I am Jef

I write. I rant. I write rants.

Adults

Grand Rapids, Michigan is, surprisingly, known for more than merely being the home of the iamjef world headquarters. It also has a professional hockey team: the Grand Rapids Griffins.

Recently, I attended a game and had the good fortune of sitting two rows behind four people (listed from left to right): a rotund boy, a skinny boy, a skinny woman and a rotund woman. I don’t mean to denigrate the rotund nor the skinny, but this is the best way to distinguish these people, and such information will come in handy later. Also, the rotund boy was the son of the rotund woman, and the skinny boy was the son of the skinny woman.

The two boys, both approximately eight years old, were having a wonderful time, enjoying the game and pointing out everything to their moms. The moms, at first, appeared to merely be there as a treat for their kids. But at the first intermission, I realized the rotund mom is far too self-involved for that.

The Scoreboard

It was quiet in the arena after the intermission entertainment and before the second period. I was enjoying the brief lull. Then, the rotund mom shrieked. “That’s me! That’s me!”

The skinny family was missing from their seats, which was fortunate for them. The rotund mom was celebrating a birthday, and her name was on the scoreboard. I can see how kids might think such an event would be exciting. This was a 35-year-old woman (if the scoreboard was correct) who shrieked relentlessly, shouting at her son to look at the scoreboard, seemingly demanding accolades for something. I don’t know what, but something.

She pulled out her phone and took a picture of the scoreboard. At this point, she was merely amusing to me. Some crazy woman who is a little too zealous about nothing.

Soon after, the skinny family returned, and the rotund woman freaked out again. Paraphrasing: “Did you see? Did you see? I was on the scoreboard! Me! I was up there!”

The skinny mom said she saw. The rotund mom responded, “On the board? Or on Facebook?”

This stupid woman, whose Facebook page was probably already littered with birthday wishes from people who would never know it was her birthday if they hadn’t been notified by a machine, posted a photo of her name on a scoreboard.

The T-Shirt

One of the loudest reactions at a minor-league hockey game comes from the free dispersion of shirts (or free dispersion of anything). There are a number of chances to catch a shirt throughout the game, and excited kids and moronic adults make fools of themselves hoping to get a shirt with some sponsor’s logo on it.

One such shirt flew in the direction of the four people I’m wasting all these words writing about. More specifically, it flew directly at the skinny kid, who we remember was sitting directly to the right of the rotund kid and two seats to the left of the rotund mom.

The shirt landed in the skinny kid’s hands. That is, it hit his hands, but before he could put a full grip on it with his tiny eight-year-old fingers, the rotund woman’s meat hands blasted past the skinny woman, essentially shoving her out of the way, then ripped the shirt out of the kid’s hands. The kid looked up to his mom with a face of sadness and shock, looking for answers but receiving none. At the same time, the rotund woman shouted, “I got one! I got one!”

This idiotic moron was so excited for a free t-shirt, she ripped it out of the hands of the son of the other mom. The kid didn’t seem to mind too much, as he didn’t raise a stink. But he definitely didn’t know what was going on.

After the rotund woman’s self-congratulatory cheering subsided, she unrolled the shirt to see the size: children’s large. This quickly became the hilarious topic of discussion. “It won’t even fit me!” Uproarious laughter for all.

The shirt was way too small for the rotund woman and also too small for the skinny woman. So, it looked like the kid who should’ve had the shirt this whole time would finally get it. Instead, the rotund woman passed it down to the rotund boy and demanded he see if it would fit him. This completely changed his mood from good to horrendous, as I don’t think he appreciated having to say the shirt didn’t fit, which it didn’t.

After she embarrassed her own kid, she finally gave it to the skinny kid (the rightful owner of the shirt), but not without making fun of him for being so small. “Who else is it going to fit?” She then continued to berate the kid for being tiny. I hope it made her feel better about herself and having to give up that shirt.

The message was, “You don’t deserve this at all, but you’re a puny little runt, so you get it by default.”

