Kiwi Terms That Still Crack (Or Trip) Me Up

Posted on May 16, 2012 | 15 Comments

I’ve lived in New Zealand for over ten years now and I’m still learning the language.  Shortly after moving here I actually went to get my hearing tested.  I told the technician that I couldn’t understand what people were saying to me. 

My hearing checked out fine—I just needed time to adjust to the accent and pacing of the way the locals spoke.  I’ve since gotten used to that but I’m still learning some of the more interesting phrases and terms in use down here.  I’m providing a sampling, with translations.

Bach, n. – Not the composer.  The word is pronounced batch and it means a small holiday home.  I’m told that the term is short for “bachelor” because originally baches were places just the men would go to fish and party, as in “Fancy a trip to the bach this weekend?”

Bring a Plate – You might see this on an invitation and it doesn’t mean that the host is short of crockery. It means that it’s a potluck and you are supposed to bring some food along.  I’ve heard believable accounts of some literal minded people actually just bringing a plate.

Bob’s Your Uncle – Yes, people actually say this.  It is used to denote completion or wrapping up of a (generally) complicated task.  So if your car won’t start, the panelbeater (see below) might say, “We’ll just hook up the jumper cables, give it a start and Bob’s Your Uncle.

Bugger all – Surprisingly a n. and not a v.  It means not much or nothing.  “What did you do today?” “Bugger all.”

Caravan, n. – Not a group of wandering gypsies but rather a house trailer or mobile home.  When not at home, you stop at the caravan park.

Cark it, vt. – Go on, take a guess.  It means to die and I apologize but I always laugh when someone uses it.  As in, “How’s Grannie?” “She carked it.”

Chock-a-block, adj. – Completely full and overflowing.  Often shortened to chockers, as in “I couldn’t find a park, the car park was chockers.”

Chuffed, vt. – Happy or thrilled.  “I was really chuffed when the neighbor’s dog carked it.”

Chunder, vt. – To vomit.  I’d love to know the origin of this term.  But I don’t.

Crikey dick, int. – I really have heard people say this. It is a term of amazement.  So a spectacular feat of chundering might elicit an awed Crikey dick.

Crook, n. – Ill or under the weather. As in “I had the flu.  I was crook for a week.”

Dag, n. – An essential part of your vocabulary.  Know that “dags” refers to the soiled wool surrounding the back end of a sheep.  “Rattle your dags,” means to move faster because presumably the dags on a running sheep rattle.  Use your imagination. So anything daggy is basically undesirable.  However, for some reason dag can also mean a funny story or person.  So be careful.

Dodgy, adj. – Dubious or questionable.  “Did you buy that used car?” “No, there was something dodgy about the salesman.”

Dummy, n. – Not what you think. A dummy is a baby’s pacifier.  I don’t expect most readers of this blog to have use for such a term, but it’s important to know that this word forms part of an important Kiwi phrase.  When a baby has a tantrum, the pacifier flies out of their mouth, so the term to denote an immature loss of control is “spit the dummy.”  In fact, in the debates before the national elections last year, one politician said that his opponent “spat the dummy,” over something.

Flannel, n. – Not your pajamas (which are called pyjamas down here, by the way).  A flannel is a wash cloth.  “The dog was so filthy I took a flannel to him.”

Flash, adj. – Upmarket or in good shape.  This word is important because it can be used to describe anything under just about any circumstances.  For example, “I wasn’t too chuffed about driving my flash car over this daggy road. It’s not too flash.”

Ice block, n. – Not a block of ice.  Well, maybe, technically.  An ice block is a popsicle.  What’s your favorite flavor?

Jandals, n. – Flip-flops in the rest of the world.  Standard Kiwi footgear.  The name is a contraction of “Japanese sandals,” which flip flops supposedly resemble.

