Your Opinion Counts

Find an online newspaper that posts letters to the editor. A link is provided below.

1. Find an editorial of your choosing that concerns either local, state, or federal government and post the contents of the letter here.
2. Write a reply to the editorial disagreeing with what was said.
3. View your classmates’ editorial rebutals and right a reply to one that disagree with.

INFORMATION: ASSIGNMENT

Write a short story about a new world. Its now your world and its a very special world. In this special place what was is no more. And what was not now exists.

Create a village the size of Manachester that now includes monopolies that affect major portions of your personal life.

Describe what the monopolies do and how your life has changed. Creativity does count.

Find a trademark on http://tess2.usptol.gov

1.  Copy the link of the trademark image and post it.
2. Filing Date
3. Owner
4. Goods and Service Information

Using key words, do a patent search on the http://patft.uspto.gov/  website.

1.  Key words used in search:
2. name of product:
3. patent number:
4. Description of the product (abstract):
5. Inventor:
6. Date Filed:

BRAINSTORM. Be sure your example is unique. Half credit if someone else posts your topic.

1. Describe a good or service provided by any level of government.
2. Explain what that good or service is
3. What level of government provides it?
4. Why or why not should the government continue to provide this good or serice?

Sorry all, I made an error, on the oxidation-reduction section, the oxidizing agent is the substance that is being reduced, so for letter (a) the Ag+ is both the oxidizing agent AND the substance being reduced. Same for the reducing agent being Cu as well as the substance being oxidized.

I just finished reading a Stanford Graduate School of Business case study entitled “The The Men’s Wearhouse: Success in a Declining Industry” by Jeffrey Pfeffer (Case: HR-5, July 1997-Rev’d 11/08/04).

The case study was a somewhat detailed description of some of the factors that the author and The Men’s Wearhouse CEO and managers thought were critical to their success. At the time this case was written, the men’s clothing industry was fiercely competitive with many companies exiting due to financial strains. However, The Men’s Wearhouse continued to grow. The case study tried to answer the question of what made this company so successful in a difficult competitive environment and what ensured that this high level of success would continue.

There were many factors to their growth and success in that time period as highlighted in the case study, but the key ones in my opinion and the ones they did differently than their competitors were the following:

• Commitment to the employee
• Commitment to servant leadership

Commitment to the employee

Founder and CEO George Zimmer saw the “untapped human potential” of his employees as the key asset rather than property, plant, and equipment.
Accroding to Zimmer, the company’s five stakeholder groups are (in order):

1. Employees
2. Customers
3. Vendors
4. Communities
5. Shareholder

Zimmer states that the best way to maximize shareholder value is to put shareholders at the bottom of this hierarchy. He’s only interested in long-term shareholder growth as opposed to short-term, quick growth. He believes that (as we learned in class) that if you take care of your employees first, they will in turn take care of your customers, who will then in turn take care of your top-line growth.

I think this is a wise strategy for any company in any industry (as long as it is not only given lip-service but actually put in place in the form of systems). The Men’s Wearhouse took care of their employees by implementing management systems such as fair compensation and staffing, promotion and career development, good hiring and firing policies, performance appraisals, and good communication with employees at all levels.

This isn’t the first formal hierarchy that I’ve seen with the shareholders placed last in importance. Johnson and Johnson’s corporate creed also places the shareholder last because they too believe that if you take care of all the other stakeholder groups first, the value will trickle down to the shareholders. As stated in the case study, in contrast to The Men’s Wearhouse, most retailers don’t consider the employee first of all.

Commitment to Servant Leadership

The Men’s Wearhouse has been called a “high touch” organization. Training and mentorship (“touch”) are highly valued and emphasized in the company. In fact, Zimmer believes that mentoring their employees is the company’s key to success. At The Men’s Wearhouse you can even get fired if you are an exceptional producer and performer but weren’t doing a good job in mentoring others or weren’t a team player.

Servant Leadership in The Men’s Wearhouse case meant that you put your organization’s goal and success at the same level as your personal success. They wanted all managers to train lower level employees and mentor them personally. Even Zimmer and his executive managers would visit stores for personal training and mentoring.

The Men’s Wearhouse created a culture by putting in place a system where sales people (wardrobe consultants) weren’t out for their own personal sales growth, but always looked to see how they can improve others in their store so that all the employees in the store realized their maximum potential.

