.’ Don’t put them in timeout, hold their hand – it’s easy to make people feel simple, it’s harder (and better in the long run) to educate.

I’ve also got a couple ‘big picture’ ideas crashing around in my head for work and having a busy mental day has left me excited and pretty scattered.

More soon.

I’ve been thinking about ‘digging through the stacks’ recently, pulling favorite stories of mine written years ago. This is the first of that. Enjoy.


Sisters are strange, you either hate them or get along with them, or both intermittently. Sisters can make your day easy or hell; some are bitchy and some are quiet. Sisters are hard to work with, and I worked with mine for two years.

Before she got hired at my Grandparent’s bakery, I had already worked there for nearly a year, and I knew I finally had one up on her. I knew the in and outs of working there and I finally felt I had the upper hand against my older sister.

Her and I worked mostly after school, closing. My grandmother had the strangest way of ‘evening’ out the register, a nice round $105, but each denomination had enough, or close enough. This boggled my mind for the first few weeks but I eventually got it. My sister picked this up much faster and seemingly understood why my grandmother choose $105 as the cut off. This left me out in the storefront most nights, dumping  the old baked goods, cleaning the wide array of glass that encircled the retail side of the store, and sweeping.

A moment should be taken to say something about my grandmother’s pleasantries with the woman who work at the store versus the men. The woman could do as they please and the men were a lazy group of do-nothings. As a for instance, I’d been “caught” reading a book, all while my sister was sitting reading a magazine; I’d be scolded and Karin would get a friendly “hello.” This was not single instance, but occurred with every other female employee, I was the whipping boy. It would go as far as my sister would receiving unsolicited gifts from my grandmother and I would get told to get more boxes.

My sister and I worked the long dog days of summer together for two full summers. Our days ran cleaner than the old clock in the office. We both would come in at around 12pm in the summer, relieve the person working, usually an old clown woman or a giggly flamboyant fellow. They were usually grateful to have someone there, as they were left working alone for a few hours between shifts, and in some cases refused themselves a bathroom break. Karin and I would then check everything: boxes, the cleanliness of the floor, trays that need to be pulled or condensed and ran in the pan washer, and check the phone for voice messages; a combined total of a half an hour at ‘teenage’ speed. After we had cleaned up after the morning shift we would walk around, maybe talk about our friends for a bit then get lunch. Lunch was always a sandwich for each of us from a new sub shop down the street. We would eat, maybe have a snack after lunch of cookies or a French pastry. We’d get tired from sheer boredom, and then eventually I’d end up in the office.

The bakery office was a dark room with one doorway, two chairs and a desk in it. I would sit in the far chair, my grandfather’s, would keep the lights off and put my head down and just fall asleep. Sometimes she’s sit in the chair at the other end of the room and glide into sleep or simply steep in my snoring – unknown to me which.

We would take turns on who should get up when someone came in and help them, our wake up call was a distance and distinct door bell and sometimes jingle bells. Then there were times when I would fall deep asleep, unbeknownst to me that she had gotten three or more people in a row. I’d roll into my drool and make some noises. And the uncountable times she’d knock on the glass thin mirror glass that faced the storefront because more people were funneling in and they were waiting. She would look at my face and stretch an embarrassed smile and I’d turn and look at the mirror window to see sleep lines running across my face. I’d call out for the next person in line with a scratched and groggy voice, eyes bloodshot and half-stuck together. The customers that I helped never looked at me sideways nor addressed the issue, things are better left unsaid, or unasked.

After our, more of my, nap we would go our separate ways doing our tasks which lead to closing up shop. We would trade off either cleaning the horrendous pan washer and helping customers. If there were any days she didn’t feel up to cleaning the pan washer, I was obliged to do it for her – she’d watch out for me enough to pay her back.