Knackered, adj. – I love this word, partly because it has a funny sound and partly because, like flash it has amazing utility.  It primarily means no longer useful, broken or tired out with a connotation of beyond repair.  As in, “my hard drive crashed and my computer is knackered.” But it also is a term that you say when you don’t intend to exert further effort as in “Forget about it, I’m knackered.” Where does the word come from, you ask? Farm animals past their prime but not suitable to be slaughtered for meat are sent to the knacker yard.  I don’t know about you, but that’s as much as I want to know.

Legless, adj. – Extremely drunk.  Often associated with chundering.

Metal road, n. – A road paved with gravel.  It’s called a metal road because gravel is called metal.  But if you don’t know that you wonder, don’t you?  By the way, if you are driving on a metal road and the car in front of you throws up a piece of metal and it dings your windshield, you have what is referred to as a puckered screen. 

Munted, adj. – Broken or damaged.  “I dropped my phone. It’s like totally munted.”

No worries – A term of agreement.  When your teenaged son asks “Can I borrow the car?” You might say “No worries,” to mean yes, even though you have lots of worries about the proposition.

Panel beater, n. – Originally a body shop.  Fenders are referred to as panels down here, so when you have a prang, and your panel is dented, the panel beater pounds it back into shape, I guess.  Generic term for mechanic.

Serviette, n. – A napkin.  Don’t ask for a napkin in a restaurant because napkin means face towel and you don’t want that, unless you’ve spilled something.  And if you are in the kitchen, you don’t use a dish towel—it’s a tea towel.

Squiz, vi. – To check out or observe.  So if your car is making a funny noise, you might ask the panel beater to “have a squiz” at it. 

Suck the kumara, vt. – A kumara (pronounced koom ra) is a cross between a yam and a potato.  To suck the kumara is the same as to cark.  Don’t ask me why. Someone once told me that their Air New Zealand flight was cancelled because, in the words of the pilot, “One of the engines has sucked the kumara.”

Sweet as – A universal term denoting approval or quality.  As in, “How’s the weather?” Sweet as.  Incidentally, it is common to append as to just about any adjective to intensify it.  As in, “Look at that spider.  It’s big as.”  Or.  “Turn on the heat. It’s cold as.” Or. “Have you had a squiz at John’s new car? It’s flash as.”

Shout, n./vt.  – To pick up the tab.  You say “my shout,” or “I’m shouting,” and everyone loves you.

She’ll be right – An all purpose phrase meaning everything will be OK.  “John, there’s water leaking into the boat.” “I’ve got the pump going.  She’ll be right.”

Tea, n. – Another simple term that can trip you up because of its multiple meanings.  Yes, it means the drink (black, green, iced, etc.).  But it also means a coffee break.  A break in the morning is “Morning tea,” and one in the afternoon is “Afternoon tea.” But wait, there’s more.  It also means the evening meal.  So if someone invites you to tea, you might want to clarify what’s going to happen because you could get tea and biscuits or a whole meal.

Throw a sickie, vt. – To call in sick when you aren’t

Turn to custard – Refers to plans that don’t quite work out.  I wanted to throw a sickie but it was raining so that turned to custard.

Zed, n. – The last letter of the alphabet.  Don’t say “zee.” No one will know what you are talking about.  Really.

Now I hope you won’t have any trouble when you come down here and hire a caravan and go out to the bach, put on your jandals and do bugger all.  Go easy on the piss because you don’t want to get legless and chunder. 

Also, don’t hire a car from a dodgy dealer, because it might be munted and you’ll have to take it to the panelbeater if it decides to suck the kumara.  Don’t worry about driving on metal roads—she’ll be right. 

If some locals invite you for tea, be sure to ask what time to come and ask if it’s their shout or if you should bring a plate. If you stay at a flash hotel, they’ll have a flannel in the loo and tea towels and serviettes in the kitchen.  But it’s more fun to stay in a caravan park.  If it’s not peak summer they usually aren’t chock a block, but sometimes the facilities are a little knackered.  And don’t spit the dummy if all you can get at the shop is an ice block. 

