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The Big
Bing: Black Holes of Time Management, Gaseous Executive Bodies, Exploding
Careers and Other Theories on the Origins of the Business Universe by Stanley
Bing (Gil Schwartz) Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Too Big Readers of Stanley Bing’s Fortune column,
“While You Were Out,” will find the newly issued collection of columns from
that magazine and Esquire a comprehensive presentation of a lot of
what Bing has had to say over the years. By the time, I finished reading The Big
Bing, I realized that I appreciate his column in each issue of Fortune,
but reading too many columns at one sitting became tiresome. With that
warning out of the way, I can recommend The Big
Bing as a funny and real look at executive life. Here’s an excerpt from a
1992 column titled “Executive Shelf Life,” (pp. 72-75): If
you're old enough, you might remember where you were when the Hindenburg blew
up. If you're younger, but still not young, you possibly are able to place
your exact location when you heard that big Dick Nixon had done the same. You
pick the moment. You know the feeling. You kind of freeze, realize in a
white, bright pop of clarity that you're standing smack-dab in the middle of
history. You feel tiny and huge at the same time, sort of like you're staring
at the midnight sky over the desert. It's just you and the universe and maybe
a couple of geckos. It's creepy and thrilling all at once. That's the sensation I got when I heard about Barry
Diller. One day he's there in the ultraviolet zone of the business spectrum,
the next . . . he's executive vapor. "Barry Diller resigned today to
pursue other interests," the radio announcer said. I was sitting at my desk eating a
microwaved tuna melt. You could have knocked me over with a paperweight. Then, right after, came the abrupt and brutal news
about Nick Nicholas, hurled from the bosom of Time Warner with nary a voice
raised in protest or defense. One moment the fine, crisp toast of the
entertainment universe, the next, not. I think of Rudy, my former boss. He started his
career here with the hoopla and congratulatory fanfare all executives enjoy.
He got new suits and shirts of overweening whiteness. He brushed his hair and
shoes. He was fresh and new and full of ideas. By last March, it all was
different. He had friends but no allies. He had power but no influence. One
day, he was there. The next, he just . . . went home. Like a big, plump grape
all sweaty and juicy on the vine, he hung around for a good long time and
then . . . he just fell off. Plop. No more Rudy. Too bad. So sad. Executives, like packaged goods, have shelf lives.
They begin their careers with all the promise and potential in the world, all
shiny and tightly shrink-wrapped in their virgin duties and compensation
packages. Their credenzas are organized and neatly stuffed with clear and present dangers and
priorities. It's the sunrise of a new day. Then time passes, as it will
insist on doing, and inexorably, subtly, the quality of their tenure changes.
They are either too big or too small. Too hot or too cool. Too bland or too
spicy. There are a hundred reasons why they melt down, blow up, float away,
dozens of daily and specific pressures to blame. But the basic fact is
obvious and inescapable: The executive has spoiled and must be tossed away. Too bad. So sad. There's NO question about it: More executives are
moldering faster these days than ever before. In this environment, it pays, I
think, to assess which phase of spoilage yours is in. Is he a tender, fragile
vegetable that the least breath of heat will turn to mush? A hunk of cured
beef that could nourish the organization for decades before he turns too
tangy to tango? How long will it take before he or she begins to turn a tad
green around the edges and smell kind of funky? Fresh and Neatly Packaged: The new
executive is delivered to the store before it opens one morning and is signed
for by middle management. The marketing begins almost immediately.
"Fresh, tasty executive now on sale in aisle four!" says the news
announcement issued upon his arrival. Everybody immediately happens by the
department in question to take a peek and, possibly, a little taste for later
consumption in the privacy of one's office. This first interface is very
important, because if you look closely you can spot a tiny stamp in bright
red, usually either behind the executive's ear or, sometimes, on the bottom
of his hoof, that reads, Please Consume By . . . and gives a date. With bold,
hard-driving, emotionally charged, and high-profile executives, this date can
be no more than six months hence. With calmer, more phlegmatic types, the
date can be so far down the line it's difficult to read. But watch for it.
Take a moment to quietly feel the temperature of the aura he's putting out.
The warmer the atmosphere he generates, the sooner he is likely to spoil. Mature and Very Tasty: Once the
executive is distributed throughout the corporation, and in some cases the
industry community, he swings into his phase of maximum usage in which, as a
product, he is at the apex of his value and appeal. A thoroughly utilized
executive seldom putrefies. For a good long time in these early days the
executive is likely to remain fresh by traveling in the open air quite a bit,
which keeps his peel bright and shiny and his inner flesh tender and moist.
