First, I apologize for not blogging at all last week. But I have a very good excuse: After 30 years of living a heathen existence (I turned my back on the Catholic faith when I was 8), I recently found religion, and I've been dealing with that for the past nine days.

I want to explain what happened, but first I have to issue a disclaimer:

WARNING: The following item has nothing to do with corporate communications. Those of you who read this blog only for the communication news and tactics, please tune in tomorrow. Those of you who read this blog to make yourselves feel better after hearing the details of my sad, pathetic life, read on.

I have to start this story with a rather unfortunate sentence:

I woke up the day after the Gay Pride Parade and my ass hurt.

There's just no nice way of saying that. Chicago's Gay Pride Parade, which runs right by my apartment, was last Sunday, and I woke up Monday with an intensely sore ass.

Now, I'm sure I wasn't the only one in the neighborhood feeling this way . . . but I didn't even go to the parade! I had to go to a funeral in the suburbs with my girlfriend, so we just decided to stay out there and avoid the congestion and headaches caused by thousands of men in ass-less chaps and leather thongs.

But still, my ass hurt the next day. What could it mean? Was it all in my head? I mean, my tailbone hurt so bad I couldn't sit down without a cushion.
But no, my ass pain had nothing to do with the Gay Parade. It had something to do with the funeral I attended, and this is what has been dominating my thoughts so much that I couldn't even blog.

Here's the story.

The morning of the Gay Parade, I had to go to my Uncle's funeral. My girlfriend, Cindy, was nice enough to go with me.

The night before, I had been out with my friend and mentor, Jim Ylisela, Ragan's editorial director. We were discussing serious Ragan business issues on my boat in the middle of Lake Michigan, until 1 in the morning.

Needless to say, I was very fuzzy the next day. Bleary-eyed, hung over, and miserable as I pulled into the church parking lot.

The funeral procession had not yet arrived from the funeral home, so we were the first ones there. It was about 100 degrees that day, so we decided to stumble into the church and wait there, in the air conditioning.

So we went into the church, which was empty, and stood in the back. After about two minutes, my legs starting hurting, so I leaned back against the wall.

As soon as I did, I felt like I had sat in a toilet. The entire back of my pants was suddenly completely soaked with water. I turned around, and realized, to my horror, that I had sat right in the Holy Water tub.

In fact, not only had I sat my big fat ass right in the Holy Water, but I mangled the basin in the process. It was all bent out of shape and dripping water. And my pants were soaked. (Had I not been hung over, my reaction time probably would have been a little quicker; but my reflexes were so slow, I think I was sitting in the tub for a good three seconds before I realized something was wrong).

I turned to Cindy, horrified, and told her what I did. She, of course, did what anybody else would do, and starting laughing so hard she almost wet her own pants.

So there I was, standing in church, my pants soaked with Holy Water, hung over, all by myself (Cindy had the good sense to flee the scene, before anyone else came in), wondering what to do.

I got through the day okay, but it wasn't easy. It involved standing in a lot of corners until my pants dried. And I did my best to fix the tub of Holy Water. But you can only imagine my horror as I watched family member after family member anoint themselves with water that just minutes earlier had been home to my ass.

But here's the scary part, and I swear I'm not making this up to make for a better story. The very next day, my ass hurt so bad that I couldn't sit down. My ass still hurts today, one week and two days later. It's a little better, but it still hurts.

And I can't for the life of me figure out any reason why it should, other than the fact that I dunked it in a puddle of Holy Water and desecrated the Holy Spirit or whatever it is about Holy Water that makes it Holy.

I used to think the people who saw visions of the Holy Virgin in their grilled cheese sandwiches were crazy. But not anymore. I'm a believer.

So forgive me if I've been too preoccupied to blog. But just writing this out has made me feel better, so by tomorrow I'll be ready to jump back in the saddle. With a cushion, of course.

Aren't you ever curious how some corporate rumors start?

Every time I do a series of focus groups with employees, and ask them how they get their information, 'The Rumor Mill' or 'The Grapevine' is always one of the top 'vehicles' that people mention.

Now, that's fine when the information is accurate (which it often is, I know). I've actually used the informal grapevine to spread information at some companies.

But what about when the information is inaccurate? And where do those inaccurate rumors come from?

I just heard a funny story about how one rumor started at a major company . . . which gave me some insight into how easy it is for these things to get started.

I'm down in Bartlesville, OK, right now, doing some work for one small division of ConocoPhilips. And they are dealing with a rumor right now that simply isn't true . . . and they know exactly how it started. But even they can't believe how fast it spread.

Here's the story:

At a meeting between a company executive and a smallish group of employees, someone asked the executive about the company's hiring policy, and whether more employees would be brought in. The executive basically said that they wanted to bring in more people, but the lack of affordable housing in Bartlesville was holding them back. 'I'd hire a thousand people right now if we could find housing for them,' he said, off the cuff.