I’m sure you’ll be chuffed when you have a squiz at all the beautiful sights down here.  But it’s so far away that you will definitely be knackered from the flight back.  But it will be sweet as if you can throw a sickie, but make sure your boss doesn’t figure it out or it will turn to custard on you.  Crikey dick, I think I’ve covered it A to Zed.  And Bob’s your uncle.

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Posted in Kiwi Terms That Still Crack (Or Trip) Me Up==May 16

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One Of The Problems With Being A Manager Is That Sometimes You Have to Manage

Posted on May 12, 2012 | 7 Comments

The other day I was talking to a friend whose daughter just started a promising career.  “How’s it going?” I asked.

“She loves the job.  But she doesn’t know how much longer she’ll have it.”

“Oh, no.  What happened?”

“Nothing yet.  But she’s had to reapply for the job.”

“Why does she have to reapply for a job she already has?” 

I then got a lesson in contemporary corporate logic.  The story, as I heard it, was that the order came down that overheads were too high.  After deciding that the corporate jet and the stadium box were mission critical to the functioning of the business, management decided that people had to go.  Fat needed to be trimmed.

I’m not sure exactly what happened next but one thing is clear.  No manager put up their hand and said, “No worries.  I’ve let the fat accrete in my department for years.  There’s a ton of people sitting around doing nothing.  I’ll whack ‘em all.  Problem solved.”

It was more like no one wanted to be the bad guy.  They couldn’t very well just walk through the office and fire the person in every fourth cubicle.  And they didn’t want to admit that there were problems.  And, I almost forgot–they didn’t want to have to pay severance pay and things like that to people who were let go through no fault of their own.

So some genius hit upon a brilliant idea.

They decided to announce that changes in the business environment required a bold move to realign the organization’s structure with external realities.  I’m sure that the announcement included phrases like “the only constant in today’s business world is change,” “serve our customers and stakeholders better,” and “achieve our strategic vision.”

But the basic message of the announcement was that effective immediately, everyone’s job had been “disestablished.”   They actually used that word.  That means that whatever job you’ve been doing no longer exists.  Too bad.  But, because we’re such nice guys, we’re letting you reapply to get a job which is not, technically, the same job as the one you’ve been doing.  So we can also pay you less.

Through this act of management by non-management, they have allowed themselves to downsize without firing anyone.  All they have to do is say, “Oh, sorry, you’re not right for the job,” or “There were better qualified applicants,”  “Severance pay?  That’s for people who have been terminated. You weren’t terminated, you just weren’t hired. And everyone knows you don’t have to pay severance pay to people who don’t get jobs they apply for.  And what are you going to do about it?”  

The added bonus is that morale is so bad that, in spite of the economy, people are leaving so headcount may get low enough that they don’t even have to go through the effort of rehiring everyone.

I’m sure the wizard who thought up this plan has a bright future in the organization.  He or she might even get to ride on the corporate jet someday. 

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Posted in One Of the Problems With Being A Manager Is That Sometimes You Have To Manage--May 12

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I’m Confused

Posted on April 25, 2012 | 16 Comments

By now you must have heard the latest trumpeting about the triumphs of social networking.  We are being reminded of the power of one person with a Facebook account as we read the news about Starbucks’ announcement that they will no longer used crushed beetles as a food coloring agent in some of their beverages.

Never has a tidbit of news unleashed so many questions. 

First of all, who knew that Starbucks used a food colouring extracted from crushed beetles?  The cochineal beetle of Latin America has been used for years as a dyeing agent.  I saw a picture of someone squishing one and the result is bright red goo.  Starbucks was using the carmine dye extracted from the beetle to give strawberry Frappuccino’s and smoothies their pink color and also to make the swirls in raspberry swirl cake nice and red.

The second question, of course, is why, if these Frappuccinos, smoothies and swirl cakes are made of strawberry and raspberry, do they need to be colored red?  Answer?  They don’t actually have strawberries and raspberries in them—it’s all done with flavour chemicals which aren’t naturally red.

