Punk Rock Pomodoro Productivity

 

Why does hyper productivity seem like the turf of business executives, entrepreneurs, and tech bros?

Where are the productivity hacks for the pixel-pushing designers? The emailing-phone-calling-project-managing-busy-body? The full-time mom trying to get a side gig off the ground? Or the regular dude just trying to get things done before Happy Hour?

These are the people who need productivity hacks the most. They have bosses, deadlines, distractions, and better things to do. It’s time to bring productivity to the people. It’s time for Punkrock Pomodoro.

Read the full post on Medium.com

 

Work-Life Balance Comes Home

When the toddler borrows my notebook

I was in a meeting recently, when someone mentioned creating marketing content for potential customers because they're so bored right now. 

Bored, I thought, who are these people with time to be bored? 

Despite being sent home to work remotely, my tasks haven't changed. I was already a remote worker before the lockdown began, so the prospect of staying home and working in isolation didn't seem so hard, until the Kita (that's the German daycare) closed.

Every day of this lockdown might seem like the same, but it's far from boring. The challenges of career and childcare smash into each other constantly. My wife and I must teleconference for work with a toddler climbing up and screaming "HEEEEYYY!" at our screens.

Focus time for writing or conceptual thinking only comes in blocks of an hour or so, when the toddler goes down for a nap. How about composing emails or reviewing word docs? We now do those things with the background noise of a toddler banging a wooden spoon against a toy pot.

I think I speak for many parents balancing a remote job and being their own daycare when I say I am not bored. But you know who is bored? That screaming, laughing, crying, wooden-spoon-wielding maniac. 

Every day he wakes up and we groggily wake up. It's a new day and he's ready to drink his warm milk, watch his cartoons, and ransack his toy shelves (which were carefully tidied the night before). He's so bored that he rarely plays with his toys, he just spreads them out on the floor, appraises them like a indifferent king, and then raids the kitchen cupboards for frying pans, plastic containers, and cheese graters (we take those away from him).

Pre-lockdown, he went to the Kita every day to sing songs, play with other kids, and climb the indoor jungle gym. His current playmates are two tired, sore giants, who won't do anything until they drink their hot black coffee juice, and they spend way too much time looking at their screens for work. I feel for the little guy.

In these strange times with another "Once in a Lifetime" recession looming, it's good to have a job and feel useful, especially when so many others have already been furloughed.

But there are times when I'm banging out copy on the laptop and the bored toddler pulls on my leg with a ball in his hand. He speaks in cute gibberish, but doesn't understand my "I have to work" gibberish. It's moments like that where I wish I was just a little more bored.

All that whole work-life balance handwringing was once an abstraction, something you mentally trained yourself to deal with, like not looking at your work email on the weekend or not talking about work at the dinner table. But the lockdown has made it a real, visceral thing. We have to choose between focusing on the toddler or the job, all day, every work day. 

Like the saying goes: If you trying doing two things at the same time, you won't do either one very well. If I play ball with him while writing the copy, I might hit my son in the face with the ball, which will make him cry, which will make my wife scowl at me. 

It often feels like I'm grinding every day out. Prepare a meal or two, change diapers, be a good colleague, be a good father, be a good husband, take the toddler for a walk, make sure the toddler doesn't find a way to maim or kill himself, shop for groceries, try not to get the covid while shopping for groceries, avoid drinking too much, write the occasional, self-indulgent blog post, get the toddler to sleep, and collapse. And I'm only the father, the mother is doing far more without the whiny blogging.

As Henry Rollins put it on his Cool Quarantine radio show: "These times aren't bad, they're just tough." I'm working from home, while spending a lot of time with my family. I'm watching my son go through an amazing time in his development. Sure, it's tough, but it definitely ain't bad.

Seeking Structure

How my job took me on a journey back to the basics of high school essay writing.

Writing an essay for Fr. Thompson's high school history class didn't involve much writing at first. Before we even started a rough draft, we sat down with him to choose a topic. Then we'd return with a thesis and a list of sources. Then we'd submit an outline.

Then we’d add meat to the bones of the outline with research. He taught to us to write quotes, notes, summaries, and citations on index cards. These were arranged by subject, which would form those three blocks of arguments that would go in between those introduction and conclusion.

After he looked over our index cards, we'd finally get to the actual essay writing.