Regardless, the skinny kid put the shirt on (the rotund woman demanded it), and posed for a picture taken by the rotund woman, who promptly posted that to Facebook to tell everyone about the shirt she “won” but generously gave to the kid.

Regret

The most unfortunate thing about this whole situation is I failed to take note of her full name (first name is Jo) when it was on the scoreboard. Had I done so, I could’ve not only found her on Facebook and posted the photos here as proof, but I also could’ve typed her name on a website, which she could then photograph and post to Facebook.

My apologies, Jo. If you ever read this, please take comfort in the fact I determined after the scoreboard incident if I happened to catch a puck, rather than hand it to a nearby child as an adult should, I was going to hand it to you.

Grocery Shopping

I detest the process of grocery shopping, but I do enjoy the benefits (aside from always feeling like I spent too much money and received too few goods). Why would I loathe grocery shopping, you ask? The heinous humans who also shop.

Grocery shopping showcases how rude (or unbelievably stupid) people are. There’s no denying it’s one or the other, and while I could cut some slack in the latter instance, I don’t believe anyone can be as stupid as these people, hence the phrase “unbelievably stupid.”

Has another shopper ever made eye contact with you in a grocery store? Probably not. I don’t mean to imply we need to make small talk, or even say anything, but a simple acknowledgment that says, without talking, “You’re another person and you exist” would do. Have some confidence, people. Hold your head up and acknowledge your humongous dinosaur cart with three kids crammed inside can’t fit down the same aisle as my regular cart.

Instead, you, despite being able to navigate a store with three kids and a gigantic dinosaur attached to your cart, somehow can’t see another person right in front of you. Are you intimidated because I’m actually looking in your direction, setting up a chance for mutual acknowledgment and some kind of traffic maneuver that will let us both shop? Are you really so interested in every item in the store you have to stare (from a distance of two inches) at every single cereal box when you already have all the cereal you need in your dinosaur cart?

Maybe your kids are older and no longer fit in a dinosaur cart. Obvious solution: let them roam free throughout the store, occasionally returning to your side to announce the latest exciting piece of food they can’t live without. So, while you’ve downsized from a dinosaur to a regular cart, you now have 2-3 little humans running around and squeaking with their not-so-cute voices.

And here I come again, down the same aisle. Think it would be prudent to tell your kids, who don’t know any better and can’t be blamed, to move over? Of course not, because you don’t see me, do you? How could you possibly see another human when you need to carefully eye every spice jar, even though I can tell by the contents of your cart and the size of your kids you never do any cooking that might involve a spice? Oddly enough, your kids can see me, and yet they still don’t know they’re supposed to move over. Not their fault. If only there were a role in life that involved an adult teaching manners to a child.

I apologize for judging you, but I wouldn’t have time to do so if you’d acknowledge me, human to human. We could pass by and I wouldn’t have six minutes to stare at your cart while your kids shuffle through mine.

Those of you without kids act as if your shopping is more important than mine, which, of course, it is, just as I believe mine is more important than yours. Your shopping, to you, is the most important thing going on in the store at that time. So, it makes perfect sense you should completely ignore me or even snootily dismiss me as if I don’t belong in the same aisle as you. How dare I purchase anything from anywhere outside the frozen-foods section?

I don’t want to talk to any of you. But it annoys me as a member of society to see so many people pretend no one else even exists. We can stand two feet away from each other and you will act as if you have terrible peripheral vision, never for a moment noticing another person directly to your left.

Acknowledge people. A brief, pleasant-faced session of eye contact will say, “Yes, you exist, and you are allowed in the pasta aisle, and we can both do our shopping without being rude, abhorrent jerks.”

End-of-Day Deadlines

“Can you get the final version to us by end of day tomorrow?”

Fairly common question and, based on society’s pre-determined work hours, represents “Tomorrow at 5 p.m.”

It seems simple. You do the work and get it to the client by 5 p.m. tomorrow. But then what happens? The client is already out of the office and won’t see it until the next morning at 8 a.m. (society’s approved work-start time). That leaves your masterpiece sitting in an inbox for 15 hours.