Anyway, vegans decided that consuming squished beetle extract wasn’t consistent with their philosophy.  So they started an on line campaign to get Starbucks to cease and desist.

One wonders whether it might have been easier to simply cease and desist from having strawberry smoothies at Starbucks in order to maintain one’s vegan integrity.  After all, vegans give up a lot of things already.  And not only that, this Starbuck’s stuff is the tip of the iceberg—according to the articles I read, you’d be surprised at the variety of foods and drinks beetle juice finds its way into.  So you’re probably eating a lot of it without even knowing it.

My first reaction when I read this story, like almost everyone else I guess, was to go “Yuck,” and move on with life.  But then I started wondering. 

Starbucks has said that it will use a tomato-based dye called lycopene instead of the carmine dye.  Why would a company like Starbucks change its recipes to make vegans happy?  No one knows for sure how many vegetarians there are in the world, much less vegans.  Some unscientific internet research indicates that the number of vegans is approximately 0.2% of the global population. 

So when a big company makes a change to accommodate 0.2% of the population, you have to ask yourself whether there is something else going on.

I remember one time—long before the internet, so it never got out of hand—someone started a rumor that McDonald’s burgers were made out of worms rather than beef.  It got to the point where McDonalds felt it necessary to issue a statement in which they refreshingly pointed out that worms were more expensive than beef so there’s no way they would use them.

I don’t know if the carmine dye is cheaper or more expensive than the tomato dye and I certainly don’t know all of the factors that went into Starbuck’s decision.  But the more I think about it, the less I care why they did it. 

I’m no vegan but I think this is a good thing.  Vegans don’t eat animal products because they think it’s wrong to kill other creatures when there are perfectly good alternative foods available.

And speaking of alternative foods, consider the strawberry Frappuccino.  It’s really a strawberry flavoured Frappuccino.  It doesn’t have any strawberries in it.  Just a bunch of chemicals that taste like strawberries when mixed together into a (probably) carcinogenic soup.  I don’t know what color that potion is, but I’m guessing it’s not pink, so it has to be dyed, and beetle extract dye up until now was the coloring of choice.

The beetle might not be sentient, cute and fuzzy, or otherwise useful, but doesn’t it deserve better than to exist in order to fool us into thinking that the chemicals we are consuming are the real thing?

Yum Yum!

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Posted in I'm Confused--Apr 25

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Dr. Kafka Will See You Now

Posted on April 10, 2012 | 12 Comments

The farm continues to be a source of interesting life experiences.  Usually they have been in the form of dealing with creatures who are in places they shouldn’t be.  Like the neighbours cows, and of course, rodents.

Speaking of which, we now have deployed traps in the forest to control rodents of unusual size that prey upon the native birds.  Remember when I was freaking out about emptying mouse traps in the garage?  That’s a breeze by comparison to “resetting” these traps.  Resetting is a euphemism for removing the carcasses of deceased four legged pests.  I’ll spare you pictures of that process, but this is how you set the traps—the spring mechanism is so fearsome you have to use a lever tool to get sufficient leverage (and keep your fingers out of danger).

But I digress.  Our most recent adventure involved a multi-legged and headed life form known as bureaucracy.

There are several different public and private grants available to support environmental programs and we have been fortunate enough to receive some. Last week we submitted an application for a new grant.  I would never want to be accused of biting the hand, but the grant process has taken a turn for the bizarre.

The application process was fairly straightforward, if rigorous.  It involved completing a multi-page form on line.  This was no surprise.  Most organizations that give out money for environmental projects tend to be conservation minded and have a paperless application process.

In addition to completing the form, they asked for a sizeable amount of supporting documentation—land title to prove we own the property, photos, plans, quotes and things like that, including the 45 page project plan that our ecologist prepared.

We scanned all that stuff and sent it in by e-mail and crossed our fingers.