As an example, he mentioned that there was a woman from Norway that was trying right now to relocate to Bartlesville, but was having a hard time finding an affordable house.

Well . . . within a couple of days, the rumor was sweeping the organization that the company was hiring 1,000 Norwegians any day now. People are saying things like, 'When are the Norwegians getting here?' And, 'Where are the Norwegians going to sit?'

Isn't that a hoot? It doesn't take much to get that rumor mill spinning, does it?

Improbable headlines

I'm working on a story for Corporate Writer and Editor's August issue, on stories that editors can do during the Dog Days of August, when all the important people are on vacation and nobody's really paying much attention to you.

As a fun sidebar, I thought it would be neat to come up with a list of stories that you'll never see in Corporate America (or Corporate Canada, or Corporate Europe, or Corporate Pacific Rim, or whatever).

I came up with about eight . . . and thought it would be fun to throw some around with this group out there. Here's my top three. Can anyone beat them:

In a liquor company's publication:
If people are driving drunk . . . we're making money!

In an airline company's publication:
We give up: We just can't seem to make any money

In an U.S.-based pharmaceutical company's publication:
Hell, our own executives are going to Canada to get their drugs

Make way for another stupid survey

This one comes to us from AOL and Salary.com, and it looks at how much time employees waste at work. Here's an excerpt:

'According to a new survey by America Online and Salary.com, the average worker admits to frittering away 2.09 hours per 8-hour workday, not including lunch and scheduled break-time.

As a matter of practice, companies assume a certain amount of wasted time when determining employee pay. However, the America Online / Salary.com survey indicates that employees are wasting about twice as much time as their employers expect. Salary.com calculated that employers spend $759 billion per year on salaries for which real work was expected, but not actually performed.'

Of course, the number one way people waste time is listed as 'personal Internet use,' which will no doubt give some managers all the ammunition they need to restrict access to the Internet. May they rot in hell.

But you know what really frosts my ass about stupid surveys like this one? The way they get their respondents. In order to take part in the survey, you have to have enough time to surf over to salary.com in the first place.

And do you know how many people in Corporate America are far too busy to do that?

In other words, of course the people who have the time to take a stupid survey like this are going to say they spend a lot of time goofing off at work. Goofing off is probably what led them to the survey to begin with. So the figures are going to be skewed.

It would be like going into a bar at 2 in the afternoon, when it's loaded with regular drinkers watching Jeopardy, and doing a survey of the people in the bar. Can you imagine the executive summary for that 'survey'?

Having been a daytime bartender at a skuzzy bar, I can write the survey results right now:

New survey reveals that 100% of Americans drink to excess
A new survey by Crescenzo Communications reveals that 100 percent of Americans start drinking the minute they wake up, and continue to drink until they pass out. Other startling findings:

· 10% of respondents throw up on themselves at least once during the day

· 70% of respondents have fallen asleep with their heads on the bar at least once in the past month

· 60% of respondents have urinated on themselves by accident when trying to go to the bathroom

· 50% of respondents have thrown up into their own mouths, swallowed it back down, and washed the taste down with another double screwdriver

You can't survey drunks on drinking habits, and you can't survey habitual goof-offs on goof-off habits, right?

If you want to come up with some numbers on how much time we spend goofing off, you have to also interview people who are far too busy working to take a survey on how much they goof off!

Am I wrong about this?

Does anyone else out here in BlogLand have any work-related superstitions? I ask because I just realized that I do, and I need to know that I'm not the only weirdo out here.

Now, I'm not talking about everyday-life superstitions. Though I have plenty of those, too. For instance, there's a statue of General U.S. Grant sitting on his horse that you can see from Lake Shore Drive.

And anytime I drive LSD, which I do about four times a week, I have to salute General Grant. I mean, I have to. I'm like one of those obsessive-compulsive nut jobs who has to wash his hands 167 times a day. I can't help it. I have to salute General Grant.

And to make matters worse, I have to look at the General while I salute him . . . or I'm convinced that I will wrap my car around the back end of a truck that day. Never mind that I have almost caused several different accidents because I forgot to salute the statue, and had to turn halfway around in my seat so I could see the General before tossing off a salute.

But I'm not talking about regular superstitions like that one.

I'm talking about work related superstitions. And the reason I ask is because I never really realized I had any of these . . . but I do. For years, I have been doing all these weirdo superstitious rituals without even realizing that I had them.

And I want tell you about them, in the hopes that if I come out, others in our field might feel it's okay to come out, and reveal any superstitions they might have.

Here's mine:

Every time before I speak publicly, I have to do the following things:

* First, the night before, in the hotel room, I have to lay out my underwear, socks, shoes, and belt on whatever chair is available in the hotel room. Not on a couch. Not on the second bed, not in the bathroom. It has to be on whatever chair is in the room. And I can't lay out my pants or shirt. Just underwear, socks, belt, and shoes.