The pan washer was about seven feet tall and had buttons on the front that looked like they belonged on a 1970’s imagined panel of the future. Most pan washers are self-cleaning, at Carney’s we had to clean it. It may not sound too bad, to clean a pan washer, but imagine what all goes in: flour, oil, fats, sprinkles, sugar, egg residue, crumbs, and so so much more. You tried not to think about it as you washed, the thought of it all is just a bit too much. First it had to be drained which took enough time to turn on the radio and separate yourself further from the horrible retail end of working at the bakery. Then the four grates inside had to be taken out, banged inside a garbage can, then rinsed – these stopped the chunks from moving lower, hunks of nuts or maraschino cherries. Then the cleaner had to reach inside with the hose that seemed more like a small inter-tube and spray under the metal guards that held up the grates; this was easily the worst part, the things that were thin enough to go though the grates or were water-soluble would stick to underside. So when washed it all plopped on your hand and caked your wrists. It was the color of light dog vomit and the consistency of warm pudding mixed with oatmeal.  All of which made sparing the goop off their hands off inside the machine strangely satisfying. A heavy dousing of bleach cleaner and a massive scrub brush and a rinse finished it up. The grates would go back into the machine, and then the filling would begin. This took the longest, and at which point  I would usually practice my Kung fu with the floor scraper. Swinging a giant blade connected to a heavy broomstick, like I was battling off the evil ninjas – swishing and clanging and gaining power-ups to fuel my superpower – all under the rising and falling of commercial free classic rock.

From there, we’d continue through our routine; her counting the old doughnuts while I would swept. I had no problem counting, it was my writing and the ridicule from Peter, the baker, that I didn’t enjoy. The message would get passed through my grandmother in the mornings and she would nice it up in the way only a cranky old woman could. So I left that job to my sister who had an even hand. Around this time my grandmother would come in and we would lock the doors. Then Karin would count the drawer, and I would clean the glass – usually with the lights off and passers-by looking in, watching while I sprayed the empty cases and wiped off the vinegar/Windex mixture.

My grandmother would chatter to my sister while I would toss out all the old stuff – sometimes I’d eat half of one, or more, of the different types of doughnuts or bismarks. Grabbing one off the tray and ravishing it while the rest of its friends fell into the big gray can. I’d mostly go for a laugh as Karin would get a kick out of it because by the time I was done tossing all the old stuff out, my face would be covered with smears of jelly and sugar and frosting. I’d wipe up stick the old danishes in the freezer, where we kept them until we gave them to an old folks home on Thursdays. The two garbage cans got pulled out to the dumpster in the back of the store; one bag wet, near the pan washer, while the other would be heavy with discarded doughnuts.

I’d get back to the long metal table around the same time my sister had counted all the money and we were ready to leave.  At some point my grandmother knew she didn’t need to come in anymore and we had gotten so used to this routine that we were left to close the store ourselves. It was nice because we could close at our own pace (quickly), and she didn’t have to come dragging herself into the store either.

It was almost always nice to work with Karin.

I’ve thought of writing a bit of social media advice and a blanket of information that maybe someone will stumble upon or potential clients will think I’m at least pretending to know what I’m talking about. So here is part one:

Don’t let someone else tell you what you should be doing with Social Media. Okay, let someone else help you, but don’t take advice as an order. This may seem obvious for those with a small business who are always the first to do a little background checking and data collecting before going ahead. Even then though, don’t substitute what is best for you and your company for what you are “supposed to do.” Don’t think just because they’ve got years of experience doing social media for a tire depot, doesn’t mean they’ll know how to do it for a cake shop. Sure, they could give advice, but it’s not all going to be correct. Only you know your audience, and if you don’t only you can offer the authenticity to gain a real audience.

Which reminds me, social media isn’t a numbers game. Do not base your work put into it by how many followers, fans you’ve collected this month. Yes, it can be a very helpful way to guide what you’re doing, but it’s not a line in stone.

So don’t let some hot-shot tell you how s/he’ll fix everything and make it all better. Don’t pay some lug a couple grand to build a Facebook page, or to post a ‘deal’ on twitter. It’s your business, don’t get bullied.

Or, why you shouldn’t truncate your blog.

Just a quick message, a PSA of sorts. The web, the way people read it and how (more importantly) data is consumed is much different than 2004. Sure, have a ton of page views on your rarely updated beer blog give your tummy a tickle – but I’d much rather skip the story completely than hunt down the other paragraph and a half.