I took this research and outlining technique for granted until university – when the training wheels came off. There were no weekly check-ins about sources or helpful notes in the margins of my essay outline. I was on my own, lost. My disciplined index card technique de-mutated into a helter skelter frenzy of scribbling out notes from books and academic journals on index cards, notebooks, and scraps of paper. My outlining process was laying them all over the floor, like David Bowie snipping lyrics, only I was no genius. Then I'd madly read and rearrange them as I banged out my history essays.

I should’ve known better. During a first-year history lecture, our professor asked the class how to research an essay. A former classmate raised her hand and responded with Fr. Thompson's index card technique. The history professor paused in surprise. “In 30 years of teaching, no one has answered that question correctly,” he said. It was, he added, the only way to research a paper.

And yet, I still couldn't muster the discipline to scratch my research notes onto index cards. I stubbornly held on to my paper diarrhoea essay technique.

After university, I spent ten years writing snappy 30-second radio ads, rhymey headlines, three-syllable taglines, and moody brand films with little dialogue. Most of my blog posts clock in at 200-300 words (though this one's a longy, at 667 words). There was no need for index cards, though I was a curiosity in many ad agencies with my notebook scribbling. So, the intention was there, but the structure was missing.

My current job demands regularly writing 5000-word eBooks, which means researching exciting topics like Software Compliance Audits and Oracle Java Licensing Changes. As you can imagine, I've struggled to wrap my head around the research and organize it into a sensible, logical structure – qualities I often lack.

I did everything. I doodled boxes and arrows in my notebooks, which spread from one page to another and then to the next page like a blob made of crazy-looking handwriting. For one long piece, I took a hint from John McPhee and David Bowie. I typed out all my research and the bits of half-written text, snipped it with scissors, and spread the clippings all over the office floor. As my nervous colleagues watched, I crouched and moved around the pieces, from the beginning through the long middle to the end, murmuring to myself.

To beat this professional challenge, and calm my colleagues, I fell back on a high school technique: Fr. Thompson's index cards.

I type my notes from interviews. I print them out reading materials and highlight passages. Then I sit down with the index cards, I read all of it and write the main points and highlights and random thoughts onto index cards. Old school. Then, as I'm writing, I shuffle through the cards or lay them out on a desk. Not only do I feel like an adult, but I feel like an organized adult.

In high school, the common question from every student when confronted with something that demanded effort was "Ugh… Am I going to use this in real life?" Twenty years later, I have my answer.

  

No crazy here!

Shooting St. Andrew's Links

Day 1 – Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Friday began with a 6am wake up to catch a train to Cologne. From Cologne we would catch a flight to Edinburgh. From Edinburgh we would rent a car and drive through the Scottish countryside to reach St. Andrews.

We were actually using planes, trains, and automobiles. 

The purpose of this trip was to shoot footage for an Allianz film. Friday was a travel day, Saturday was for filming, and Sunday was a little bit of filming before our noon-time flight back to Germany. There was no time for lolly-gagging – this was work. 

They say you get four seasons in one day in Scotland. The locals repeat it like a mantra. If its true every one of their seasons is bloody cold. The other seasons? Windy, cloudy, and rainy.

We went up and down fairways and into bunkers on the Old Course looking for the exact scenery we needed. The course was open for a normal day of golf so we were dodging play balls while we were looking around. No injuries, so we never had to find out if a German film crew is in play.

When we were finished, we punched the address for our bed and breakfast into the GPS – no rooms available in town.  We followed the directions, going from a main road to a side road to a dirt road, until we arrive at a horse farm. The GPS was either unreliable or our B&B was very remote. 

Stuck in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, we called the B&B. This did not help because I didn't know where we were and that's a good starting point for getting directions. 

Google had the right answer in the end. We arrived at our countryside, wifi-free B&B, which was run by a kind mother and a son. 

The director, sipping the host's homemade beer, thought it felt like a really fun sitcom. The producer squinted suspiciously around at the farms that surrounded the house and said it was more like a horror movie.

Scouting for spots as golfers play through.

Day 2 – Shooting the Course, Drinking Irn Bru, and Remaining Conscious

Today is the day I also discovered Irn Bru (pronounced Iron Brew). A fluorescent orange energy drink that got me through a day that started at 5am.

It was already bright out when I awoke to begin the shooting day. But the brightness didn't bother me as much as the cold did. 