Last week in class, we continued our series on leadership. One concept that the professor explained that really resonated strongly with me was the idea of Purposeful Leaders and Purposeful Followers.  In my last blog post, I had wrote that it is crucial to define your company’s purpose (why you do what you do). Whether you are in government, for-profit, or not-for-profit organizations, you should always strive to define the purpose.

Once you define the purpose and your employees understand and see the purpose in their day-to-day functions, then you can create an environment where leaders and followers can have loyalty to the purpose. The radical notion that I learned in class was this:

The only thing you should be loyal to is the purpose

This is where a lot of companies stray. They create cultures of people being loyal to a person, instead of loyalty to a purpose.

As a leader:

Understand your organization’s purpose and do the right things at the opportune times to follow that purpose. Be a purposeful leader. Think of leadership as a service to that purpose and not as privilege and prestige for yourself.

As a follower:

Understand your organization’s purpose and be loyal to that purpose. Find and follow purposeful leaders who are also loyal to that purpose. If a leader is a purposeful leader, then you should follow this purposeful leader. If the leader strays from the purpose, then you as a follower should try to bring them back on-track to the purpose.

This concept is described in-depth in Ira Chaleff’s iconoclastic book – “The Courageous Follower” (which I have to add to my to-read list).   What a great concept. I’m glad I learned about it and now I can be vigilant whether I am a leader or a follower to not stray from my organization’s purpose.

Maralyn slid out of her rain jacket and hung it in the boot room.  “Looks like the weather is back in full force,” she called out to Chloe, who was somewhere in the house.  She pulled her shoes off and threw them in a corner.  Her socks squished as she walked. 

“Mud everywhere.  My car almost got stuck in a pot hole,” she grumbled.

“Well, don’t you sound cheerful today.”  Chloe came around the corner with a teasing smile on her face.

“Let’s just say if you try to make me happy you may get a sock in your face.”  Maralyn tugged off her wet socks and held them up gingerly.  “And I’m not talking about my fist.”

“Mom left to go to shopping and she wants you to make something for dinner,” Chloe said as she sat on the edge of the piano.  Maralyn wished she would find a proper horizontal surface to sit herself on.  Or stand up straight and not lean on anything.  She could not be tired, for she had not gone anywhere today.  A fact that Chloe was probably bewailing.

“Fine, I’ll make a dessert,” Maralyn replied.  “Something special you want?”

“Anything with sugar is great,” Chloe tossed over her shoulder as she bounded down the stairs.

“As if dessert would be made with anything else,” Maralyn muttered.  She pulled an apron out of a drawer and tied it around her slim waist.  Whistling a tune, she mixed the ingredients together.  Cooking always put her in a better mood.  Perhaps she would make some of the dinner as well as the dessert.  Planning dinner for her family made her think of a time when she would cook for a family of her own.  Perhaps it would be with Justin.  No, she could not think that far ahead.  Yet, he was so very nice and sweet on Sunday when they took a walk.  He was not only concerned about his sister, but concerned for her’s.

A movement at her feet made her look down.  Her kitten Sweetie wrapped itself around her legs and was rubbing its back on Maralyn’s ankle.  She picked the kitten up and cradled it in her arms.  ”Oh, Chloe, Chloe,” she sighed, “I’d nearly forgotten I was supposed to have a talk with her.  Well, I guess now’s a good time as any.”  She put her face near Sweetie’s nose.  ”Hmm?  What do you think?”   The kitten blinked her eyes slowly, her head drooped.  “Yes, I think that’s exactly what Chloe’s going to think,” she said wryly.

“He says he’s not getting on your ship,” Zazal shouted to Vard Bokren above the roar of the Kjernkor’s retrojets. “He’s got another idea!”

“Curse all the houses,” the pirate commander snarled, peering angrily at the Llivori. Vard Bokren didn’t trust anybody as a general rule, but his reluctant passenger had important information that was worth a lot of Hekayti credits to his Aukami client. “We don’t have time for this.” The sirens and klaxons weren’t growing any quieter. He tapped the comm pip on his left stump cap and said, “Toka! Dust off! Take the Kjernkor and proceed to the Rigor Strand outpost. And be careful with my ship!”

