You know what I like best about working in employee communications?

It’s not the work—though, when I get involved in a good project with good people and have a real chance to make a difference at an organization, that’s pretty cool.

And it’s not the money. I spend whatever money I make before I even make it, so money doesn’t really drive me.

It’s the people. I love communicators. Yes, I know it sounds corny. But there you have it.

Why? Because communicators are interesting. They have secret lives, many of them. Nobody goes to college and says, “I am going to be an employee communicator!” Little kids are not walking around saying, “When I grow up I want to edit a company publication!”

No, we go to college for other things. We had dreams of being something else. I was always going to be a globe-trotting freelance journalist. It didn’t work out, so I went into employee communications.

And it’s those dreams of what we were going to be, or going to do, that make communicators so interesting.

And I just met maybe the most interesting one of all.

I’m in southern California right now. Yesterday, I taught an all-day, in-house seminar for Southern California Edison (I normally don’t like to name the company I just worked for, in case they are secretly ashamed of hiring me, but in this case it’s okay).

The guy who brought me in is named Jacob Frank. He’s a veteran communicator and a longtime IABC member. I’ve seen his name around for years, but never actually met him until he came up to San Francisco last December for the Master Class.

Anyway, Jacob hired me to come in and do the seminar, and before we got started, we got to chatting. In the course of the conversation, he reveals that he’s only going to be at SCE for another month.

“Oh, are you retiring?” I said, as a joke. Jacob is only 51, after all. And communicators don’t make enough money to retire until they’re . . . well, 94.

“Sort of,” he said, laughing. And then he filled me in on his Great Plan.

Jacob and his wife, who is also a writer, are retiring. At least they’re retiring from corporate life. They’re getting out of the rat race. They are going to spend the next two years seeing the world.

“We can actually live cheaper per day in South America, India, Africa, and Asia than we live here,” he told me. So that’s what they are going to do. They sold their house, selling almost everything they own in an estate sale, packing whatever is left into two backpacks, and taking off.

First, they’re going to tour California by car. Then they’re going to ditch the car and get on their motorcycles. Yes, their motorcycles. They are going to ride across the country, and up into Canada, 300 miles north of Toronto, where Jacob’s wife Doris has family.

Then, it’s back on the bikes for a ride to Chicago, where Jacob has family, and where they are going to store the bikes.

From there, it’s the world. They fly to Mexico City, and then go down the west coast of Central and South America. After a couple of weeks in Antarctica, they head up the east coast of South America, then head for Africa.

They’re going to go all over Africa, but the highlight might be when they stay on a wildlife preserve for four weeks, helping to raise baby orangutans. From there, they take a couple of weeks “off” (they’re going to be living hard, out of their backpacks) on a Mediterranean Cruise.

From there, they follow the old Spice Road to China, head down to Southeast Asia, and then over to India. They have no hotel reservations. They’re only bringing what they can carry. The only modern convenience they will have is a laptop, so they can blog as they travel.

And somewhere along the way, they are going to figure out where they want to live for the rest of their lives. Could be Africa. Could be Guatemala. Could be India. They don’t know. And they don’t care that they don’t know.

They are, in a word, my idols. They’ll be doing a travel blog on the road, and as soon as it’s up and running, I’ll link to it from here, so communicators everywhere can live vicariously through them.

I love communicators.

With the Corporate Communicators Conference coming up in Chicago on April 25th, I’ve had several Corporate Hallucinations readers e-mail me privately to suggest that we have some kind of “blog outing.”

You know, where we all gather in the bar with our own money, and drink.

I like that idea. I like that idea a hell of a lot. I’m just trying to figure out the best night to do it.

The 25th, Tuesday, is this big Gala thingy for the Ragan Recognition Awards. So I can’t do anything that night. The 26th is the normal conference cocktail party . . . but we could all meet there, and maybe go somewhere after.

The 27th is also good . . . but the conference ends at noon (unless you’re going to a post-conference session) and many people are probably heading out that day.

So let me put the question to you: First, is anyone from out here coming to the conference? And second, would you like to have a secret “Members Only” meeting? And third, what is your suggestion for a meeting time?

But I have to warn you: I’m on a HUGE health/fitness program, so I can’t eat too much at the outing, if we end up eating. Cindy has instituted a new “Wellness Program” at Crescenzo Communications, and I’m fully on board.

