He was a curmudgeon, some would say, what with his 4,392 pet peeves.
He had a turned up lip, a constant sneer and some - usually behind his back - referred to him as the Vicar of Mean. He did like, however, old dogs, a few children and, of course, really sour green apples.
Dour he was, though it was told he could spin a funny yarn to children under five. Around the newsroom, though, he stared straight ahead, his eyes seeming to follow you, like those dime-store portraits of Jesus Christ.
This I am told because, unlike him, I had sold out, gone over to the PR side, and I never worked with him in the newsroom where he anchored an editor's desk. I would only see him occasionally at The Hole In The Wall, a sort of tavern a stone's throw from the newspaper's office.
He died last week. He was more an acquaintance than a friend, though I would like to call him the latter, even though he was quick to point out when I should have used "me" as opposed to "I", and, for gosh sakes, don't be so silly as to use "myself."
If you were to say or write, "At this point in time," he would cut you to the bone, for it was obvious you had proven yourself an imbecile by adding the unnecessary "in time" appendage. There were hundreds, well, actually 4,392, of these dark puddles.
He was probably about my age now when we first met, 59, and 83 when he died. His name is not important, but I find myself, as I enter what he would call the Yellow Leaf period, also being pestered by social gnats that buzz about.
So in tribute to him, I list a few of my own pet peeves, ones shared by my friend, knowing that they represent more a memorial to him than a lecture to others. And, of course, they are far fewer than those of the Vicar of Mean.
1) I don't like casual Fridays. My view is that it was thought up by a human resources guy with little else to do. I came up in an age where you put on a coat and tie to go to a football game. An airline flight always called for your Sunday best.
If one works in a professional organization, for chrissakes, dress the part. Who wants a Britney Spears wannabee or a guy who looks like he just got in from a frat party giving PR or advertising advice? This is applicable to my profession.
These days the word "creative" has become a plural noun rather than a singular adjective, referring to people who wear Che Guevara t-shirts, have spiked hair, go sockless, have the obligatory one earring, and who are, officially, creative directors.
For those folks, I have a double standard. Clients expect them to be a little weird. But wouldn't it be interesting if one of these guys showed up in a coat and tie - now that really would be nonconformist!
2) E-mail. Some say I don't believe the world of electronic communication is here to stay. That is untrue. I just want it to be a little more genteel, if you will. Thus, this memo to staff last week:
"E-mails. I put e-mails in the category of things that can cause World War III. Lately, I have seen several that have been less than politic. Please, guys, if you have a serious discussion - one that could lead to wrong impressions - pick up the telephone. Or visit that person's office. E-mails should be diplomatic, not nuclear tipped missiles."
3) Mobile Telephones. I had a meeting with my landlady the other day. I give her a considerable sum each month for office space. During our 15-minute meeting, she received five - count them - five calls on her cell phone, and she took them.
"What is wrong with this picture?" I ask. Willard must have all the time in the world. "Shoo, Mr. Client. All you were probably doing was contemplating your screen saver," she is implying. Please, in business meetings, turn the damned things off.
And then there are the folks who receive cell phone calls in public areas and talk THIS LOUD about their business deals. The only people they really impress are girls named Tammy Faye who have big wads of bubble gum in their mouths. You know who you are.
4.) And finally, tardiness. Last week I received a call from a Kyiv client. He said he was caught in traffic and would be 90 minutes late. An hour-and-a-half? Where was he stuck in traffic? Warsaw?
I once was asked to give a talk to Sen. John D. Rockefeller's new Senate staff at a resort about an hour from my home. I dutifully agreed, driving the distance after work and showed up on time.
The new staff was an hour-and-a-half late.
Where was I by that time? You guessed it, I pointed my car back toward home about 15 minutes before they arrived, leaving a note at the reception desk that I had to see a man about a dog, or something similar.
In my book, lateness is terminal, right up there with cardiac arrest.
If it is habitual, its carriers deserve the death penalty. I grew up respecting others' time - realizing, in the scheme of things, that life is less than the flutter of a butterfly's wing. We need to make the most of it.
There: Only four of my acquaintance's 4,392 pet peeves. The Vicar of Mean would probably be disappointed.
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