Toka replied via the comm pip: “Acknowledged, Commander. See you at the outpost.”

The ramp slid upward into the belly of the Kjernkor as the freighter quickly spun, angled toward the heavens, and then bolted skyward. Militia hovercars and local constabulary vehicles screamed into the intersection as the ship lofted back toward the stars. After some brief confusion and direction changes, the law enforcement vehicles resumed their pursuit of the Kjernkor, seemingly oblivious to the Medlidikke and the Lotorian who were left behind. For now. Vard’s biggest concern at the moment was that this Llivori had plans to turn him in for a bounty.

“All right,” growled the Hekayti pirate, stepping into an alley between two taverns with Zazal and the Llivori. “What’s this other idea?”

Zazal bobbed his snout as he listened to the Llivori – his name was Ribas Salek – explain. Then the Lotorian translated for Vard: “He’s got a ship with the latest coordinates for Comorro Station. Should be less of an attraction for trouble than the notorious pirate ship that just blew up two skyscrapers in the middle of Vor. For the official narrative, it sounds like the government is blaming the destruction on Opodian terrorists. Unofficially, though, they want you and your crew dead, your ship destroyed.”

Vard laughed darkly. “They can take a number. So, where’s his ship?”

The Lotorian relayed the question in Llivorese. Answer from Ribas Salek: “Opodian impound lot in Ope’mot.” Zazal blinked, his whiskers sagging as he recalled the planetary map that he had reviewed during the flight from Rigor Strand. “That’s on the other side of this world.”

“Right,” the pirate muttered. “Because it’d be too easy otherwise.” He shook a finger at Ribas, demanding, “Why’d they impound it this time?”

The Llivori’s answer, translated by Zazal: “I buzzed the city with the ship’s new name in big white letters on the hull. They took offense to ‘Opodi’s Vagina.’ Hypersensitive, if you ask me.” He chortled. “The impound lot is on the southeastern shore of their harbor. Defenses are practically non-existent. They protect their big temple. They’re not so worried about the impound yard.”

Vard furrowed his brow. “You’re sure you’ve got those coordinates, then?”

Ribas bobbed his snout, but then scratched the back of his head with a clawed hand. “Unless the Opodians wiped the database. They’ve been known to behave badly from time to time.”

“What’s the best way to get to Ope’mot?” the pirate asked, waiting for Zazal to translate.

“High-speed cargo tube,” Ribas replied. He led Vard and Zazal down the alley toward a sewer grate. He leaned over, tugging at the grate with strong, pudgy fingers. CLANK! The grate pulled loose. The Llivori set the metal grid square aside. Ribas wiped muck from the grate on his already stained jumpsuit. “The governments avoid doing official business with each other. Officially, Llivori and Opodians hate each other. Unofficially, they have resources we want; we have resources they want. General trade embargo means only properly permitted cargo haulers – the ones who pay really exorbitant fees – can move freight from one nation to the other. Permit fees mean higher prices for people who go the official route. The bigger corporations, though, they make regular payments to the governments – cheaper than permit fees – to fund a cargo tube network. The tubes let the two nations trade with each other without actually coming into contact. Takes all the fun out of it, you ask me. I had a permit! It was worth every Hekker cred that I spent to fly my ship into their city and mock those buffoons.”

Vard’s eyes narrowed. When he woke up that morning, he never would have imagined this was how he might be spending his day. It actually amused him more than it probably should have. “So we’re loading ourselves into crates to be fired off like a cannon from one territory to the other?”

“Yes,” the Llivori said. He crouched beside the opening in the street, staring down the wrought iron ladder that plunged into the shadowy depths of the sewer system. “One crate, preferably. If we are lucky, the tube coordinators will have the timing for incoming and outgoing shipments properly aligned to avoid collisions.”

Zazal gulped as he finished translating that last bit. Vard scowled. “He’s messing with us, Zazal.” He looked toward Ribas Salek. “Right? You’re messing with us.”

“They do not always hire the most reliable cargo traffic control operatives,” Ribas said. He then began descending the ladder into the sewers below the tavern district of Vor.

In the universe of ideas, Vard thought maybe there was a worse one out there. He just couldn’t fathom it at the moment. So he shrugged and said, “Down you go, Zazal.”