At first, I was going to blow it off, like I blow off the overwhelming majority of her initiatives . . . but I had what’s known as a “Defining Moment” over the weekend. And because of that, I need to fully embrace the Wellness Program.

Let me explain:

I have this thing I do when I get dressed, sort of like a ritual. I like to put my socks on while standing up. I like to hold one sock in both hands, raise my knee to my chest from a standing position, and put the sock on. If the sock is tight and takes a while to get on, this is a form of aerobic exercise for me.

And since my socks are the first thing I put on, I am naked while I do this ritual. (I apologize in advance if anyone is reading this while they eat.)

Why do I do that? Well, my weight has always gone up and down. It’s never really “down” to where it should be, but neither am I so horrifically fat that I disgust even myself.

And I always figured, as long as a man can put his socks on while standing up, he can’t be in too bad of shape. Right? I mean, try it. It’s not easy. You have to lift one leg up, keep it there, and pull on the sock.

If you’re too fat, you can’t even get your leg up high enough to reach your foot. Your belly gets in the way.

Well, up until yesterday, I could pass the sock test.

Saturday, for the first time, I failed.

I raised my left leg up, but my knee hit my belly way sooner than I'm used to. I couldn’t reach my foot. I started breathing heavy almost immediately.

So I tried to move my knee to the left, around my stomach, so I could bring my foot up that way, like you would if you were sitting cross legged.

I could do it, but barely. And I couldn’t keep it there. And my foot wasn’t at the right angle to get the sock on. So I grabbed the bottom of my left foot with my right hand, and tried to maneuver the sock onto my foot with just my left hand. Suddenly, I felt a searing pain in my groin, and I toppled over.

As I lay there, naked, one sock dangling from the tip of my left foot, a burning pain in my groin, I realized that it’s time to stop the insanity. I bought a boxing heavy bag and hung it in my son’s garage. I’m going to the gym. I’m lifting weights. I’m off all sugar.

So for our secret meeting at the Corporate Communicator’s Conference, please don’t try to get me to eat sugar or anything. Oh, don’t worry. I’ll still have the sugar that is present naturally in martinis and wine.

I’m on a Wellness Program, but I’m not dead. Not yet, anyway.

P.S. To Rebecca the IT Goddess: Maybe you could come for the Secret Meeting, even though you aren’t coming to the conference?

Well . . . I did it. I got one of those dingleberry hand-held computer/phone thingies. I got it because I needed a new phone, having lost my eighth cell phone in two years recently.

And since I had to get a new phone anyway, and hated my old service, I thought I would switch to Verizon Wireless, since they were nice enough to hire me to do an in-house seminar.

(Yes, if you hire me, I will immediately switch to whatever brand or service your company sells—unless you work for Miller Light. I would rather drink Camel urine than Miller Light.)

And when you switch to Verizon, you can get a good deal on one of these Treo things. It’s a phone, camera, video camera, e-mail checker, Web browser, palm pilot, calculator, alarm clock, MP3 player, non-stick skillet, wine opener, juicer, and food processor, all in one.

I've had it for a week now, and so far I have figured out how to dial the phone and receive incoming calls. That may be all I ever use it for. I also accidentally took a picture of my knee, but I don’t know how I did that, and I can't seem to do it again.

Theoretically, of course, having a dingleberry means I can now access e-mail in airports, bathrooms, my car, bars, coffee houses, the branch office El Jardin’s, and my boat!!

Do you know what that means? It means now I can not get back to people right away from airports, bathrooms, my car, bars, coffee houses, the branch office El Jardin’s, and my boat!! I’m going to be the most efficient slacker in the entire industry!

But I do have one problem. I think these things were made for aboriginal dwarf women with tiny little chicken-claw fingers. Either that, or my fingers are way fatter than average. And, while I myself am fatter than average, I’ve always thought I had really slender, almost svelte fingers.

But I can’t dial this damn thing. The keyboard is the same keyboard you have on your laptop, layout-wise . . . but the entire thing is the size of about six normal typewriter or computer keys.

And the numbers for the phone are on those keys, too. So when I go to dial a “5” I also hit 4, 1, 2, 6, and 3.

This thing is costing me 45 minutes a day so far in lost productivity, as I keep having to redial numbers.

Does anyone know if there’s a fat man’s dingleberry model out there? Is there a Big and Tall Store for electronic gadgets? This stupid thing was made for anorexic midgets.