What could you have done during that 15 hours? Most assuredly, you could’ve made it better. There’s also a chance you could’ve made it worse, but that’s unlikely. Or, you could’ve ignored it as society suggests you should, which is essentially what leaving it in an inbox does.

I find a few different ways to think of an end-of-day deadline:

1. It’s the end of the acceptable work day, and it’s a specific time, which helps when it comes to a deadline. Who cares what happens after I deliver it? I met the deadline.
2. They won’t see it until tomorrow, so why don’t I just wait and make sure I send it to them prior to 8 a.m. the next day?
3. Look at all this time I have today to work on this thing. What a great deadline.

What do all these things combine to mean? Nothing. A deadline has to exist, so who cares what it is? Get your work done, people.

My theory, based on no research, is end-of-day deadlines became necessary due to slacking idiots who took “First thing in the morning” to mean “some time before noon.” When people got frustrated waiting past their deadlines, they merely moved them up from “First thing Friday” to “Last thing Thursday.”

The best part: no matter what deadlines you’re trying to meet today, you now have to make up for the time you wasted reading this drivel.

OH – “Put a headline on your post.”

For maximum accuracy of my current qualm with social media, I just said to myself, out loud, “Put a headline on your post,” and then typed it, preceded by “OH,” which means I just committed the hideous task in question, not with the intent of hypocrisy, but rather with the intent of a valid example to use.

“OH,” in social media, is an abbreviation for “overheard.” Although, if you actually pronounce the abbreviation as the word, “oh,” then I guess it would be an acronym. But I digress for no reason at all. On the plus side, said digression resulted in another future rant on misidentified acronyms.

Back to overhearing things. Technically, I did overhear, “Put a headline on your post,” as I was listening when I said it. But I was talking to myself. Is the listening portion of that self talk really overhearing something that was fully intended to be heard by the listener? No.

This is my minor annoyance (minor in that it has no consequence or adverse effect on anything aside from the subjective nature of my loathing). The idea of the OH, I believe, is to relay to the entire internet something humorous you overheard some stranger say.

The value in such messages often relies on the out-of-context nature of one hilarious or ridiculous quote. Sometimes, the context is apparent and can still be humorous. Usually, these messages make the person being overheard out to be an idiot. That’s fine, as society enjoys a good collective laugh at a single dolt.

Too often, though, people will stretch for these overheard messages. Imagine Chad and Tad having a conversation. Chad says, “I like horse racing.” Tad immediately goes to Twitter on his fancy phone and tweets, “OH – I like horse racing.”

No, Tad. You did not overhear that. Chad said it to you. You heard it. By claiming you overheard it, you’re ruining the OH experience for the true eavesdroppers. You’re devaluing the mystery of your mindless followers wondering what could’ve prompted someone to say he likes horse racing, as the mere fact is you were having a conversation with someone and claimed to overhear him. Are you facing the other direction? Are you intentionally not listening to him but that one line got through? Tad, you are a scumbag.

If you’re into the OH tweets, go for it. But don’t tell me you overheard something if it was said directly to you. Attribute the quote. Right, journalism majors? Or, start a new H trend. For example: “H – I’m taking it back to the old school ’cause I’m an old fool who’s so cool.”

Attribute that quote to Steve Roll’n, by the way.

Once we get the H and OH trends accurately separated, I will be calm. Ohio residents with an affinity for hydrogen may get upset, though.

I’m Not as Good at Pretending to Take Notes as I Thought

Meetings almost always seem too long, but on occasion, they are undoubtedly and abhorrently too long. Sometimes, this is because people get to blabbing off topic, but that’s not as laborious as the excruciatingly long meetings consisting of six different people repeating the same thing over and over until someone finally and mercifully has to end the meeting due to being late for another meeting.