The Lotorian winced. “It stinks in there.”

Rolling his eyes, the Medlidikke sighed. He balled his right hand into a fist and delivered a jab to Zazal’s snout. The Lotorian fell to the ground with a yelp, clutching at his snout with his paws. “Why’d you do that?” Zazal asked, struggling to sit upright again.

“Pain’ll keep your mind off the stench,” Vard assured him.

11. Aldo’s Legs

My father was embarrassed by the way people would put up plaques or even statues celebrating his contribution to some undertaking. Often enough the tribute was well-deserved, but he would never accept this. In his view the people who laid the bricks were far more deserving of credit for any new building: all he had done was talk. He could rarely be persuaded to cut ribbons or unveil things, even when he had played a crucial role in inspiring and directing the project. On the occasions when he could be made to attend this kind of event, he would often seize someone from the crowd and try to force them to wield the silver trowel or the golden scissors. He said he could not understand why people were so intent on putting him in a false position.

My mother found this attitude irritating, and told him frankly that in her view it was only another species of vanity.

“It’s as if you thought the people’s applause wasn’t good enough for you,” she said.

But at the same time she herself was not always particularly impressed by the monuments and occasions my father was asked to celebrate. She said that many of his best achievements went unnoticed because they had been delivered inconspicuously: some time spent with a factory manager here, a private conversation with a local official there, and something marvellous would happen for which my father would steadfastly deny responsibility.

Her favourite example of his unobserved influence was the famous story of Aldo’s legs. In Dubitania, sports had largely been the preserve of the upper classes, and the country had a poor record in almost everything but shooting, riding and croquet as a result. In this respect Twentyland at first resembled its predecessor; although new sporting opportunities now became available, few of the workers and even fewer of the former peasants felt much inclined to take them up. At the national athletics meeting which would in many cases finalise membership of the Olympic team, the majority of competitors were middle-class, and not a few were former aristocrats. This included one of our best hopes, the marathon runner Athanasi Dilagin, who was the grandson of a former Prince and the nephew of the Archbishop of Andra-Nipoli (who was still Archbishop, by the way, though his income was greatly reduced and he now inhabited only one wing of the archiepiscopal palace).

As Athanasi was warming up near the marathon start, which on this occasion had been set up on the road just outside the stadium, he noticed a young tea-seller whose urn, which he carried strapped to his back, was sticking out into the road slightly; he paused, put his hands on his hips, and shouted – rather curtly perhaps – at the tea-boy to move.

This unpromising opening led to a dialogue in which Athanasi was informed that his ears stuck out, that the country no longer belonged to him, and that his feet were taking up more room than the urn. In return the tea-boy he was told that he was a gipsy, a spiv*, and that he dealt in horse-piss. The interesting prospect of a fight between the two parties was dispelled by onlookers who separated them; they told the tea-seller that this was none other than Athanasi Dilagin the famous runner.

The tea-seller was dressed in traditional embroidered costume of Puttonyi Province, said to be based on a combination of Scythian trousers and the clothes and equipment of a Roman legionary (though to see the resemblance requires some imagination); and he had a dignified moustache which slightly disguised his youthfulness. He smirked and said that he himself was none other than Aldo Forobdin** the famous tea-seller. He observed that Athanasi ran like his mother the feral bitch, and said that if he liked, he, Aldo would show him how to run like a human being. Athanasi’s coach and most of the officials standing by took this as mere insolence, but the small crowd which had gathered was half-seriously on Aldo’s side, and began chanting his name. Athanasi said that if Aldo wanted to join the race, he was all for it.

So at length Aldo put down his urn and, without anything in the way of preparation, walked over to the starting line, where a large group of athletes was already gathered. It was now noticed that below the trousers which ended a few inches above his ankles, he was barefoot. The officials from the Twentyland Athletics Federation frowned and shrugged at each other, but they did not intervene.

Athanasi thoughtfully selected a place as far away as possible from his humble competitor. There was a pause; the gun was fired, and the race began. Knowledgeable onlookers expected Aldo, as a naïve runner, to dash off at an unrealistic pace – it seemed far from clear that he even knew how far he had undertaken to run – but in fact he stumped off stolidly, making no attempt to get to the front. He had promised to show how human beings ran, but he must have seen some strange examples of humanity; he ran with a straight, upright back and with his arms held up as though to elbow the other competitors aside.