Today we got an e-mail back that I quote here in full because otherwise you would think I’d made it up.  My first reaction was to check the date to make sure it wasn’t April Fools Day.  Then I had a good laugh. Here is the e-mail:

You need to send in this supporting information in hard copy – paper form, with 7 copies. A process change due to the staff reductions we suffered in the latest restructure.  Sorry.

You read that right.  An organization that is giving money to people to plant native trees is telling us that because of staff reductions, it is necessary for us to be complicit in the chopping down of a few trees so that we can send them seven printed copies of the information we’ve already submitted electronically.

Kafka would be proud!

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Posted in Dr. Kafka Will See You Now--Apr 10

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Immortality, Anyone?

Posted on March 3, 2012 | 26 Comments

Have you heard about the Russia 2045 project?

They just finished a big conference and here is how founder, Dmitry Itskov describes it:  “in brief: the most important thing is that we want to eliminate death and disease for all—to overcome the limitations of our protein-based body; to find a way out of the chain of various crises our civilization is facing.”

On the surface, that sounds pretty good.  Until you realize that if these guys eliminate death, the world is going to get pretty crowded in a hurry.  Not only that, one has to wonder if they will give the “cure” away for free or if you’ll have to pay for it.  In which case, “the 1%” are probably going to be the first (and maybe the only) ones in line.  So instead of solving crises of civilization, this could cause a few more.

I did a little research and found out more about the plan.  It turns out that if Russia 2045 is successful, we won’t be sitting around forever playing Angry Birds and Unfriending people.  The way in which death will be eliminated is by implanting human brains into robots which won’t be subject to things that usually kill people.

The timeline of the project calls for finding a way to “surgically transplant a human consciousness into a robot body within 10 years.”  The current thinking is that they will “upload” peoples’ minds into robots without surgery “leaving the bodies as empty husks as their owners ‘live on.’”

The next step will be to develop indestructible bodies.  These new bodies “will have a perfect brain-machine interface to allow control and a human brain life support system so the brain can survive outside the body.”

And if that’s not enough, the last part will be to create an artificial brain.  Presumably, you will be able to get your hands on the artificial brain and body of your choice, upload your brain, and, voila, immortality.

But wait, there’s more!  Ultimately, they hope to come up with a holographic body rather than a physical body.  As Dmitry Itskov says, “Holograms give plenty of advantages. You can walk through walls, move at the speed of light.  Remember in Star Wars, Obi-Wan’s hologram? That was pretty amazing.” 

The web site states:  “This will open a new epoch – an epoch of immortal neo-humans and super-humans. The epoch of a new civilization – the future.”

How does that grab you?  An epoch of immortal neo-humans and super-humans.

Sounds to me like we’re going to need a John Connor or two.

I remember a philosophy class in which we read a fascinating story called “Where Am I?” by a contemporary philosopher named Daniel Dennett.  In that story, Dennett is supposed to go on a mission on which he will be exposed to rays that might damage brain cells but not body cells.  So they take his brain out and put it in a “vat” with life support.  Then they hook up the brain and body with a two way radio so that they can communicate—but over unlimited distances.  DD looks normal, except that he has an antenna in his head and his brain is no longer physically in his body.

Because Dennett is a philosopher, the story then poses all sorts of interesting scenarios that muddle up the question of “where am I” as the brain and body go their separate ways but are still, effectively, one being. 

For example, if the body were to go out and commit a crime, who should be punished for the crime?  The brain presumably thought it up, but the body did the crime. 

It led to a lot of interesting class discussions but nothing like those that Russia 2045’s plans will probably generate.  The project organizers have all sorts of ideas about how robot bodies with human brains could fight fires, work in mines and go out and kill each other in wars (what’s the point of that?).  And of course, there is the whole issue of immortality.

Even without robotic augmentation, there is a chance that I’ll still be around in 2045 to see if they manage to succeed.  But to be honest, I’m not sure I’d want to stick around much longer if they do.

And anyway, the whole human/machine interface/confusion thing is already being done, and this is the sort of thing that makes you wonder about the human race in the first place. 