For hypothetical instance, a writer meets with a client to discuss the latest brilliant product that needs to be shown to the world. The client explains everything to the writer, who, after 20 minutes or so, has everything he needs to, for some reason, actually get to work on the project. Instead, the two guys sit and talk for another two and a half hours. Well, the client talks. The writer jots things down in his Moleskine notebook, nods at every sentence and wishes he could go to sleep as his headache turns from minor nuisance to hideous incapacitation.

The Value of Taking Notes

In college, I learned a lot better when I sat quietly and listened to the professor rather than feverishly writing down everything he or she said. However, after a few occasions of being called out by professors (why?) for not taking notes, I developed a scheme to avoid being called out like a fifth grader while also learning. Simply pretend I’m taking notes. This appeases those who think I have to take notes and also keeps me in the mindset of listening and learning.

As a professional writer, I do take some real notes. The important stuff. Not all the intricate details or every sidebar—those are stored in my head and the small number of notes I take bring those out.

Because I know how I learn and remember things, clients can and should bask in my minimal note taking. This is how I operate the best, so that’s a benefit to them. However, often, they seem to get nervous I’m not taking enough notes.

It Must be My Fault

I came to the harsh realization I’m wasting my own time. When clients get nervous I’m not taking enough notes, they panic and repeat themselves. Many times over. The same explanations, the same examples, the same everything. Repeatedly. It’s as if they don’t understand I understand, and that’s probably my fault.

One theoretical way to fix this would be to let the client explain something once, then explain it right back to him or her, making it well known I know what we’re talking about. The problem there is the client then responds by summarizing everything I just said, which was a summary of what he or she said, and then we’re stuck wasting time anyway.

Notes? That’s a Stupid Thing to Blame

Probably. But what is it? Am I not reacting properly to show an understanding of what’s being said? Do I need to ask questions I know the answers to just to create the illusion I’m trying to understand something, even though I already do? Am I not laughing hard enough at the safe humor prevalent in business meetings? Is it the notes? Or is it merely a fact that must be faced: meetings are too long because society taught every person in that meeting it’s supposed to be too long?

The End of the Out-of-Office Response

It used to be moderately annoying. You sent someone an email for some wildly important reason and were excited beyond belief to see an immediate response, “Re: Wildly Important Email.”

“Great!” You exclaimed to yourself. “An immediate response!”

Then, you opened the email to see something akin to, “I am out of the office, returning 7/16. If your matter is urgent, please contact (insert name and number of some doofus you’ve never heard of).”

At that point, you knew your wildly important matter was dead, as you would never remember to follow up with this person on the 16th, and this person would never see your email in the overwhelming wad of electronic drivel awaiting his or her return from vacation.

This was compounded if you replied all to the 13 other idiots on your men’s-league hockey team, four of whom were on vacation. Not only did you get the brief feeling of moronic joy, knowing your email was hilarious enough to incite multiple responses, but you also realize the only four guys who would’ve cared what you had to say were the ones on vacation. Thus, you killed the entire email thread and became a worthless scumbag.

A New Kind of Annoyance

For all the reasons I loathe alleged smart phones and the inconsiderate drones who spend every second staring at those fancy little screens, the phones are doing something else: killing the out-of-office response. Or, more specifically, making those responses annoying for an entirely new reason.

Now, you send a wildly important email to someone and get the instant out-of-office reply. You go through the entire process babbled about above. Then, just as you complete the realization your wildly important matter will never see any attention, you get another reply from your target.

This second reply is a real reply, as this person who previously and automatically claimed to be out of the office is now sending you a sloppily typed concoction of words as if he’s never been out of the office in his life. There may even be a line at the end: “Sent from my phone. Please excuse any errors.”

Now, you’re confused. Is he in or out of the office? Would further communication from you be an insult? Do you have to say, “Sorry to bother you” if you do choose to communicate further? And why are his errors suddenly excusable? All the while, he’s undoubtedly ignoring whatever real human he’s near so he can type to you on his stupid phone.

Meaningless Replies

The out-of-office response is a lie. If you’re not available, and if I’m supposed to contact some cohort for urgent matters, why are you responding to me within two minutes? Furthermore, why are you responding to me while you’re out of the office? Pick one. Leave me alone after your auto response or don’t schedule an auto response and pay attention to me. Be in the office or don’t.