Over the next hour or so the story of Aldo’s challenge spread like wildfire, and the crowd waiting around the finishing line grew steadily. Most of the idlers were vaguely on Aldo’s side, but it was no great surprise when after some two and a half hours it was Athanasi who appeared first, looking only a little stressed. He completed the course in good style, turning in a personal best and looking encouragingly as though he could easily have screwed a bit more speed out of his legs.

But then, not much more than five minutes behind, came Aldo. He was clearly suffering, and his peculiar gait had collapsed into a kind of shuffling amble, but as he crossed the line in second place, he got a tremendous ovation. When he had recovered, as the rest of the field were streaming in, Athanasi came forward and offered his hand. Aldo sniffed, and shook it.

“Well, tea-man,” said Athanasi, “You finished, at any rate – that was something. You’ve showed us you can run a bit.”

“You have shoes, and trainers, and money,” observed Aldo, “But I have one thing you will never have. Peasant legs!”

Athanasi laughed good-naturedly, but as Aldo was limping back to pick up his tea-urn, he shouted:

“Next time, keep the bloody urn out of the way!”

Aldo did not respond, but a dark look of anger flashed over his face.

This encounter obviously became well-known in Twentyland, and nearly everyone was full of praise for the plucky tea-boy who had, the papers suggested, exemplified the robust spirit of the nation. The newspapers all carried the story of how he had begun running at the age of twelve when his mother took to sending him off to deliver her home-made Emboustra cheese pie to his aunt’s house fifteen kilometres away every Saturday. Aldo found that if he ran both ways he could get the job done more quickly, and gradually running 30 kilometres without much of a pause became something he was quite used to.

“That extra twelve is no joke, though!” he said

Given the national enthusiasm, it was clear that Aldo would not be allowed to give up competitive running easily. He was quickly inducted into the Amateur Athletic Club of Vegamatrin (the Sescastri club, controversially, refused to have anything to do with him) and the rules were bent to allow him to compete in another marathon some two months later which was also on Athanasi’s schedule. A return contest was too attractive a prospect to be missed.

Athanasi himself made no protest, but his supporters were vocal. They pointed out that Athanasi Dilagin was Twentyland’s best, if not only, hope of a gold medal at the Olympic games. Aldo Forobdin might be a character and something of a prodigy, but was the nation going to put its best chance at risk by staging some meaningless populist rivalry? In any case, although Athanasi might be the descendant of aristocrats, he himself was a simple soldier, whereas Aldo was an entrepreneurial capitalist, albeit on a very small scale.

However, nothing they could say had any effect on the general desire to see Aldo race Athanasi again, and in due course they found themselves standing together on the starting line. Noting that although Aldo was now decked out in brand-new running kit he was still barefoot, Athanasi offered to lend him running shoes; a gesture which evoked only indignation.

“I understand you,” said Aldo, tensely, “You are trying to interfere with my style. You think that with those things flapping around my feet I could not run properly.”

At this Athanasi lost patience, and swore at the tea-seller. They edged apart again and when the whistle blew, Athanasi went well ahead. Aldo, cheered on enthusiastically by bystanders, plugged on in his characteristic style.

At the twenty kilometre mark, a young woman more enthusiastic than the rest leapt out and threw her arms round Aldo’s neck. For a moment he looked merely annoyed, but then spectators cried out in horror as they saw the young woman kick Aldo’s ankle. She was wearing heavy boots with steel toecaps, and poor Aldo immediately fell sideways and rolled on the ground in pain. The young woman disappeared into the crowd.

Aldo waved away the stretcher which had been brought, and after ten minutes’ respite hobbled away again. He had boasted of his legs, and it now seemed that his ankles must have some special strength: within a hundred yards he was running naturally again, or at any rate as naturally as he ever did. Soon, with a grim expression on his face, he was more than making up for lost time. The crowds along the way cheered him on.

In the final mile Aldo at last sighted Athanasi, and began to close the gap. His face was now screwed up into a furious expression, and it seemed that it was anger that was powering his legs up the final straight. Athanasi, somehow sensing the presence of his rival, glanced back and raised his eyebrows in surprise; summoning energy from some inner reserve, he put on a final sprint. He crossed the line just a yard ahead of Aldo.