It being June, I didn't think I would need any wool sweaters. Amateur move, Bellamy! Not only was it as cold as balls on the coast, it was windy as well. I had several layers underneath a windproof jacket, none of those were a match of the fierce Scottish weather. I learned the hard way why all those Scots wear wool sweaters.

And those clouds! The sky was a uniform, thick-as-pea-soup grey, which maintained its gloom all day. Oh, and there were bleachers and TV camera towers littered all over the Old Course for the British Open, preventing the clear landscape beauty shots that we required.

But! We progressed and persevered in the face of wind, rain, sleet, and British Open infrastructure. We got our shots and I got the chance to chip one out of Hell bunker. It's famous, but it also reminded me that golf can be an easy way to get angry.

Plus, despite the rain, our film crew managed to unpack its drone and buzz it around for a few shots of the Old Course, which was closed for maintenance that day. It's a loud contraption with eight propellers and a moveable camera. 

I thought it was pretty cool, while all the St. Andrews' employees were unfazed as they worked away on the course. When you've seen one flying spider robot, you've seen them all, I guess.

The German film crew sneaks up on the unsuspecting groundskeepers.

Making sand castles in one of St. Andrews Links' infamous Bunkers.

A flying spider robot has been sighted over St. Andrews.

Day 3 – Scotch Tasting on the Run 

Sunday. A day of rest for some people in some parts. Not for us. 

We came to the 18th hole at the Old Course bright and early at 6am to get some rare St. Andrew's footage with no people in it. But we got it, just as the first tourists were approaching to get their photos with a stone bridge.

Oh, and we managed to get a homemade Scottish breakfast at the B&B in the process – something we missed out on the day before.

Then! Everything was hauled into the rental vehicles and we automobiled to Edinburgh to catch our plane to Cologne where a train waited to return us to the Dorf. But! Before we boarded our plane, we managed to sneak in some scotch samples at the Duty Free, chased with Irn Bru.

See you again Scotland, hopefully in a non-work-related manner.

Casablanca Journal - Day 4

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal.This is the fourth and final day.

How Did I Get Here???

Another copywriter was supposed to go on this trip. She was grounded by her doctor after experiencing some vicious inner ear pains. On Saturday afternoon, I got an SMS informing me I was flying out early Monday morning to Casablanca.

I scrambled to prepare for the trip. Loads of laundry waited to be done and a cabin-worthy bag had to be packed. My laptop had to be fetched from the office.

I had no time to research Morocco, which was obvious after my arrival on Monday. I handed the money exchange girl some Euros and asked it to be changed into... into... I paused, realizing I did not even know the local currency. “Dirham,” she said.

Incidentally, I saw her again at a different booth today, as we were flying out. She recognized me. We had a laugh.

Business Class

In the chaos of canceled and rebooked flights over the weekend, the accounting department rushed to get find an available flight. The only space for me was in business class. That is why I am here, luxuriating with extra leg room, scribbling in my notebook, eating from a cheese plate and sipping wine.

Not a bad way to travel. An aside: I was happier during the trip than I appear in the scribble below.

WAIT! Whatever happened to the lost luggage?

Yesterday Malika and Katie received word that their luggage was left in Rome and was enroute to Casablanca. It was due to arrive at midnight, which did nothing dressing for impressing in the business meetings.

The worst part was they were both going to Croatia trip after the business trip and Katie had packed a huge suitcase for her Casablanca trip and the Croatia trip. Everything she needed was out there, somewhere, in the air.

So today, being the day of their departure, with hair curling and volumizing in the blazing Moroccan heat (remember, no hair product), they went to the airport for their 6am flight to pick it up and fly back to Budapest.

That was the plan.

The lost luggage locker was, well, locked, and there was no attendant around. With only a few feet separating them from their long last luggage, they left their luggage behind to catch their flight.

Good trip with good people: The Casablanca Crew at Rick's.
 Photo by Arnold

Casablanca Journal - Day 3

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal.This is the third day.

During a break in the meeting, we took in the view from atop our client's building.

Eating to Excess

The hotel’s breakfast is a rich buffet. There is an omelette chef, a lady who makes pancakes, and a spread of Moroccan dates, almonds, merguez sausages, and other local deliciousness. For Westerners, there are cupcakes and a love-handle load of sugary pastries on a table. Yes, there are also fried potatoes and broiled tomatoes. There are cheeses, olives and, yes, a small pork section for those who don’t do halal.

So we sit down here, eat too much, and feel truly North American in our needless excesses. Pass the cupcakes!

