Get a clue

After the morning I had yesterday—involving losing my Metro fare card and all the steps necessary to replace it—I was rather taken by this headline at NPR:

Because wouldn’t “Glowing Space Blobs” make a great band title?

As for the fare card saga, I still have a couple more mountains to scale, since—having cancelled the lost card, bought a new one and registered it with WMATA—I must now contact my HR department to transfer the $400 in benefit to the new number. That’s going to be a slice of an entirely different cake.

It's 2016: do you know where your money is?

Here are some numbers from the Wells Fargo & Company widespread fraudulent practices that brought CEO John Stumpf to Capitol Hill yesterday.

- Phony accounts created without customers’ knowledge or permission: 565,443 credit cards, 1.5 million deposit accounts.

- Fees charged to customers/victims over a period of years: $400,000 and counting (including annual fees, interest charges and overdraft-protection fees)

- Credit scores lowered or ruined: unknown

- Fines assessed to WFC by the federal Consumer Financial Protection Bureau: $185 million, which they’ll find between the cushions in the sofas in the executive lounge 

- Low-level bank employees fired…two weeks ago: 5300

- Senior managers (or even mid-level ones) who’ve had their salary, bonus or job security affected: bloody sod all.

Stumpf spent about an hour dodging questions at a Senate hearing, mostly from Democrats; Republicans may have been busy planning their next statement on why they’re not considering the President’s nominee to SCOTUS. Senator Elizabeth Warren, D-Mass., gave Stumpf an earful, as he kept maintaining that he and other executives knew nothing about the systemic practices, even after they launched a half-hearted “investigation” into allegations…back in 2013, and that it’s up to WFC’s board to make any, you know, decisions on whether anyone with a C or a V in their title should expect a lower bonus this year. Not his.

(Warren used words on Stumpf that he is probably and surprisingly unused to hearing. "You should resign. You should give back the money that you took while this scam was going on, and you should be criminally investigated by both the Department of Justice and the Securities and Exchange Commission." Warren has a bigger set of brass ones than all 99 of her colleagues in the Senate have rolled together.)

No, he doesn't know anything about making monetary decisions, as the CEO of a major financial institution. “I’m not an expert in compensation,” he said.

But I’ll bet he checks his direct deposit notifications religiously and accounts for every penny in bonus and executive entitlements.

I wonder if his accounts are with WFC?

Stumpf’s disclaimer and crocodile apology (“I am deeply sorry that we failed to fulfill our responsibility to our customers, to our team members and to the American public. I want to apologize for violating the trust our customers have invested in Wells Fargo. And I want to apologize for not doing more sooner to address the causes of this unacceptable activity.”) follows the usual pattern for his ilk. He’s not sorry that his company of 265,000 employees embarked on a multi-year predation of the most vulnerable of its individual customers; after all, think of all those years he was raking in his salary and bonus. He’s not even sorry that they got caught at it. He’s only sorry that it’s looking like there might be some negative consequences to him personally.

He doesn’t give a rat’s about anyone else, up or down the food chain.

Those numbers at the top of this post? None of them is of the least concern to Stumpf. The only one that matters is that he keeps his $19.3 million annual package.

You know what’s really wonderful about all this? As in “I wonder what the actual fuck is going on”? That it’s 2016, nine years after all those too-big-to-fail banks and brokerages were first exposed as engaging in industrial-strength long-term fraud. (And, when caught, went all Uriah Heep in the company of their multitudes of attorneys.) 

And yet here we are again.

WTAF.

Tanks for the memories

Interesting, a hundred years after the first deployment of tanks on the battlefield, a museum in Normandy has had to close, and in the process has auctioned off its inventory of uniforms, guns, vehicles, planes and equipment.

Which included two Sherman tanks.

The Tank Museum was only open for about three years. They say it was the downturn in the economy coupled with lower tourism following multiple terrorist attacks in Paris that forced it to shut its doors.