The two of them jogged a little further together as if they were the best of friends.

“I’ve got to admit, Forobdin,” said Athanasi, “You’re pretty good at second place.”

“Although your sister is a whore,” responded Aldo, disdaining subtlety, “She kicks like a mule.”

“What?”

“She has the face of a mule too. Perhaps instead of running you could ride her – she is clearly well–used to being ridden…”

But Aldo was forced to break off and duck at that point. He easily dodged Athanasi’s fist, and retaliated with a haymaker to Athanasi’s ear. Before anyone could intervene, Dubitania’s leading athletes were engaged in a terrible, flailing fight. When Aldo was at length pulled away from Athanasi, he had a black eye and his fine moustache was twisted down at one side, but he was uninjured: when Athanasi was released, by contrast, he had an ominous limp.

“What the hell is the matter with you, peasant?” he demanded, “Why did you have to insult my sister?”

“She kicked my ankle,” said Aldo with dignity, “So now I have kicked yours.”

“My sister is in France.”

A short man in a straw hat plucked nervously at Aldo’s long sleeve.

“Mr Forobdin,” he said nervously, “The woman who kicked you – they have her. She got out of St Matthew’s Refuge – the lunatic asylum.”

Just for a moment a look of doubt and shame flitted across Aldo’s face.

“You have peasant’s legs alright,” observed Athanasi, “and peasant’s manners; and worst of all, peasant’s brains.”

Matters went from bad to worse over the next few months. It took several weeks before Athanasi’s ankle had recovered sufficiently for him to train again, which was the cause of bitter resentment among his supporters. When at last the Twentyland team marched around the Olympic stadium, it was observed that Aldo was wearing in his belt an opinelca, the traditional Dubitanian shepherd’s knife with a curved blade designed to slit the throats of wolves. People speculated half-seriously about whether he meant to stab Athanasi with it, or merely ward off any lunatics who assaulted him.

At this point my father decided matters had gone far enough. He went down to see the two runners together privately. No-one knows quite what he said to them, but he must surely have called on their patriotism and invoked the shining code of fraternity embodied in Marxist-Larvartism. No doubt he used more down-to-earth language, however: I think it is entirely possible that he simply sat down and said:

“Tell me your problems.”

On the starting line the next day, Athanasi and Aldo looked each other in the eye and solemnly shook hands. Aldo’s supporters were overjoyed when for the first time he was observed to be running just ahead of Athanasi: more sophisticated observers understood that this meant the tea-seller had agreed to help his rival, probably to the detriment of his own chances.

Today, though, it seemed Aldo had legs of iron and nothing could hold him back. Both runners drew slowly ahead of the field, and gradually built up a comfortable lead over a Kenyan runner in third place. But as they came into the last few hundred yards the worst possible disaster took place: Athanasi twisted his weakened ankle. He stopped at once, and Aldo, still a few paces ahead, stopped too.

“Go on, go on!” protested Athanasi, “I’ll be OK. One of us has got to win it.”

Aldo hesitated.

“For Twentyland!” said Athanasi.

Aldo smiled.

“You’re not thinking straight, comrade,” he said, “I don’t want to win a medal for Twentyland but make it into a place where a man runs off and leaves his countryman, do I?”

He stepped forward, turned his back, and suddenly hauled Athanasi up on his back as though he were a tea-urn.

“Aldo!” exclaimed Athanasi, “Put me down and run!”

Aldo tottered towards the finishing line; all at once the Kenyan appeared and swept past with no more than an incurious glance at the two of them. Slowly Aldo began to pick up speed, and he hit the line at a decent trot, only a few minutes behind the Kenyan and a few minutes ahead of a German, the next runner to arrive.

A puzzled official was standing by.

“Give him second place,” said Aldo, putting Athanasi down, “I’ve had enough of it.”

The German approached and said something to the official.

“I’m afraid,” said the official in German, “That your friend will be disqualified. It’s not for me to adjudicate, but this West German gentleman is also contending that you should be disqualified, on the grounds that there was an element of mutual assistance.”

Aldo could not follow this, but Athanasi, who spoke good German, translated for him.

“We don’t care about that,” said Athanasi to the official, “Aldo may not have been the first runner to cross the line today, but he ran the best race.”