My xth Follower Gets a Free Trinket!

Too many companies (and even individuals) promise prizes to their xth follower on Twitter or xth fan on Facebook. “Hey, everyone! Our 100th follower gets a free trinket!”

I understand the point—drum up interest in the company or cause or whatever it may be. Join us, you could win, then we have you forever, etc. These are, in general, good ideas. But saying your 100th follower gets a prize while your 9th, 17th and 45th get nothing is stupid.

The sort of contests for which I’m expressing my disdain have been successful on the radio. You know, when the 37th caller wins tickets to see some band the DJ has to pretend he likes. That works because nobody knows when the 36th caller got through. You could do something similar on Twitter with direct messages (e.g. the 44th direct-message response to your tweet wins something) or private messages on Facebook. But to reward someone for being able to count is asinine, unless you’re some kind of mathematical company (and if you are, talk to me, as I have some excellent ideas for you).

Before I go on, I want to make a distinction: I am not talking about contests that say something like, “Be one of our first 100 followers and be entered for a chance at a free trinket.” That is completely different and a good idea. So, if you’re running one of those contests, stay with me, as I am not chastising you.

Back to the chastising.

Say you’re at 98 followers and you’re running an idiotic contest saying your 100th follower gets a trinket. Why would anyone want to be your 99th follower? Or, maybe your prize is so great, some scumbag creates a fake account to be your 99th, then uses his real account to be #100 and get a prize. Great for him, but now you have a worthless follower on your list, have accomplished nothing, and have one less trinket in your possession.

Plus, if you’re at 98 followers and running such a contest, all the promotion and marketing of getting these new followers (none of whom want to be #99) is on you. It’s your responsibility to find people to follow you. Why? Because none of your current followers have any incentive to invite their friends to follow you.

Keep in mind: these are social media. These are where celebrities have millions of followers because mindless drones want to know what a famous person had for lunch. To grow your company on social media, you might want to try the social aspect. That is, get your current fans and followers to do the work for you. That’s the depressing beauty of social media: these drones are out there, ready to do your bidding. If you have 98 followers and announce your 100th gets a prize, your 98 followers have no incentive to do your bidding. However, if you say you’ll randomly select one of your first 100 followers to win a prize, guess what happens? Your 98 followers tell their friends, knowing once you hit 100 followers, they’re all eligible for your incredible trinket.

Suddenly, instead of having a slew of greedy jerks who won’t follow you because they don’t want to be #99 and you trying way too hard to get people to join your online cult, you have well over 100 people listening to whatever you have to say for the foreseeable future, with you having done absolutely none of the recruiting.

I would suggest the latter scenario is better for everyone involved.

And now I’m sure you’re asking yourself: when is the iamjef trinket giveaway? Stay tuned.

The Internet is Killing Parentheses

Yesterday, during a simple (and by “a simple” I mean “an incredibly tedious and time-consuming”) chat with a huge company’s customer-service representative, an emoticon appeared. Joyce, the alleged name of the representative, did not mean to type this emoticon, so I’m not irritated by her (at least not for this reason).

I’m angry at the internet. Yes, the entire internet. Whether it was the fault of the huge company’s chat system or my browser or computer settings doesn’t matter. What matters is text should not automatically convert into ridiculous tiny faces.

Here’s what happened: I emailed the huge company and received a response telling me I had to call them. I called the huge company and received word I had to chat with them online. This is where I met Joyce, who obviously told me I had to call them. She gave me a number to call, and she put it in parentheses. The last digit of the number was 8. So, the internet, in its infinite wisdom, thought, “This can’t possibly be a phone number. There’s an 8 and a ) right next to each other. Let’s give him an area code, six digits and some dumfounded glasses-wearing idiot’s face.”

Actually, I’m merely guessing it was an 8, as I didn’t actually see it under the emoticon. Using common sense, I determined the 8 probably represents glasses.

