I have in front of me a pile of cocktail napkins, scraps of paper, conference brochures with scribblings in the margins, pieces of hotel stationary, and the torn-off back cover of a cheap mystery paperback, where I jotted down something that seemed terribly important at the time.

Such is my research from my recent ten-day trip to Warsaw and London, spreading the employee communication Gospel, as told to me by Larry Ragan.

All of these ramblings and jottings seemed brilliant and insightful when I first wrote them down . . . and of course some of them seem less so now. But I share them with you nonetheless. Some of them may even by slightly helpful. Some of them may even be work related.

There’s quite a bit here, so I’ll space them out over a couple of days.

The highlight of the trip was definitely last Sunday, when Marc Wright of simply-communicate and his wife Bev invited Cindy and I out to their English country estate for Sunday dinner with their family.

First, though, we stopped at England’s oldest pub—in a place called Buckinghamshire, if you can believe it. This pub actually served William the Conqueror a pint of bitter when he came over in 1066. Robin of Locksley first bedded Maid Marion in one of the upstairs rooms. I tried to bed Cindy in the parking lot, for tradition's sake. She has no sense of tradition. But what a great experience anyway.

Then, it was on to the Wright Manor House, where we strolled the moors and took part in a grouse hunt. When we got back, the Butler had laid out my dinner jacket on my bed in the Oak Room, and had laid a fire and poured a spot of brandy to take the chill off.

Then, we all gathered in the drawing room, where the Butler poisoned a sacrificial IT person. The only problem with that part of the night was that nobody cared much that an IT person had been murdered, so nobody tried to solve the mystery.

Afterwards, all the ladies went somewhere else, and the men retired to the study and smoked cigars and drank brandy and talked about the state of the Empire, and why the French are such despicable creatures.

Okay . . . I made all that up. But Marc does have a great country house, and a great family. He doesn’t have a butler or a moor or a dead IT professional in his drawing room . . . but he does make his own cider from the apple trees in his yard. And it's really good cider.

And he’s a great host, too. In fact, he may be the funniest man to drink with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking with.

We were sitting around that Sunday, after gorging ourselves on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and I asked why relations between the French and English are so bad.

Of course Marc has his own theory of why they don’t get along that well—and it has nothing to do with thousands of years of wars and battles and bloodshed and incest and grudges that never die.

It has to do with the fact that French people simply refuse to stand in a proper line for anything. They don’t respect the queue, Marc said.

“English people live for the queue!” he screamed. “The queue is our life. It gives order to the madness! And the French refuse to live by the queue. They just don’t do it!”

Having been in France many times, I know that he's right. You could be standing in line for 30 minutes, and some French dude will just walk right to the front. It really is enough to make you hate a whole race of people.

Marc went for a while about the lack of respect for the queue, then started a rant about stores where you have to pull a little number out of a machine, and then wait for your number to be called before you get served.

“Why do you need that?” he barked. “You don’t need to pull a stupid bloody number out of a machine if everybody would just respect the queue. What if I’m standing in queue and reading the paper and I miss my number? I have to go to the end of the line? You don’t need a number system if everybody would just respect the queue!”

But, I pointed out, there are some merits to the number-pulling system.

“For example, you can pull your number and then go shopping for other stuff in the store,” I said, meekly. “You don’t have to just stand at the meat counter the entire time.”

“OH!!!!” he said. “That is just like an American!! Isn’t that just what you did in 1939?!? You came over here in 39 and pulled your bloody number, then went shopping around for two years before coming back!!”

Now, that’s funny.

In tomorrow’s installment, I think I have some interesting insights into the differences between communicating to an English audience versus an American one. Stay tuned.

When I was in London last month, I got into an interesting exchange with a British communicator.

The topic was interactive management columns—those places on the intranet where employees can go to submit questions to senior leaders, who answer them and post the questions and answers where everybody can see them.

I was talking about these programs, and showing some good examples of how well they work, when a British woman spoke up.

“That would never work in England,” she said. “Here, employees are too cynical, and they would only use the forum to bitch and moan about everything they see wrong with the company.”