The German spoke incomprehensibly to the official again, and gestured assertively at the Twentylanders.

“Oh, give him the medal,” said Athanasi, “Give him both. Give him six medals. Perhaps it will help him feel happy about his sad grey country where everyone must be better than everyone else. Tell him what Comrade Larvartin said; in our country we have one thing that he will never have: socialist legs.”

* ‘listofandi’; much more insulting than the nearest English equivalents, this is fighting talk whoever it is addressed to.
** No relation to any of the other Forobdins mentioned here. ‘Forobdin’ is one of the most common of Dubitanian names, as witness the traditional use of ‘Private Forobdin’ to designate a typical soldier, a sort of Dubitanian ‘Tommy Atkins’ figure.

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Government Motors returns to the err … red.

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Not sure whether bankruptcy is the right option for you? A local bankruptcy attorney can answer your questions and explain the bankruptcy process to you. Schedule your free, no-obligation call right now! Chapter 7 bankruptcy and Chapter 13 bankruptcy offer different forms of protection. If you’re facing a financial crisis, a local bankruptcy attorney can help you determine whether Chapter 7 bankruptcy or Chapter 13 bankruptcy might be the right answer for you.

http://www.bankruptcyquestions.org/request-free-bankruptcy-case-evaluation-right-now/

This case study is about job dissatisfaction and its high turnover rate. Many individuals were highly dissatisfied with there with how they were being treated at a Treadway Tire Company. The system is definitely broken and we see that played out here from the very first sentence, “We have a serious problem.”

The line foreman lack the proper training needed to excel and they have a horrible relationship with their direct superior. There are two reasons why many line foreman ended up leaving the company: 1) they didn’t have the proper training to do their job right, 2) there was tension between the line foreman and their superiors. Instead of handing the foreman the tools and skills needed to perform the job the bosses just demanded results. The bosses often threatened the foreman in hopes of getting the job done. The reason for many foreman leaving has a lot to do with the lack of leadership and a high Mach approach which ultimately wasn’t doing them any favors.

The positive aspect to the serious problem was the fact that the foreman were actually paid really well. The men were being paid $30/hr and had the opportunity for overtime. This furthermore proves pay isn’t the factor that will make you stay at your job. The percentage of foreman who continued working at Treadway may just need the money to survive and therefore are stuck in the job.

Earlier in the semester we talked about being in a position to leave the job because things of reasons you had discontent for your job. It seems like the percentage of individuals that left did so because they could and the individuals who continue to work the foreman position are doing so because they don’t have an alternative solution. Maybe they have a family, house, and kids and can’t just up and quit. I am glad I haven’t had to experience a job like this!

I just read a case study from Harvard Business Publishing called “The Treadway Tire Company: Job Dissatisfaction and High Turnover at the Lima Tire Plant.” It was a look at the factors affecting this specific attitude (job dissatisfaction) and this specific behavior (high turnover) amongst foremen at this major plant for this pseudonym tire company.

The plant had many problems, chiefly:

• Morale and productivity were imperiled.
• The plant was not satisfactorily developing new managers.
• Relations between management and the union were threatened.

The newly-transferred director of HR at this plant had her job cut out for her. She made it her top priority to reversing this trend and had to have an actionable plan in to her boss after the the annual Christmas break (within a month’s time). She knew that by solving these problems, she could make the plant the number one plant in the company for productivity and lowest cost.

And contrary to what a lot of managers believer, high turnover does cost companies a lot (and not just money)!

Even though the aspect of the company presented in the case study was limited, I still think significant observations can be drawn of the the environment at play in this case.

1. The foremen’s supervisors (the general supervisors and area supervisors) seem to be making the fundamental attribution error. That is, they seem to be attributing poor performance amongst foremen to the foremen themselves, instead of looking at systemic factors outside the control of the foremen that could be contributing more to the poor performance.
2. This is echoed by comments made by some of the foremen, such as: “a lot of it is beyond my control, and management doesn’t seem to understand that.”
3. There seems to be a system in place that doesn’t give foremen the proper training they need to conduct their jobs.
4. The foremen state specifically that the lack of training is their main concern.
5. Other concerns the foremen have are no respect from their subordinates, and lack of authority and respect for the foremen position from all.
6. There seems to be a culture in play that seem to keep this perpetuating these problems. A major question I had is that if the general managers were almost always promoted from the foremen positions, why didn’t they take steps to make life easier for the foremen under them since they were also once in that position and knew what it was like?
7. The training program for the foremen that the HR director was proposing should not have been cut, even with the current economic situation. It was a good way to at least start to solve this problem. It could have been restructured or more limited, but should not have been cut completely.
8. Even though the HR director lets us know above why she wants to solve this problem, it’s not clear if these benefits were communicated to everyone at the plant. All employees should know that solving this problem will benefit them as well. Good communication and getting buy-in from the employees to  to find the root causes of this issue is important.