I saw another article that talked about how the singer Kei$ha, (who believes that she was JFK in a past life and wears some of her placenta in a locket around her neck to ground herself), has decided to replace some of her hair with metal studs.  There was a picture of her that showed what looked like thumbtacks stuck in a shaved area of her head, i.e., like a robot waiting for a brain. 

Now you may be wondering why someone would do that.

The answer, according to the article, is that Lady Gaga’s outrageous costumes and behaviour have made it “hard for young talent to stand out from the crowd.”   So studs in the head are apparently the only recourse. 

There is no mention of the possibility that a singer might stand out by being, well, a good singer. 

So although the ethical questions of implanting brains into robots and vice versa are fascinating, they are dwarfed by the biggest question around the whole enterprise.  Specifically, if this is the sort of brain function that is rampant, why are we going to spend a lot of time and effort figuring out how to download it into a machine?

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Posted in Anyone?

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Now That Was A Dumb Thing To Do!

Posted on February 5, 2012 | 23 Comments

What is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done?

Up until a couple of days ago, that was a fairly tough question for me to answer.  Mainly because there were so many things to choose from.  Like the time I gave my bicycle a brake job.  Or the time I decided that I could do plumbing on the overhead pipes in my basement and it ended up looking like a German U-boat getting depth charged in the North Atlantic.

But all those things pale to insignificance compared to the deed I did on Friday.  When it comes to dumb, it towers like a sequoia over a forest of lesser foolishness.

First, some background.  A while back, I told you about the Bokashi method of composting which we use.  One of the byproducts of the method is something called Bokashi juice which drains out of the composted stuff.  All Bokashi advocates talk about this being really good stuff.  But let me quote from my previous post:

“Make no mistake.  Bokashi Juice is pure evil.  It looks like vomit and smells infinitely worse.  I have poured it on weed patches in the yard on a breezy day, come back hours later and the stench was still as strong as when I first poured it out.  Even the flies avoid it and the thought of getting some on me is now my number one primal fear.”

We use the system both at home and at the farm but we take all of the compost to the farm because there is more room to bury it.

Because of my abject fear of Bokashi Juice, I have developed elaborate safeguards for transporting it that would put the international standards for transporting plutonium to shame.

You can probably see where this is going.

Because the problem with standards is that over time, complacency develops.  On Friday, my wife and I were heading out to the farm and decided to take a load of Bokashi out for burial.  I thought to myself, why not dump the juice here rather than carry it?  Believe me, the stuff is so bad that even when it’s hermetically sealed, just being agitated by the movement of the car can cause unpleasant fumes.  So my thought was a good one.  But I said, No, you have enough safeguards in the system.

I thought of buttressing the Bokashi bin and my elaborate containment vessel with some additional weights to prevent any possible shifting or tipping.  But then decided that the web of bungee cords I’d mummified the whole thing with would be sufficient.

And away we went.

We took a new route because of some road construction and about halfway through the journey we noticed an odor.  As I mentioned, this happens so we didn’t panic.

But it got worse.  And worse.   At one point, I mentioned that the stench, in addition to being more overpowering than usual also was reminiscent of even more bodily functions than usual.

My wife suggested that we stop to make sure that everything was secure.  But in accordance with the rules of epic tragedy (which was about to unfold) hubris made me remind her of my fool proof safeguards and we continued, rolling down the windows.

We arrived at the farm and my worst fears were realized.  It was the Bokashi equivalent of the China Syndrome.  Not only had the container tipped, but somehow the containment vessel had also gone over and spilled unspeakably.  A major meltdown.

Like most cars, this one has a false floor in the trunk which opens to reveal the spare tire and a storage area for tools and stuff like that.  The Bokashi juice had permeated the removable fabric mat that covers the floor and had leaked liberally into the storage compartment, soaking everything and pooling into a vile mass at the lowest point.

I declared the highest level of emergency, but had no idea what to do.