Now, I’ve heard that same fear voiced in the States, too. And I’ve heard horror stories from communicators who break their asses to set something like this up, and then get dozens of questions from employees complaining about stale croutons in the cafeteria salad bar.

But . . . if you run these forums right and keep the discussions focused on business-related topics, eventually people start to use the forum for its intended purpose: as a way to discuss high-level business topics with leaders, and as a way to float your ideas and comments past the layer of management sewage and straight to the top.

And by the way, it’s not that hard to do. You just never let the petty gripes and non-business complaints see the light of day. And you don’t even respond to the people who sent in the complaint. Eventually, fewer and fewer of the non-strategic questions come in, and the forum is established. It may take a couple of months, but it will usually happen.

Well, I said all of this to the British woman, but she was having none of it.

“We’re more cynical than Americans, plain and simple,” she said. “That kind of freewheeling interactivity would never work over here.”

And that got me to thinking: Could she be right? Now, I know the book on the Brits is that they are cynical. I know that, according to the common wisdom, most English people are two parts Basil Fawlty, one part Dorothy Parker, and one part hungover, crabby Winston Churchill.

They are sarcastic and snide, and can cut you quietly seven times before you even realize that you’re bleeding. But are they really more cynical than Americans?

I just find that hard to believe, based on three simple words: The Royal Family.

I mean, how cynical can you be, as a nation, if you are sheep-like enough to put up with The Royal Family?

Have you seen Buckingham Palace, or St. James Palace, or any of the other palaces where these mooches live? Have you seen their lifestyle? How cynical can a country be if they’re willing to put up with that . . . while at the same time you can’t get a pint of beer in a pub for less than eight bucks?

Or think of it this way: Can you imagine Americans putting up with The Royal Family?

To put it in an American perspective, let's take it into the business environment. Let’s pretend that you are applying for a job at a new company. During the initial interview, you ask about leadership at the organization, and you’re told this:

“Well, our CEO is CEO for life. We aren’t allowed to get rid of him. We don’t have a Board of Executives or anything like that. He’s here until he dies. And when he dies, his goofy kid is going to take over, and there’s nothing we can about that, either. But that’s okay, because other than draw a monster salary and live in a huge mansion and fly around the world in private jets, our CEO doesn’t actually do anything. So he can’t hurt us too bad.”

What would the average American worker say to that? But of course it gets worse, doesn’t it? “Oh, and by the way,” the interviewer continues, “you’ll probably hear about the CEO's relatives—sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles. Uh . . . they’re all on the payroll, too. Big time. They all make a hell of a lot more than you ever will in your entire life.

“But they don’t really do anything either, other than make a spectacle out of themselves in public once in a while, and occasionally have sex with each other. And some of them ride horses, I think. And we trot them out for formal functions, and hope they don’t embarrass us. Oh, and we pay for all their housing and clothes and expense accounts and world travel, too. For all of them. And we’re going to keep doing that forever.”

Can you even imagine? What would be the first question you would ask? Maybe . . . why? What purpose do they serve? Does it have to be this way? The first question I would ask would be: “How do we pay for these people? Doesn’t it wreck havoc on the bottom line?”

And of course they wouldn’t have an answer . . . but you would get one nonetheless, when you visited the corporate cafeteria for the first time, and noticed that a hamburger cost $24, and a bottle of water was $12.

I guess I just don’t buy the whole, “Brits are more cynical than Americans” chestnut. Maybe 30 years ago it was true. Maybe even 20 years ago it was true. But we’ve been Enronned. We’ve been WorldCommed. We had our own version of the Royal Family . . . only our Royalty was a bunch of fat white dudes in suits who thought they had a divine right to cheat employees, lie to investors, and sock away the company crown jewels for their own personal gain.

We let it happen once, but I don’t think we’ll let it happen again. Meanwhile, across the pond, Chuckie and Liz and Andy and Phil go tripping merrily along.