The Cadillac M5 A1 tank went for €230,000; the Chrysler M4A for €280,000. A BMW motorcycle that saw service in the Afrika Korps fetched €130,000. And a 1943 Harley Davidson motorcycle brought in €54,000.

All these headliners sold for much more than their estimated price, which was good news for Patrick Nerrant, an ex-Air France pilot, who built the collection and the museum, starting with a WWII plane he restored himself. He also restored the tanks, all nine of them, which were in working condition as of the weekend.

All told, the auction brought in €3.8 million ($4.2 million). No mention so far as to who the buyers are, or what they plan on doing with the tanks (or any of the rest of the kit).

According to NPR’s Eleanor Beardsley, Nerrant “kept a couple” of tanks for himself. But with the closing of the museum, he’s retiring.

Gratitude Monday: Sisterhood

Today is my sister’s birthday. I won’t tell you which one, but she’s living in retirement in Sedona.

Penny’s one of my favorite people ever. She’s one of those rare individuals with what I call the gift of happiness. Whatever crap happens, Penny does not load up with anger, regret or a chip on the shoulder; she figures out the best way through for her and then carries on.

It’s a remarkable capability.

Penny suffered a hearing loss that began with birth. It wasn’t diagnosed until she entered kindergarten; up until then the family just thought she was kind of slow. Ha, ha!

Yeah, classroom instruction was a challenge. When she started special ed in the 6^th grade, things got better. She took lip reading lessons, and used to practice with Dad in the evenings.

In the 7^th grade she decided she wanted to teach the hearing impaired. All the experts discouraged this ambition—they didn’t see her as the kind of student who’d succeed in the education field. Or even in academia. They thought vocational school was the way to go.

Well, ha, ha again. B.A. in English, two M.A.s in education and a full career in teaching at Alhambra High School with additional stints teaching ESL at night. Every Christmas she had about 80 gifts from current and former students. When she retired they held three separate parties for her.

I’ve always admired Penny’s tenacity. When she fixes her mind on doing something, you’d better just shut the hell up and stand aside, because she’s going to do it. She’s not seduced by instant gratification; once she sets her goal, she keeps her eyes on the prize and keeps going.

I have a theory about how Penny’s been able to accomplish so much: for a good part of her life she literally did not hear the gainsayers, so she developed the ability to not listen to them when she did hear them. I wish I had that kind of confidence.

Over the decades, Penny’s hearing got worse. (People wonder why I'm LOUD? This is one of the reasons.) Every cold caused more deterioration, so that when she flew, she couldn’t sit in the emergency exit row because she couldn’t hear any of the instructions. One time she was coming to North Carolina to visit me, and when the plane diverted to somewhere in Tennessee because of fog at RDU, she didn’t know what was happening until it landed and she could see someone’s face talking about it.

I’ve occasionally thought what a raw deal it was to have to go through life suffering through garbled conversations, not savoring the subtleties of a Chopin étude or only finding out you’re in Tennessee instead of North Carolina when the plane lands. I asked her about it once and she shrugged: that’s the hand she was dealt, so she played it.

In recent years, phone calls with her were more difficult. The last few I had were via a transcription service, so I’d say something, there’d be a pause and then she’d respond. Imagine trying to talk about some personal subjects this way.

But a couple of years ago, she did a lot of research on technology, outcomes and insurance coverage, and she got a cochlear implant. It’s like a complete recharge; back to full duplex communication. One of the first things she remarked about how wonderful it was to hear the birds singing.

Penny has opinions, of course, but she doesn’t waste a lot of time expressing the negative ones. This lends all the more weight to those she does share. Example: a relative-by-marriage spent some unknown amount of money to buy me something I never wanted and that personified the term “butt-ugly”. Stunned, I asked (somewhat rhetorically), “Why would she do that?” Penny never missed a beat. “Because she’s stupid.”