Finding the solutions to this mess will not be easy. I agree that more training for the foremen is the first step. It’s admirable that the HR director wants to find the root causes instead of treating just the symptoms. That’s the only way to ensure that this will not keep repeating itself.

I’m sure the in-class discussion on this case study will be enlightening as always. I’m sure others will make wonderful suggestions that we can all learn from.

]]> http://vickycollinsonline.com/2009/11/10/ode-to-ode-magazine/ Wed, 11 Nov 2009 04:52:19 +0000 Vicky Collins http://vickycollinsonline.com/2009/11/10/ode-to-ode-magazine/

I got a call from a lawyer the other day. “How are you?” I said. “Better than you will be,” she replied. Turns out she was calling on behalf of Ode Magazine to tell me they could not afford to pay their bills and I would not be getting compensated for my contribution to their magazine. They wanted to be up front with me and with everyone else who was beating down their doors to get paid for their work.  I wrote an article on touring Brazil’s favelas for their spring travel issue. It was the first time I’d written an article for a magazine and I was very proud.  They asked for 1500 words and said they’d pay fifty cents a word.  The story ended up being 900 words but they’d pay me $750 anyway.  They warned me it would take a long time to get paid.  Eight months later I was starting to feel my story would not have a happy ending.

I’d like to say I’m angry or even disappointed by Ode’s failure to follow through but more than anything I’m sad.  This was a really good publication and the editors had wonderful intentions to create a smart magazine for “intelligent optimists.”  They were responsive and seemed to work very hard from their offices in the Bay Area and the Netherlands.  But the economy is killing Ode Magazine just as it’s ushering in the demise of so many publications.  Ode can’t even afford to file for Chapter 11 so it can reorganize.  Short of a funding miracle, Ode Magazine will most likely die a quiet death.  The magazine is trying to raise $50,000 in the next ten days to stay afloat. 

By the end of the year we’ll have written the obituaries of Metropolitan Home, Fortune Small Business, and Conde Nast’s Gourmet, Cookie, Modern Bride and Elegant Bride.  Other magazines bit the dust before them.  They were victims of a declining advertising market where ad sales, according to one report, were down almost 12% since 2008, while the cost of printing continues to skyrocket.  Newspapers are taking it on the chin even worse than magazines as we’ve seen with the deaths of the Rocky Mountain News, the Seattle Post Intelligencer, even the Christian Science Monitor.

More established publications have been able to downsize, outsource and cut costs but it seems Ode Magazine, even with its good intentions, might not be able to outrun the bad economy.  There are many others besides myself who are not getting paid for their work.  For me, it is the very first time in my career.  The money would have been nice but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter that much.  What matters is that a really good magazine is running out of time and another voice will be silenced.

For more information on Vicky Collins visit http://teletrendstv.com.

When you file for bankruptcy, Section 362 of the Bankruptcy Act (called the “Automatic Stay”) goes into effect immediately. This means anyone you owe money to must stop contacting you or attempting to collect debts.

It also means that if you are behind on car payments the financing company cannot take your car off you without obtaining the courts approval while the automatic stay is in place. This assumes you don’t expressly surrender the vehicle in your petition.

Where the financing company does repossess your car without your consent in bankruptcy you can bring action in the bankruptcy court against them to have it returned. You may also expect to obtain attorneys fees and some damages. Simply contact a bankruptcy attorney if this has happened to you.

What happens if I am too far behind on my payments?

In a Chapter 7, you must bring them back up to date, otherwise as soon as the bankruptcy is complete you may lose the car. If you are seriously behind, and want to repay, a Chapter 13 bankruptcy would allow you to do this.