 Because I didn’t have a Hazmat suit, the first thing I did was take off all my clothes except some old shorts which were expendable.  I didn’t want to risk getting any juice on clothes I might ever want to wear again.  Then I found some Vicks Vapo Rub and applied it liberally to my nostrils.  I figured if it works on CSI it may possibly work for Bokashi juice.  (It doesn’t).  I put on big rubber boots and gloves.

Flinching under the aromatic assault, I then took everything moveable out of the car and disinfected it with bleach.  Then I sopped up the puddle in the bottom of the car and doused everything with bleach.  I sopped up the bleach and then emptied a box of baking soda over everything.  All rags went into a sealed plastic bag and into the garbage.  Finally, I burned three consecutive incense sticks with the windows all closed.  Then I let the car sit all night with the windows open.

Two days have elapsed and I’m thinking that someday maybe we won’t smell that smell.  So question is, what will come first?  Will the smell go away?  Will I do something to surpass this epic act of foolishness?  Will my wife forget that if I’d listened to her things wouldn’t have been so bad?

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Posted in Now That Was A Dumb Thing To Do--Feb 5, Uncategorized

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You’re Not Working Hard Enough!

Posted on January 10, 2012 | 9 Comments

It appears that my post about business buzz words last week was, as they say, insufficiently robust.  Because I omitted a term which, sad to say, we are likely to be hearing more about.

The term is sweatworking and it refers to conducting business while working out at the gym.  It has spawned the corollary terms spin spin situation, which refers to closing a deal while you and your client are each on a stationary bike machine, and earn while you burn.

Where to begin?

Now, I will confess that I haven’t been inside a gym in a long, long time.  Maybe things have changed, but I don’t seem to recall the gym being conducive to conducting business.  For one thing, there is the issue of privacy.  How do you know if that sweaty puffy pervert who’s checking you out is a stalker or a competitor? Second, usually when I was at the gym I was both breathless and, believe it or not, sweaty.  It’s hard to negotiate when you are breathless—it conjures up a hostage situation.  And if you are sweaty, you might smear the ink on the contract.  Or, more likely, short out your iPad.

It all strikes me as one more example of unnecessary multitasking that may be fun for the people who are doing it but is painful for bystanders to watch and hear.  Consider, for example, cell phone conference calls taken at restaurant tables, texting while driving and talking on the phone while using a restroom.  As I always say, just because you can do something doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

Apparently there is now a huge demand for gyms to supply members with guest coupons so they can bring along business associates who might not be members to their workout.  You don’t “do lunch” anymore.  Now you say, “My trainer will call your trainer and we’ll do exercise.”

One gym in London is building business networking forums around gym membership.  You work out on an exercise bike while attending a business seminar.  The program is called “Learn While You Burn.”

When practitioners of sweatworking are asked the all-important “why” question, the answers are “It saves time,” and “It’s fun.”

Let’s, as they say, drill down and try to understand those assertions.

First, I can’t see what makes it fun.  In the good old days, one of the antidotes to stress was supposed to be exercise.  It was supposed to be a time to relax, let your brain recharge and benefit from additional oxygen.  Keeping track of what someone is saying with respect to work while trying to figure out your recovery rate doesn’t sound like fun to me.

Second, timesaving can be a good thing.  But are we really supposed to believe that there are people out there who are so busy that they have to combine the highly personal act of working out with doing their jobs?  If working out is important, doesn’t it deserve a person’s undivided attention?  If someone calls me on their cell phone while they are peeing, I have to believe that they don’t think that I’m a very high priority.  I’m something that can be squeezed in while performing a bodily function to prevent it from otherwise being “down time.”

One time, and I’m not making this up,  I was at a presentation on motivating employees and they showed a video of people talking about their worst boss.  There were some wild stories, but the winner was a secretary who told of her boss who had a bathroom in her office suite.  The boss told her that she was too busy to flush, so one of her jobs was to go in and flush the toilet when she came out.

I bet that boss welcomes the idea of sweatworking!

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Posted in You're Not Working Hard Enough!--Jan 10

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