Then again . . . maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s because of the Royal Family that British workers are so cynical. Maybe the fact that the Royal Family exists, and they can’t do anything about it, has turned the English bitter.

And since they can’t voice their concerns to the Queen, they take it out on their employers. And maybe that’s what our communicator friend was getting at: If you set up an interactive forum on an English intranet, all that misplaced bile and bitterness will come pouring out.

It does make sense. I’m fairly sure that if I was breaking my ass on the job every day, and I could barely afford a shepherd's pie and a pint after work, while somebody called the Queen and her incest-ridden family sat on their fat asses in a palace that I was paying for . . . I'd probably show up to work too pissed off to engage in a dialogue with my senior leaders, too.

Still, I’d like to see some English companies try the tactic, just to see how it would turn out.

So I pick up the Chicago Tribune today and see this teaser next to a story on Don Rumsfeld’s long-overdue resignation:

“Rumsfeld invites comparisons to Churchill.”

And of course my first thought is: What idiot compared this yahoo to Winston?

I had to ask because I just got back from London, where the highlight of my time in the city was the two hours I spent in The War Rooms museum—the tiny, cramped underground bunker where Winston Churchill and his staff directed the war effort as Luftwaffe bombs exploded all around them.

There’s also a Churchill museum there, where you learn a lot about the great man’s failures as well as his successes. As far as I could tell, Rumsfeld and Churchill had only one thing in common: stubbornness.

But, where Churchill’s stubbornness was born out of need (if he falters, England loses), Rumsfeld’s stubbornness was born out of . . . well, sheer stubbornness and the inability to admit that he was wrong.

There are hundreds of differences between the two men, but to me the biggest two are these:

Churchill actually fought in a war; Rumsfeld never did.

Churchill was an orator whose words inspired millions; Rumsfeld was a quick-witted smartass whose words irritated some and made others chuckle.

So as I read this teaser, “Rumsfeld invites comparisons to Churchill, see page 17,” I can’t get to page 17 fast enough, to see what history-challenged moron sent out that invitation.

Was it Bush? Maybe . . . there’s a better-than-even chance that Bush thinks Churchill was a Senator from Kentucky.

Cheney? Maybe . . . but he would probably know better.

Colin Powell? Doubt it. There’s a better chance Powell would compare Rumsfeld to a wart on Churchill’s ass than to the great man himself.

So who was it? Do you give up?

It was Rumsfeld! He compared himself to Churchill! Old Donny Boy himself “invited comparisons” of himself to Churchill!

Can you imagine the nerve it takes to do that? Can you imagine the delusions of self-grandeur you must suffer from?

Talking about his time in office, Rumsfeld actually had the balls to say:

“It’s been quite a time. It calls to mind the statement of Winston Churchill, something to the effect that I have benefited greatly from criticism and at no time have I suffered a lack thereof.”

Shouldn’t there be a rule that if you’re a public figure you can’t compare yourself to Churchill? Shouldn’t someone else have to make that comparison?

Once, when I was a luncheon keynote speaker at a Ragan conference, I “introduced” myself because nobody else wanted to. My introduction of myself went something like this:

“It’s a great, great honor for me to introduce our luncheon speaker today. He is not only a great communicator . . . he’s a brilliant thinker and a great man. He has been called the Winston Churchill of employee communications, and his legacy grows larger every single day. I am so, so proud to introduce to you . . . Steve Crescenzo.”

Then, I turned around at the podium, and said, in a deeper voice:

“Thank you, thank you very much. These conference introductions are always so over the top.”

But here’s the thing: I was kidding! You can’t really compare yourself to Churchill!

Especially if you’re Donald “Duck” Rumsfeld (so named because, in response to soldiers complaining that they had no armor, Rumseld's apparent response was to tell them to duck), fearless deployer of U.S. troops who somehow managed to avoid going to war himself.

There was yet another big article in the Chicago Tribune today about SecondLife.com.

Have you heard of this thing yet? It’s just exactly what it sounds like: A chance for people to have a “second life” online. It’s not complicated at all. All you have to do is go to www.secondlife.com and create an “avatar” for yourself, and then you can start living your Second Life in the Second Life world.