Rudy, my late leader, spent long weeks on the road at the beginning of his
term hobnobbing with the field troops, which made him easy to consume and enjoy at a
local level. Unfortunately, he reached the acme of his allure at this time,
far from the central marketplace of corporate headquarters, where interest in
him as a commodity began to wane. Starring to Turn: It begins with a whisper, a hint of
something not quite . . . right. When the guy is in the room, people are
careful still, sure, but when he's gone they speak more freely, and you
notice they suddenly seem to get a tight, unpleasant crinkle going on just
north of their upper lip, as if they're smelling something not altogether
rancid, but certainly not overly appetizing. Then you begin to hear things.
The guy is out of touch. The guy is "not getting it done." Senior
management is dubious. The product itself, under this gathering cloud,
begins to perform in unexpected ways, and unanticipated behavior is anathema
to business. Originally purchased, say, to scour mildew away and leave a
gleaming, disinfected floor behind, it will suddenly start attempting to
soften your hands while you do the dishes. A laudable goal! But not what the
product was designed to do. Recently, for instance, Neutron Jack Welch of
G.E., one of the prime authoritarian geniuses of American business, mandated
that he, along with the rest of his senior people, must get
"softer," more human, more collegial. Whether this is a complete
product repositioning or the first signs of spoilage has yet to be seen. Ready for the Platinum Dumpster:
He still has the office. He's still got the green. But something's gone way
cheesy, and it's not going to come back. Maybe it's a full-bore putsch being
planned behind closed doors well out of his earshot. But not always. More
often the product is simply underused, allowed to fulminate and rage in
isolation. At the end, Rudy sat in his office and exchanged phone calls with
friends, associates, tennis buddies. He spoke to his wife and children. He
planned lunch. What did cross his desk he delegated, since by that time he
considered even the most perfunctory use of his talents by the powers that be
"complete and utter bullshit." He was right, of course. But that
bullshit was his job. The moment that an executive cannot perform a complete
and wide-ranging host of bullshit tasks, in fact, just might be the moment
he's ready to be taken off the shelf. Burial at Sea: Finally, the day does come
when the product—limp, wasted, useless, and dangerous to touch—may be safely
disposed of by the protectors of the public health. Maybe, like Nick
Nicholas, the Taser is unleashed while the executive is on vacation and
cannot easily punch somebody in the mouth by way of recompense. Maybe, as
with Rudy, a gentlemanly and stately dance is done in which everybody walks
away with
their packaging refreshed, newly buffed, and straightened for the transition
period. Maybe, as with a lot of Hollywood studio types, there is simply a
very bad meeting that results in the horizontal ejection of the executive
from the upper reaches of the corporate realm. However it happens, the deed
is done. The executive's shelf life has run its course. A new executive is
minted, bundled, and trundled out to meet the marketing squad. The old one,
reeking slightly of some passionate and unseemly emotion, is gingerly removed
for outplacement. Too bad. So sad. Except. . . I had lunch the other day at the current
restaurant of choice for people who wish to be seen while they're eating. I
had a seat near the door. Within fifteen minutes or so I saw a great number
of very successful people whose faces are highly familiar and whose names you
can almost think of, but not quite. I was halfway through my second roll when
the door opened and in walked. . . Barry Diller. No kidding. Now, I've seen
lots of celebrities in my time,, and I'm old and jaded enough to keep my cool
under almost every circumstance. But this was so sudden, so unexpected, that
I lost it. I rose almost completely out of my seat and hollered to my lunch
companion, "That's... Barry Diller!" I'm afraid Mr. Diller heard me. He turned to my
table, where I was cringing in embarrassment, rose to his full height, and
flashed me that gap-toothed grin that made him one of the most feared and
honored executives on the left coast. Then he moved on in a cloud of
well-wishers, sycophants, and sleek-looking dudes. "Yes," his grin told me in no uncertain
terms. "I'm Barry Diller. That's more than a job. It's a concept. Can
you dig it?" Oh, yeah. I do. Up until then, I'd been kind of
worried about the guy himself and, I guess, about the implications for all of
us who execute for a living. Now I feel a whole lot better. I've got a nice
red stamp behind my ear too, you know. Stanley Bing (CBS executive Gil Schwartz
in real life) has a knack to poke fun at executives, make us laugh, and
reveal underlying truth. The Big
Bing puts together years of his columns on executive life, and can be a
pleasure to read, but not too much all at once. Savor a column at a time with
a single malt and a Cuban cigar. Steve Hopkins, December 22, 2003 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The
recommendation rating for this book appeared in the January 2004
issue of Executive
Times URL
for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Big Bing.htm For
Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins
& Company, LLC • 723 North Kenilworth Avenue • Oak Park, IL 60302 E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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