See, I like where we are as a tech driven society. I can plow through a bunch of stories on the laptop and later open to where I was on the iPad. When back-patters shit up my reading experience by sticking a (sometimes link free) ‘more’ two sentences into their mildly interesting posts I simply walk away. I know I am not alone, so let this be a lesson to myself and those I work for: I will only use a ‘more’ button when it’s warranted and not to push traffic.

About a month ago I quit my job at the gelato place. Sinking ships bring everyone down.



@ Work, been up to

It’s been a few months since I’ve cut ties with ‘the bridge’, so I feel its safe enough for me to air grievances and for them to go completely unnoticed. Most likely, I could have kept pristine records of who did what, when and it still would have flown under the radar – mostly because of my boss.

A blip of background: I’ve been a nerd my whole life; it has come and gone in waves of social stability here and there, but more to the point – I’ve been into PCs, “the internet”, for nearly all my waking memories. This doesn’t necessarily make me an expert, but someone with a grasp on things.

At [this job], my superior admitted to me that she had never really payed much attention to “the web.” Thats right. A person who worked in retail at countless stores across the eastern seaboard becomes a buyer then a couple years later gets placed as a web director. Her understanding of the net was more akin to a confused old lady who’s grandson stuck a laptop in her mitts and let her go to it. The resources she used were utter shit and full of group think, buzz words, and mind-meltingly bad web design. How were we supposed to beinteresting enough to drive sales if those are our information pools? A company whose customers exist as decrepit shut-ins, retirees, and their children?

The name of SYW is a misnomer, a lie, a fallacy, a faded passing memory of what the shop used to stand on. There isn’t a single thing made at this ‘workshop.’ Most of their product lines were shopped out overseas (see: China & India) – improper knock offs of the same American made products they had carried for years. Sure there were a couple staples they’d be crazy to move overseas, but this tilted the business in a strange way. It did so because the move wasn’t done a decade or so ago, it was only in the past year or so. A couple of years and still shaking out horror stories, still fresh and top-of-mind. Tales of cargo ships dropping to the sea floor with a back order, the dissolving of a long-time line because the new cheaper items were – shockingly – poorly made, and tales of child endangerment at the factories. Not only are they losing customers on quality, but also in a market and demographic where American made products are coveted, they had cut back.

The business was in a death spiral – driving away long time customers, unable to pull new (see: young) customers, and slumping morale.

It was not the right fit – between the “you can’t post that” red tape, not getting the guidance I asked for, and moral issues selling what equated to garbage.

Yesterday a box came in addressed to my boss was dropped off at my desk. It was full of dark brown crinkle cut paper and a whole host of items. From 80% Dark Chocolate bars to a glass bottle with three lowly vanilla beans inside. The company imports all their wares from Madagascar, the chunky island off the south eastern coast of Africa and well known for their renegade zoo animals. It was decent;  got a bottle of vanilla extract out of it. I think one of the best things they produced was the chocolate chip bar with nibs and sea salt. Now, I put that backwards from what they had on their bar – for a reason- because there was no where near enough sea salt for it to be on the even package. When putting sea salt in dark chocolate put those chunky, crunch-when-you-bite-into-the-bar pieces of sea salt. I want to feel the sea salt. Neat packaging, not overly done and fitting, but the price wasn’t really there and we have a boat load of chocolate on our shelves.

Today, more chocolate came in, these people were “local” producers from Indiana. Meh. I feasted on nearly everything and most of it was just mediocre. They had a couple pretty awesome looking chocolates which will sell like hot-cakes for Christmas. But the candy overall was just decent. Most of this packaging was aimed at my mom or grandmother – not exactly our style. Again, too much candy and not really our speed, but we’ll be picking up a couple things.

I’m also pretty stressed but eh – I’m going to get into now. I’ll just say I ate enough chocolate the past couple days to deal. Also, I’ve been tasked with designing the new menu. I’ll be sharing ideas here, looking for input.