Emoticons have legitimate use in a small number of cases. I don’t use them, but when other people do, I don’t overreact like I am here. It’s fine. Keep using them, as long as you’re doing so appropriately.

The real issue here is the death of parentheses. If the internet is going to take it upon itself to insert ridiculous faces every time it sees an enticing combination of typed characters, soon the youth of the world will come to know parentheses as beginning with a ( and ending with an incomplete phrase and a weird face.

o wel……they aready typ lik ths…..wuts the harm lol haha

I Am Not a Copyrighter

“Copy,” as we’ve established on another page on this modestly sized website, is nothing more than a stupid word for “words.” I mention that immediately in this rant because not everyone knows this fact. And, as a decent human, I understand everything must be learned at some point and it’s irresponsible to assume someone knows “copy” means “words.” However, from this point forth, it’s irresponsible for you not to know that.

I’ve been introduced to a lot of people as a copywriter. Someone who knows me and the person I’m meeting will say, “This is Jef. He’s a copywriter.”

Sometimes, while that’s being said, I can see the person I’m meeting hearing, “This is Jef. He’s a copyrighter.”

A copywriter is a real job with a title unknown to a lot of people. A copyrighter is such a ridiculous term, a Google search automatically redirects to results for “copywriter.”

However, to a person who doesn’t know what a copywriter or a copyrighter is, he or she is more likely to think the latter, as most people are aware of copyrights.

So, a person is then immediately intrigued and wants to talk to me. Not because I can write words to make this person gobs of money, but because the person can’t comprehend someone actually makes a living stamping a © on things.

“Like trademarks?” they say.

No.

“I thought lawyers did that,” they say. “Do you just file the paperwork online? Can’t I do it myself?”

I don’t know, although I think the answer to all those questions is yes. If some kind of copyright or law office wants to hire me to write eloquent answers to those questions, I will. But they’ll own the copyright.

In summary, I learned my lesson, and am giving you the supreme joy of learning that lesson from me. If you are a copywriter, touting yourself to ad agencies, marketing departments or any industry in which copywriting is common as a copywriter is a very good thing (although there are instances in which these places don’t know what a copywriter is, too).

If you are talking to anyone else in the world, introduce yourself as a writer. You will inevitably be asked what kind of writing you do, but that’s an easier conversation than first having to explain you don’t trademark things.

Is it Really the Client’s Fault?

The client-vendor relationship is very interesting. Both the client and the vendor want the same thing (or should, anyway), and yet there’s an inherent tension due to the client thinking they know how to write or design or whatever better than the writer or designer or whomever. To balance that out, the writer or designer or whomever thinks he or she knows more about the company than the client.

So, exhilarating tension arises. Usually, a simple compromise or conversation gets both parties on board and brilliant work is created. However, as someone who interacts with a lot of creative people, I find a lot of people spend more time complaining about how incompetent their clients are rather than talking about, well, anything else.

All creative people have similar stories about clients, and all clients have similar stories about creative people.

Often, complaints are legitimate. Even more often, they’re temporary and born of frustration due to poor communication between the creative person and the client.

Stories vs. Complaints

I’m not suggesting people should stop complaining. Sometimes, things are so hilarious and absurd they must be relayed to others. These are called stories and can entertain the young and the old (unless they require a huge back story, in which case your audience is bored before you get to the entertaining part). But, if you’re the professional designer who constantly talks about your clients—each client, each project—ruining your masterpieces, one has to ask: is it really the client’s fault?

The most talented people in the world (in all aspects) make mistakes, get frustrated and have quarrels. It’s perfectly understandable for anyone at any time to be in the midst of one of these scenarios.

But every time? How is it possible you find nothing but terrible clients? I have some theories. Two I’ll detail here: either you’re bending to every whim and truly resent yourself for letting the clients walk over you, or you’re the difficult one.

If every one of your clients (who pay for you to eat and live, by the way) is that much of a nuisance, and if you’re unwilling to question yourself as to your role in the dissent, perhaps you should find another line of work.