You can be a girl, or a boy, or a kid, or an adult. I’m not sure, but you can probably be a dwarf or an elf or an orc, too. I know for sure that you can fly in Second Life. But it’s not some kind of fantasy game. It’s not a game at all, in fact.

Once you have your avatar, you can actually go live your life online. You can even purchase real estate and other things (with real money) out there. According to the article, businesses are rushing to establish brands and stores out there.

Kurt Vonnegut was out there talking about his latest book. Bands have parties on their own private islands. People meet, have sex, and get married out there. Right now, more than 1.3 million people have established Second Lives, if you can believe it.

Of course, I’ve known about Second Life for a while, because I’m pals with Shel Holtz. And Shel has been talking about Second Life for months now. (As usual, he was about a year ahead of everybody else).

Shel’s new company, crayon, even has its official offices in Second Life, because they are a virtual company with people spread out across the world. They paid real money to buy an entire island (Crayonville) out there, I think.

Second Life is big . . .and it’s about to get bigger. You heard it hear third: It will be the next big thing.

Despite all this, however, I won’t be going to Second Life.

In fact, I’m putting it on my official “List of Things I Swear I Will Never Do.” It is going to be fourth on the list, right after “Watch a Reality TV Show,” and just before “Stand In Line To Go Into a Bar or Club.”

I don’t want to diss Second Life, or the people who “live” out there. To each his own, and if it makes you happy, go for it.

But it’s not for me. Why? Because I’m having a hard enough time fitting everything I want to do into Life #1 to even consider having a Second Life.

One of my favorite quotes of all time is by one of my favorite writers of all time: E. B. White, who once said:

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.”

That’s exactly how I feel. Now, when I say I want to “Improve the world,” I don’t mean by building houses for the poor or adopting Third World babies. I’m too selfish for that. But I am torn between trying to add something to the world—in the form of a novel, a play, a great essay, a one-man show, etc.—and just soaking up everything the world has to offer.

I think I do okay . . . if I tilt one way, it’s definitely toward the enjoyment side of things. But that’s the way it should be, I feel.

But every day is a struggle . . . and there are never enough hours in a day.

Every day I want to write something great, or at least good; I want to wrestle with my son for an hour straight; I want to make love to my wife; I want to eat at least one great meal; I want to shop for local ingredients and turn them into something wonderful; I want to walk by the lake; I want to read one of the five books I’m working my way through; I want to make love to my wife again; I want to drink martinis and wine and grappa.

I want to work on my one-man show; I want to coach my son in baseball and soccer and football and help him with his homework and teach him to love books; I want to go to Cubs games; I want to slow-cook ribs and brisket, starting the coals at 4 in the morning and the gin and tonics at 7; I want to drink champagne while I cruise the boat up the Chicago river; I want to go to Andy’s Jazz Club and the B.L.U.E.S. bar on Halsted; I want to shoot pool for eight hours straight with David Murray, and go see alternative country music with my friend Suki; I want to talk politics with Mark Ragan and sit at Bistrot Margot for a four-hour dinner with Jim Ylisela.

I want to host great dinner parties where everybody gets roaring drunk and says it was the best meal they’ve ever had; I want to go back to Paris and Venice and Barcelona and London; I want to go sit on a bench in the zoo with my notebook and capture slices of life; I want to do the New York Times crossword puzzle; I want to read the Economist; I want to make soup and grow my own fresh herbs; I want to take boxing lessons and French lessons and Italian lessons; I want to drink coffee and read the paper; I want to sit in front of the fire and listen to Simon and Garfunkle and James Taylor; I want to talk to my son for hours, and teach him all the things nobody ever taught me; I want to see another corner of the world that I haven't seen yet; and I want to get at least six hours of sleep a night.

I want to do all of this every . . . single . . .day.

So how the fuck am I supposed to find time to start a Second Life, when I don’t have nearly enough time in my first one?

Thank you, but no. I’ll pass on this one.

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