What's in a Name?
Have you ever Googled yourself? For those of our readers who are not computer savvy, please understand that I am referring to the Internet search engine site "Google" and not some un-savory action that might be considered offensive in the public arena. By simply typing your name into Google's search box, you can not only learn a great deal about people who share your name, but you can learn about yourself as well.
Among the legions of Jon Kaufman's throughout America are, the owner of a Baltimore Animal Hospital, a writer for the Wall Street Journal, an adventurer who arranges safaris in Africa, and the bass player for a Vegas lounge act called "The Laymen." Along with these active gents, there is also some local flavor provided by a person known by a similar moniker.
Last week I was approached by a person who asked if I was Dr. John Kaufman, the prominent Roanoke area Dermatologist. This was not the first time I had been confused with the good doctor. Upon moving to the Roanoke Valley area in 1983, it took me several weeks to connect phone service in my tiny Salem apartment, leaving my office phone as my only link to my home in New York. My friends, curious to see how I was faring south of the Mason-Dixon Line, tried to contact me by way of directory assistance and were told that the only listing for that name was a Dr. John Kaufman. What followed was a barrage of late night calls to my medical namesake from a group of drunken Long Islanders. When I later asked these friends why they didn't realize that Doctor Kaufman was a completely other person, my buddies explained that they though I might have trouble meeting girls (obviously, they knew me well) and that listing myself as a doctor in the directory was possibly my pathetic attempt to deceive the local females. Luckily, I later met Dr. Kaufman and found him to be a very nice and patient man. Previous to our meeting I had experienced nightmares in which the doctor had hunted me down and removed a mole from my nose with a rusty bottle-cap. Safe from my dreams, I was able to rest easy.
Years ago Dr. Kaufman's home apparently sustained a sizable amount of devastation due to a fire. I remember reading that there was somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars in damage to the property. The same day I was besieged by phone calls asking me about the flames that had ravaged my home. I explained to all of those concerned well wishers that my house was still intact and that in order for my residence to incur fifty thousand dollars worth of damage, it would first have to burn to the ground, then rebuilt, and then burned to the ground a second time.
Coincidentally, my sister Laura met Dr. Kaufman once while attending a medical convention. Upon noticing that the person before her was wearing a badge reading "Dr. John Kaufman- Roanoke, Virginia," Laura (amused by the coincidence) announced that she had a brother named Jon Kaufman and they he lived in Roanoke as well. I can only imagine the dread felt by the doctor, as the specter of me darkened his door once more. Laura reported the doc to be very pleasant and was seemingly painfully aware of who I was.
Cruising through the pages of people sharing my appellation, it became clear to me that I was likely a lower form of Jon Kaufman, a bottom-feeder far less accomplished than a great many of the same name. Google images even had a far better looking bearded fellow named Jon Kaufman who's photo was posted directly above my Roanoke Star Sentinel headshot, conjuring up a kind of "before and after" example often seen in advertisements for plastic surgery.
Apparently, it is easier being me than I thought it was. Some of us are downright successful! Perhaps there is hope for me yet? Maybe another Jon Kaufman will do something notably moronic and bump me closer to the middle of the pack?
A British playwright once wrote "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Easy for him to say, I am pretty sure that he is at the head of the Google line of successful William Shakespeare's.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
In Search of Comedy in the Sales World
Everyday is an adventure in the world of outside sales. Whether it is a customer assailing your lineage or hoping that a comet will strike earth the day before you are scheduled to spend some time with your boss, one never knows what challenges a new day will bring.
Generally a typical sales day falls into one of three categories; success, comic, frustration and the catastrophic. Ninety percent of a sales person's life is spent in category number three, frustration. The daily, soul dampening siege most salespeople endure equates to an average citizen allowing a bucket of fish guts to be deposited upon their head each and every time that person speaks. Success and catastrophe each carry approximately two percent of a peddler's days on the street, accounting for the occasional large commission check or, perhaps, the slow torture of "corrective action" administered by a micro- manager who lacks the sales skills to persuade Tommy Lee to add another tattoo.