Now that I’m across the country again, I miss the ease of visiting her. We have a Christmas tradition: we cook grilled butterflied leg of lamb with a savory sauce, and saute of two squashes. You’re supposed to be able to make it in 60 minutes but it always takes us longer. Possibly due to the wine that accompanies the effort.

Anyhow—happy birthday, Penny. What a gift you are as a sister and a friend.

Rolling death

Yesterday marked the 100^th anniversary of the first use of tanks in warfare. The British Army sent 49 Mark I models into action against the Germans near Flers-Courcelette as part of the Battle of the Somme.

They were slow (maximum speed in optimal conditions, 4 MPH), cumbersome, and their eight-men crews were in almost as much danger from various gases generated by the beast (including carbon monoxide, fuel and oil vapors and cordite fumes) as they were from enemy fire. The noise from the engine was deafening, and that was before they began firing its various cannon or machine guns.

The Mark I’s metal armor protected against small arms, but it was vulnerable to armor-piercing bullets and grenades. And remember: at 4 MPH it could be outrun by determined infantry.

At any rate, by mid-September of 1916, the Battle of the Somme had dragged on for two and a half months with no discernable change in the lines. Adding tanks to the mix of artillery bombardment and infantry attacks was the Brits’ attempt to achieve the mythical breakthrough on the Western Front. However, of the 49 brought to the front, 17 broke down before they could enter the battle and only nine made it to the enemy lines.

They did not accomplish their goal. As so often happened during the war in general and on the Somme in particular, the army failed to exploit any holes punched in the enemy’s line, and things reverted to status quo.

It would take years for military leaders to understand how to use tanks effectively. They were deployed with better results a year later at Cambrai, and then again in 1918 at Soissons. But their real capabilities weren’t appreciated until the interwar years. J.F.C. Fuller of Britain and Heinz Guderian of Germany laid out the framework for deploying bigger, faster and more powerful tanks, which led to Blitzkrieg in the early years of World War II, and monster battles like Kursk, Caen and El Alamein.

To mark the centenary of Courcelette, a Mark IV tank replica spent some time yesterday in Trafalgar Square, next to one of its great-grandchildren, a present-day Challenger 2. (The Mark IV began service in 1917; this replica was used in the film Warhorse.)

This amateur video shows it arriving at Trafalgar. I don’t think it does justice to the amount of noise that an original would have generated, but still:

Have a look at this photo (from The Scotsman) of two soldiers from the Royal Tank Regiment, and imagine them and six other men crammed into that cacophonous, poisonous metal crate, clanking blindly and slowly into enemy fire.

It would be like being strapped inside a moving MRI machine that was pumping carbon monoxide and petrol fumes into your lungs, and taking you directly into the worst place on the battlefield. God have mercy.

Definitely Dahlesque

Tuesday was the 100^th anniversary of the birth of Roald Dahl, a man who used language to both expose and cushion the darkness of childhood experience. In books (many of which became films) like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, Fantastic Mr Fox, and James and the Giant Peach, Dahl some very dark environments where children had to pick their way carefully on the path to happiness.

I mean, things always turned out okay. But getting there could be perilous indeed. The worst kind of bullies and monstrous authoritarians populated his characters’ world, so they needed all the cleverness and courage he could give them.

But Dahl also armed his young protagonists with really great words, and this week the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) added six of them to their lexicon in his honor. They’re not necessarily words that originated with him—even “scrumdiddlyumptious” was documented as far back as 1942. But they’re phrases that Dahl put on pretty much every tongue.

Like “golden ticket”, from Charlie, which the OED defines as: “Ticket; one that grants the holder a valuable or exclusive prize, experience, opportunity, etc.” Or “Oompa Loompa,” which has actually changed its meaning over the years. It originally meant an industrious worker, but since the 1971 film, it just as often refers to the “Day-Glo effects of some fake tanning products,” according to the OED.

No mention of hand size.

I personally get a kick out of the fact that Dahl was so fearless in painting his language-scapes, especially since one of his school report cards had this comment: “I have never met anybody who so persistently writes words meaning the exact opposite of what is intended.”