I am homeless.

Or, rather, I will be homeless, on March 22nd.

And, surprisingly enough, it has nothing to do with IRS debt, alcoholism, or Cindy throwing me out of the house.

It actually has to do with some surprising behavior from one of Ragan’s competitors, Melcrum.

If you don’t know Melcrum, they do the same kind of thing Ragan Communications does—conferences and publications for corporate communicators.

I’ve always kind of liked Melcrum. I think there are some smart people over there. But little did I know that they think I’m a monster. A horrible, scary bald bastard of a monster.

Here’s the story:

On March 22 and 23, I’m teaching the Master Class Seminar in Chicago. Well, it turns out that at the same time we were going to be in the Doubletree Hotel in Chicago, Melcrum was also holding one of their conferences in the same hotel.

Now, this wasn’t planned, as far as I know. But when I found out about it, I thought it would be kind of fun. I was going to try to steal their afternoon cookies, get their speakers drunk in the hotel bar the night before, send over some goodies and treats (and Ragan publications) . . . it was going to be a hoot.

I mean, if there’s one fact in corporate communications, it’s what Shel Holtz told me 15 years ago: There is enough business for everyone. You don’t need to be paranoid and competitive.

So I figured it’d be a fun couple of days. I even had some posterboard signs made up that I was going to put up over by the Melcrum conference. Saying things like:

“All Melcrum attendees allowed in the Ragan Master Class for FREE.”

“FREE BOOZE at the Ragan Conference in the Ambassador room!”

“Now appearing at the Ragan Conference in the Ambassador room: George Clooney! And he’s Naked!”

And for the three males that come to a communication conference:

“Now appearing at the Ragan Conference in the Ambassador room: Angelina Jolie! And she’s Naked!”

Wouldn’t that have been fun?

But Melcrum didn’t see the fun in the friendly competition. In fact, I guess they flipped out.

They had some obscure clause in their contract prohibiting competitors from using the hotel at the same time as their conference, and they used that clause to bully the hotel into kicking us out.

I had no idea I was that scary! I mean, I know I LOOK scary. You can tell that by looking at my picture at the top of this blog. I know it’s not pretty. If Uncle Fester ever had sex with King Kong Bundy, and if men could conceive babies, the result would be me: Uncle Bundy.

But I didn’t know I was THAT scary. So scary that people would be afraid to be in the same hotel with me.

So, anyway, I’m homeless now. The good news is that it looks like we’ll be moving the seminar to the Drake Hotel—which is just around the corner, literally, from the Doubletree. Which is fine with me, because the Drake has the best martini in the entire city. It’s called “The Executive.” I think they named it that because after drinking two of them you start babbling corporate-speak.

But if the Drake doesn’t work out, I’m open to suggestions for where to conduct the Master Class. I could do it at my house, but I have two cats—including one, Ella, who will shred the skin right off your leg if you look at her wrong. So that might not be a good idea.

I’ve never been homeless before. I guess I always sort of thought that I would be homeless one day . . . I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

I am involved in a wonderful project right now. It’s a full-blown communication audit, with focus groups and executive interviews and surveys and vehicle analysis and in-house workshops and everything.

It’s one of those rare projects where everything seems to go right. The clients are fun to be with, there’s the potential to really make some changes, executives higher up on the food chain are on board . . . it’s terrific.

When it’s all over, and if I get the client’s permission, I’ll tell you all about it, because I think there are some terrific lessons to be learned in how to run a good audit.

But in the meantime, I want to share something with you that came out of a focus group I did last week.

The group was filled with blue-collar workers whose tolerance for corporate nonsense was non-existent. You couldn’t spin anything past these boys. My favorite quote came from a guy who had just celebrated his 30th anniversary with the company. He said: "Tell the boys upstairs that if they're going to send bullshit, don't bother. We're too goddamned busy."

These guys were smart, they knew their job, and they knew what they wanted from management and corporate communications.

So anyway, we got to talking about executive communication. And when one executive’s name came up, one of the workers had this to say:

“He knows what he wants, that’s for sure. He’s a real feefo guy.”

“Huh?” I said. “He’s a what?”

“Feefo,” said another guy, and then he spelled it out: “F-I-F-O.”

“And what’s that?”

“F-I-F-O,” he said. “It stands for Fall In or Fuck Off. That’s his management style.”