What inspires most salespeople to return to the trenches and continue their daily march to the grave? The answer lies in those rare fleeting moments of comedy that infiltrate their day. To pause for a laugh amidst a stormy sea of rejection is always a welcome respite.
Once, a rookie co-worker of mine (let's call her "Katie") was asked to present a proposal to a large group and brought me along to the meeting for moral support. She was extremely nervous about the presentation and had stopped at home to eat something before the meeting fearing the possibility that her stomach might begin growling during her sales pitch. Surrounded by interested prospective customers, Katie took off her coat and launched into her proposal only to realize that, in her haste, she had forgotten to remove the frilly apron she had worn during her lunch to help guard her business clothes. What followed was a brief, awkward silence and a question from the audience as to whether Katie had whipped up some cookies to bring to the meeting. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh and the tension subsided. "Katie Homemaker" (as she was now known to the group), finished her presentation and secured the sale.
Years ago, in the early days of cellular phones, I was asked to travel to some rather remote areas to drum up business for this new and exciting technology. One such trip steered me up a long, winding dirt road where a group of loggers were seeking some sort of communication to their home base. Dressed in a three-piece suit I met the loggers atop a mountain somewhere near Gretna. Previous to exiting my car I saw something and caused me to pull my left foot back into the vehicle with great haste. Standing before me was a solid black, mutant German Shepherd mix the size of a small horse. Normally I have no fear of dogs, but this brute was clearly sizing me up as an appetizer. When the loggers came over to greet me the beast ran off into the forest and I slowly emerged from the car. I engaged the loggers with the usual talk about price and coverage until I felt something pushing into my back, nearly knocking me over. I slowly turned to investigate this disturbance and found the black dog standing behind me holding a dead, bloody raccoon in his mouth, offering the carcass to me as a kind of gift! The loggers noticing the look of horror on my face fell over each other laughing, commenting that the dog must really like me to bestow such a thoughtful token. As you might imagine, my dry cleaner gave me the oddest look when I brought that suit in to be cleaned. It was as if he was trying to remember my features just in case he was prompted to describe my likeness to a police sketch artist.
Another appointment brought me to a small farm near Salem, when the wife of an elderly farmer called me about a cell phone for her husband. Unable to reach him when he was out in the fields, the woman wanted a phone that would be loud enough for her hearing impaired spouse to heed over the rumble of a tractor engine. I explained that I could provide a portable phone that vibrated and that if her husband kept the handset in his chest pocket, he would be able to "feel" the call. Sold on the feature, the woman set up an appointment for me to meet her husband and bring him a phone.
The following is a brief one act play depicting my conversation with the farmer.
Scene: A small farm in Southwestern, Virginia. A nattily attired salesperson rings the doorbell of a farm house. The farmer answers the door.
Farmer: Good morning young fella.
Salesperson: Good morning sir, I am Jon Kaufman from GTE.
Farmer: You say you want something to eat?
Jon (puzzled) No sir, I am from GTE the mobile phone company.
Farmer: Son why would I want to mobile home, when I live right here in this farmhouse?
Jon (feeling like he had somehow been transported back in time and deposited into and Abbott and Costello sketch). No sir, I spoke to your wife about a cell phone.
Farmer: I am not interested in selling my home.
(The farmer steps back and shuts the door.)
Curtain.
It is little stories like these that keep me beating the bushes for sales. You never know what is behind the next door. Fellow salespeople, take heart in these trying times, you are not alone out there. Somewhere a comic moment waits to brighten your day.
Everyday is an adventure in the world of outside sales. Whether it is a customer assailing your lineage or hoping that a comet will strike earth the day before you are scheduled to spend some time with your boss, one never knows what challenges a new day will bring.