One final OED honor to Dahl’s imaginative use of language is the addition of the word “Dahlesque”, an adjective defined as “resembling or characteristic of the words of Roald Dahl.”

Absolutely splendiferous.

Corporate matters

My job is to guide ideas for new revenue streams through a vetting process not unlike that of a product manager. I find it interesting (and not a little frustrating) that my colleagues are not enthused by the notion of new business innovation.

Well, actually—they don’t particularly welcome the notion of anything new.

I do get it—I don’t think there’s any organization that volunteers to change much of anything. The usual motivation to do so is some kind of gun to the head. You don’t change unless you have essentially no alternative. Change means uncertainty, and it’s not for nothing that there’s that saying “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know.”

Well, anyhow, acknowledging that I myself am not packing enough firepower to entice my colleagues to think in terms of either new products or new markets, I’m researching how other organizations implement this sort of new business innovation.

Which of course means that I’m researching innovation consultants.

I’m just the teensiest bit jaded about this prospect. Yes—it’s sometimes worth money to have outside subject matter experts (what one of my colleagues self-importantly calls "SMEs", pronouncing them "SMEES") explain to folks in words of one syllable what you’ve been telling them for months to no avail. On the other hand: “thought leader”.

Here’s a possible example:

If you’ve just nouned an adjective to describe your value proposition, is that a sign of being terrifically innovative, or just really ignorant?

(In addition to the consultants I’ve also researched the usage of “corporate” as a noun. By digging past the first SERP page, I have found that it has very limited use in the financial world, and in the production of films for internal business use. In both those cases “corporate” is still implying an unarticulated noun—“corporate [bond]”, “corporate [film]”—and those usages are not applicable in this instance.)

So I’m calling bullshit, and this crowd moves to the bottom of my contact list.

Fiscal reality

Someone retweeted this recently, and it quite took my fancy:

You’re welcome

Gratitude Monday: The rule of law

We’re 15 years on from the September 11 attacks, and it’s Gratitude Monday. It’s also the last two months of the most vicious and divisive presidential election I’ve ever experienced, so my prevailing emotions are disgust and anger.

So today I’m grateful that I recently came across this story in the Washington Post about a man the reporter calls a legal giant, Benjamin Ferencz.

Ferencz, who emigrated with his family to the United States from what’s now Hungary to escape anti-Semitic persecution, grew up in New York City and went to college at CCNY. He graduated from Harvard Law School and served the 3^rd Army from 1943, seeing action in Normandy and Bastogne, and present at the liberation of several concentration camps, including Buchenwald, Flossenburg and Mauthausen. He wanted to be a pilot, but at 5’2”, his feet wouldn’t reach the pedals.

After the end of the war he joined the legal team that was trailblazing international law with the concept of prosecuting war crimes. Telford Taylor was his boss. At age 27, he drove the investigation and prosecuted 22 Einsatzgruppen commanders. Einsatzgruppen were the units that followed in the wake of the Wehrmacht in Eastern Europe; their job was to eradicate Jews—and commissars, and gypsies, and some others; but primarily Jews—from the conquered territories.

In what the Associated Press called the “biggest murder trial in history”, and Ferencz’s first prosecution, he called a single witness, who certified the sheaves of ledgers that documented the murdered. All 22 were convicted. Ferencz told the judge, “If these men be immune, then law has lost its meaning, and man must live in fear.”

Take a few minutes to watch this video; Ferencz describes his work at Nuremberg.

From that very first case, Ferencz has worked for the rule of law; his achievements include the establishment of the International Criminal Court at The Hague. He’s 96 years old, now, living in retirement in Florida, and he’s given more than a million dollars (renewable annually up to ten million) to the Holocaust Memorial Museum for an international justice initiative.