* Second, it has to be the right underwear. I currently have five pairs of boxer shorts that I feel are 'lucky' enough to be part of the 'speaking rotation.' As needed, I will break in a new pair�but not for an important speaking gig. Oh, no. I'll try out the new pair at a smaller gig, and if it goes okay, then they make it into the actual speaker's rotation.

* The morning of the speaking gig itself, I have to do the same thing every time in the shower. After I'm done washing, I turn the shower onto the coldest possible setting�so that the ice-cold water is knifing into my body like a million little needles. And I have to stand there for at ten full seconds, exactly, throwing left jab/right cross/left hook combinations over and over�the whole time thinking that my heart is going to burst wide open.

* Finally, when I get down to the room where I'm speaking, I have to write down my introductory comments on whatever paper the hotel has made available. You know how they always have those little scratch pads? I have to write down my opening remarks on the hotel stationary. But not the stationary in my room . . . oh, no. It has to be the stationary in the speaking room itself.

And here's the funny thing about all of these superstitions: I honest to God never realized I was doing them all, religiously, until a couple of weeks ago, when I started to jot down some opening remarks on a random piece of paper in my hotel room . . . and caught myself, and threw it away.

That's when I started paying attention to what a complete and total freak I am.

Please, please tell me that there are others out there like me. Do you have a ritual you go through before a big meeting? Do you have a deadline day superstition, where you have to eat the same food so that you're sure to make your deadline?

I don't want to have to go to therapy . . . but I will if I'm the only nut case acting like this.

Once again, I have to apologize for not blogging very much last week.

Believe it or not, I had another death in the family. My 96-year-old Grandfather cashed it in last Tuesday, and the rest of the week was pretty much shot.

First, in answer to the question many people might have: No, I did not dunk my big ass in the Holy Water. Immediately upon entering the church, I scoped out all the Holy Water locations, and never went within fifteen feet of them.

Second, as I was sitting in church, listening to the medieval Catholic chants, I was struck by what a wonderful communication case study a Catholic wake/funeral is.

Gramps died on Tuesday night. The service was Friday morning. That means there was only two days to spread the word. And, as is always the case, the Catholic Communication Machine went into overdrive.

Somehow, someway, word was delivered to people who hadn't seen Grandpa—or anyone else in the family, for that matter—for years, and they showed up at the funeral. Second cousins, third cousins, old coworkers . . . people you just know had nothing to do with Grandpa for at least the past 20 years somehow got the word.

Since I don't consider myself Catholic anymore, I have no idea how this works. But I've seen it work over and over and over again. The word just somehow gets spread.

What if communications departments could be that efficient at spreading information? Wouldn't that be something?

Intranets? Forget 'em! Print publications? Why spend the money? Blogs, wikis, and RSS? Pfui!

Just hire yourself a couple of old Catholic widows with nothing better to do than gossip, and send them out into the workforce. They'll get the job done.

As a side note, people at my seminars often ask me where I get my sense of humor. This little story from the funeral may give you some insight into that.

My Grandpa was in pretty bad shape the last couple of years of his life. For the past six months or so, he was living with my dad, a former Chicago cop who makes me look like a teetotaler.

Since Gramps was still somewhat mobile in the last couple of months of his life, my dad rigged up a motion sensor, so that whenever Gramps got out of his chair and started roaming, the motion sensor would let off a huge WHOOOOP WHOOOP WHOOOP, and my dad would yell, 'Gramps is on the move!! Gramps is on the move!!' And we'd all race around to make sure he hadn't fallen face first into the toilet or something.

The motion sensor became a pretty big thing in the family, obviously.

So now fast forward to the luncheon after the funeral. There's about 50 people there, sitting in a big, crowded restaurant. We're about an hour into the drinking portion of the day, everyone still consoling each other, telling stories about Grandpa.

Try to imagine the scene.

Then, midway through the meal, the motion sensor goes off.

WOOOOP WOOOOP WOOOOOP!!!!!! Everyone in the restaurant—even the people not with our group—drop their forks.

And my dad leaps out of his chair, holding one end of the motion sensor:

'I snuck the other end into the casket!!!' he shouts. 'Gramps isn't dead, he's on the move, he's on the move, he's rolling over!!'

I mean, that's funny. Sick, twisted, a little weird . . . but funny. So now you know.

I just read in the Chicago Sun Times that 'a proposal will be considered at a London education conference to ban the word 'fail' as demoralizing to students and replace it with 'deferred success.''

This phrase is tailor made for the corporate world, where problems become 'challenges' and colossal failures are labeled 'opportunities.'

I can already see the headlines in many an employee publication, after the company hemorrhages money and comes nowhere close to the predicted quarterly earnings:

'XYZ reports deferred success for Q3!'

Or after a product rollout flops miserably in the marketplace:

'Lame-o Product Line a huge deferred success with customers!'

I'm even going to start using it in my personal life. I'm not a failure. I'm just deferring success to a later date.