Now, I had never heard that before. But I kind of like it. I mean, I might not like the executive very much . . . but it’s a cool expression.

And it got me to thinking: Could a FIFO guy really succeed in this day and age? Could a company run by FIFO people actually succeed? Probably not, right? Not in this day and age when “engagement” and “transparency” are so hugely popular. Not when you have so many younger workers coming into the workplace who question any kind of authority whatsoever.

But then, it hit me. What is one of the most successful companies in the world?

Disney! And, from everything I’ve ever heard about Disney’s corporate culture, they are run by FIFOs top to bottom. If the rumors are true, their executives march around the corporate headquarters (referred to as “Mousechwitz") with FIFO arm bands on their brown shirts.

Since so many people want to work for Disney, the company is comfortable telling employees to Fall In or Fuck Off. Because if they decide to fuck off, there are 18 million other people ready to take their place.

All of which gave me a great idea that I’ve already sent to Disney, free of charge:

They should create a character named Fifo. Fifo the squirrel, or Fifo the opossum, or Fifo the dung beetle, or whatever. Fifo could hang around with Donald and Mickey and Pluto at the theme parks and make sure people are having fun.

So, for example, if Fifo The Dung Beetle spots a kid not singing along to “It’s a small world, after all,” then he would leap into action, beating the child about the head and shoulders with a rubber banana, while screaming “FIFO!!! FIFO!!!!!”

Since Disney is a family-oriented theme park, Fifo would never actually say what his name means . . . but children everywhere would know that if you aren’t having fun—blatant, obnoxious, visible fun—you risk getting a visit from Fifo.

What a wonderful aid that would be for parents. As they drag their kid around the park for 14 hours of fun, the minute the kid starts acting up or getting bratty, all a parent would have to do is look off into the distance, squint, and say: "Uh oh . . . I think I see Fifo on his way over here." And immediately the kid would snap back into a Disney frame of mind.

Sometimes, I think I'm a genius.

Sorry for not posting for a while. I’ve been distracted.

To tell you the truth, I’ve been busy haggling with the bean counters at Ragan over my Master Class expenses. My boss at Ragan, Jim Ylisela, actually had to have a sit-down with the accounting team, I guess, over some of the expenses.

In the meeting, Jim says the spread-sheeters kept throwing different receipts at him, and asking him to explain why Ragan should pay them.

At one point, according to Jim, one of the accountants was beside himself with rage.

“Look at this receipt!” he screamed at Jim. “It’s for $38 for lunch in the airport, and do you know what he had? Do you know what he had?!? Three martinis and a soup. He has the nerve to call that a meal? Three martinis and a soup?!?!”

There was also a problem, I guess, with a $60 breakfast receipt from some place called "The Rum Tiki Lounge," and some quibbling over an $85 bottle of room-service wine, among other things.

All of which is my fault, of course. And it leads to this week’s “Free Travel Tip for Business Travelers®.”

The tip: Make sure you turn in the right receipt.

See, I take full responsibility for the Three Martinis and a Soup (what a great name for an autobiography) fiasco.

When you eat at airport bars and put it on a credit card, the bartender gives you three receipts: one for them, one for you, and a detailed receipt that actually shows the items you consumed.

I learned a long time ago to burn that third, itemized receipt. Before 9/11, when you could carry lighters in airports, I used to burn those receipts right on the spot. You can’t do that anymore, so now I just eat the receipt.

That way, you can’t get in trouble. Let’s say, for example, that you have four martinis at the airport bar. (It should be noted that these are “airport martinis” which are notoriously small and ineffective. So four “airport martinis” is roughly equivalent to 1.5 “regular martinis,” which is a perfectly reasonable amount of martini to consume before flying.)

When you get the bill for the four martinis, it’s going to be $47. Exactly. I don’t know why that is, but no matter what airport you are in, the bill for four martinis is $47.

Well, if you submit that bill for $47 and call it dinner, the accountants will love you. Especially if you are me, and the accountants are used to getting bigger bills for dinner. The accountants at Ragan have been known to start whooping and dancing, and doing a conga line around the office, when I submit a $47 dinner bill.

But if you take that same bill, and instead of calling it dinner, you are stupid enough to turn in the itemized receipt with the martinis on there, the accountants go batty.

In this case, I simply turned in the wrong receipt. It was supposed to just say, “Lunch.” Instead, it said: “Three martinis and a soup.”

Let this be a lesson for all of us.