Generally a typical sales day falls into one of three categories; success, comic, frustration and the catastrophic. Ninety percent of a sales person's life is spent in category number three, frustration. The daily, soul dampening siege most salespeople endure equates to an average citizen allowing a bucket of fish guts to be deposited upon their head each and every time that person speaks. Success and catastrophe each carry approximately two percent of a peddler's days on the street, accounting for the occasional large commission check or, perhaps, the slow torture of "corrective action" administered by a micro- manager who lacks the sales skills to persuade Tommy Lee to add another tattoo.
What inspires most salespeople to return to the trenches and continue their daily march to the grave? The answer lies in those rare fleeting moments of comedy that infiltrate their day. To pause for a laugh amidst a stormy sea of rejection is always a welcome respite.
Once, a rookie co-worker of mine (let's call her "Katie") was asked to present a proposal to a large group and brought me along to the meeting for moral support. She was extremely nervous about the presentation and had stopped at home to eat something before the meeting fearing the possibility that her stomach might begin growling during her sales pitch. Surrounded by interested prospective customers, Katie took off her coat and launched into her proposal only to realize that, in her haste, she had forgotten to remove the frilly apron she had worn during her lunch to help guard her business clothes. What followed was a brief, awkward silence and a question from the audience as to whether Katie had whipped up some cookies to bring to the meeting. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh and the tension subsided. "Katie Homemaker" (as she was now known to the group), finished her presentation and secured the sale.
Years ago, in the early days of cellular phones, I was asked to travel to some rather remote areas to drum up business for this new and exciting technology. One such trip steered me up a long, winding dirt road where a group of loggers were seeking some sort of communication to their home base. Dressed in a three-piece suit I met the loggers atop a mountain somewhere near Gretna. Previous to exiting my car I saw something and caused me to pull my left foot back into the vehicle with great haste. Standing before me was a solid black, mutant German Shepherd mix the size of a small horse. Normally I have no fear of dogs, but this brute was clearly sizing me up as an appetizer. When the loggers came over to greet me the beast ran off into the forest and I slowly emerged from the car. I engaged the loggers with the usual talk about price and coverage until I felt something pushing into my back, nearly knocking me over. I slowly turned to investigate this disturbance and found the black dog standing behind me holding a dead, bloody raccoon in his mouth, offering the carcass to me as a kind of gift! The loggers noticing the look of horror on my face fell over each other laughing, commenting that the dog must really like me to bestow such a thoughtful token. As you might imagine, my dry cleaner gave me the oddest look when I brought that suit in to be cleaned. It was as if he was trying to remember my features just in case he was prompted to describe my likeness to a police sketch artist.
Another appointment brought me to a small farm near Salem, when the wife of an elderly farmer called me about a cell phone for her husband. Unable to reach him when he was out in the fields, the woman wanted a phone that would be loud enough for her hearing impaired spouse to heed over the rumble of a tractor engine. I explained that I could provide a portable phone that vibrated and that if her husband kept the handset in his chest pocket, he would be able to "feel" the call. Sold on the feature, the woman set up an appointment for me to meet her husband and bring him a phone.
The following is a brief one act play depicting my conversation with the farmer.
Scene: A small farm in Southwestern, Virginia. A nattily attired salesperson rings the doorbell of a farm house. The farmer answers the door.
Farmer: Good morning young fella.
Salesperson: Good morning sir, I am Jon Kaufman from GTE.
Farmer: You say you want something to eat?
Jon (puzzled) No sir, I am from GTE the mobile phone company.
Farmer: Son why would I want to mobile home, when I live right here in this farmhouse?
Jon (feeling like he had somehow been transported back in time and deposited into and Abbott and Costello sketch). No sir, I spoke to your wife about a cell phone.
Farmer: I am not interested in selling my home.
(The farmer steps back and shuts the door.)
Curtain.
It is little stories like these that keep me beating the bushes for sales. You never know what is behind the next door. Fellow salespeople, take heart in these trying times, you are not alone out there. Somewhere a comic moment waits to brighten your day.
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