This year we’re bombarded by politicians and their supporters strutting across the media stage proclaiming how the time has come to pursue our enemies with all our military might without regard to that pesky law. Carpet bomb! Take the oil! Lock them in camps! Anything is legal in war! And I am reminded of two things:

In A Man for All Seasons, playwright Robert Bolt gives Thomas More and his son-in-law Will Roper this exchange:

Roper: “So, now you give the Devil the benefit of law!”

More: “Yes! What would you do? Cut a great road through the law to get after the Devil?”

Roper: “Yes. I’d cut down every law in England to do that!”

More: “Oh? And when the last law was down, and the Devil turned ‘round on you, where would you hide, Roper, the laws all being flat? This country is planted thick with laws, from coast to coast, Man’s laws, not God’s! And if you cut them down—and you’re just the man to do it—do you really think you could stand upright in the winds that would blow then? Yes, I’d give the Devil benefit of law, for my own safety’s sake!”

And in 1958, President Dwight D. Eisenhower (who had been Ferencz’s ultimate ETO commander) warned, “In a very real sense, the world no longer has a choice between force and law. If civilization is to survive, it must choose the rule of law.”

As a civilized society, you don’t bomb them into the Stone Age, you hold them accountable according to the rule of law.

The day after our annual remembrance of 9/11 and in the fetid pool of the presidential race, it brings me to tears to know that there are some men and women like Benjamin Ferencz, who understand that if we do not live by the rule of law, we are not alive at all.

Slouching towards...

This is the view from the park next to the building where I now live. Of the restored Pentagon, with the Capitol building in the distance. I’m just across I-395, one Metro stop, from the nexus of American military power. Many of the very long-time residents here are either serving or retired officers.

As I sit in the living room, drinking a latte and listening to NPR this morning, I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like here 15 years ago. Standing on the balcony watching black smoke fill the air; making frantic calls to colleagues, friends, family; returning to the balcony; watching TV.

My daily commute takes me past the Pentagon twice a day. It’s morbid, of course, but at least once a week I wonder what that morning must have been like for the people on Yellow and Blue Line trains headed through that corridor.

I was far away at the time, working in the UK for a company crumbling under its own arrogance, preparing for a last holiday to Florence and Siena before I was to be returned to Northern Virginia and laid off. The canteen manager told us, “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center”, and all I could think of was a civil aircraft must have got terribly off course. I could not have created the picture of a 767 flying deliberately into the WTC.

When we found out the enormity of the first strike, I thought, “Busboys are setting up for lunch at that restaurant. Who hurts busboys?”

And then there was the second hit, and the one here at the Pentagon. I couldn’t get to any US news sites—Washington Post, LA Times, CNN, NY Times—the sites were all crashing from the traffic.

One of the telecoms spinoffs on the second floor had a wall of TV screens, and I watched the same video loops again and again, all across that wall. Finally I went home, where again I watched the same video loops again and again. Colleagues from France, Wales, England and Ireland called to check on me; they told me to call them whenever I needed to talk.

It was the next day, when driving home to pick up my luggage and head to Gatwick for the flight to Italy, that the tears came. The Glaxo-Smith-Kline headquarters in west London had lowered its three flags to half-staff; seeing that I began to sob.

A friend of mine, who was working at the Pentagon on that day (and still is), posts an essay on his experience every year. Every year I weep.

What cuts me the most deeply today is wondering what progress we might have made in these 15 years, as opposed to where we are now. In this decade and a half it seems like we’ve become entrenched in our fragmented viewpoints; everyone shouting and shoving to proclaim their truth. September 11^th has been reduced to a week’s worth of intensely painful media focus and an occasion for political photo opps and fundraisers. Starting the next week, it’s shelved for another year.

Meanwhile, London, Madrid, Brussels, Paris and Istanbul have experienced the same kinds of attacks; we’ve become enmired in wars that have lasted longer than even Vietnam (with not dissimilar results); and the Middle East (extending through Afghanistan and Pakistan) is an indescribable nightmare.

So here’s my question. How do we turn this around?