To the Meeting!

We catch a cab and begin the battle with traffic. Casablanca traffic is a study in the chaos theory. It seems disorderly, with bicycles, motorcycles and mopeds diving between cars, pedestrians ignoring crosswalks and crossing wherever they please. The lines painted on the road are really just abstract theories, cars jump out into opposing traffic to pass cars, they make wild left turns from the far right lane at intersections. They jockey for pole position at stoplights, which are the only traffic law obeyed here.

But! The traffic moves and it seems to fit the flow of the city. As a client put it yesterday, you can’t get angry about traffic here, it won’t do any good.

Casablanca traffic. An orderly snarl.

This is an Office? 

The client’s office is in a walled compound with trees, flowers and other lush surroundings. Walking to the main office building was like walking through a garden. The office building is built around an atrium with gilded wood arches and a beautifully tiled floor and mosaic on the ceiling. It’s a beautiful office to visit and a welcome change from the beige-grey offices I’m accustomed to.

Trial by Taxi

After the meeting, the client called for cabs. The office is in a nice neighbourhood and doesn’t see too many cabs. We waited a half hour before the first one came. Then Arnold and I waited another half hour.

Growing impatient we hailed a Petit Taxi, which are shared cabs, so with two out of three spaces filled our cabbie was pulling over for fares on the way to the hotel.

No one was going in that direction and the cabbie made quick work of the trip – scooting down side streets at break-neck speeds and sliding between garbage trucks and oncoming traffic. It was a cheap fare to boot.

Friends of Friends in Strange Places

A colleague from deepblue Budapest has a friend in Morocco, who we met her for coffee. Naturally, traffic came up. She finds moves too slowly and is accustomed to the lax traffic enforcement of Mexico, apparently the land of the loco speed demons. Here there’s a speed limit that’s obeyed, so she gets pulled over often and has to talk her way out of it.

She moved to Casablanca after marrying a Moroccan man. I give her credit, she moved here without any friends and she’s thriving – a very brave lady.

I Hate Haggling

Once again we took a taxi, the same one we took us there.The cab driver demanded more because he had to return to the cafe to pick us up, I got grumpy and said that’s not happening, he’s already getting a tourist-whitey fare. He didn’t object. I’m getting sick of the haggling here, but I might be getting the hang of it.

Rick’s Cafe

Katie made reservations for dinner at Rick’s Cafe tonight. The movie Casablanca wasn’t filmed in Casablanca, but an enterprising individual opened a Rick’s anyway. It’ll be pricey, but I’m looking forward to it, I’m a fan of the movie and I think I’ll finally do the lamb...

Rick's Cafe... and Arnold in mid-bite.

Casablanca Journal - Day 2

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal.This is the second day.  

The neighbourhood around our hotel.

Breakfast of Champions

Good breakfast this morning. I was the first downstairs and met our omelette/pancake cook, Ami. Friendly guy. He laughed at my jokes, even the lame ones. He whipped up some Moroccan-style pancakes, which are made with ground-up couscous, and topped with honey and an almond spread that’s made from pulverized almonds and argan oil. I like Moroccan breakfasts.

Luggage Update

According to the airline people, Katie and Malika’s luggage didn’t even make it onto the plane in Rome, so it might arrive later that night on the midnight flight.

With no luggage, Katie and Malika went out shopping, while Arnold and I went for a quick Discovery Walk around the block. Nothing to report, Katie bought a dress, Malika bought a top, but neither could find appropriate hair product. Meanwhile Arnold and I learned to play frogger through Casablanca’s free-for-all traffic.

Time to Work

We began the process of understanding the market, so we toured the cigarette vendors of Casablanca. There are plenty of smokers and we’re allowed to advertise in-store, but they’re all so small and crowded.

The big thing that everyone talks about is everybody buys their cigarettes individually, especially at bars where waiters and bartenders sell their own smokes to patrons. It’s not legal, but it’s not enforced either.

This reminds me of a conversation with a friend when I used to be the guy who only smoked while he was drinking. We agreed that if we could just buy one smoke when we wanted it at the bar, we wouldn’t come home with half a pack that tempted us the next day.

Morocco understands the smoker I used to be. 

One of the crazy crowded kiosks. I can't even find the smokes.

Seeing Casablanca from the Backseat

Casablanca is Morocco’s biggest city and people from all over the country flock here for work and other opportunities. It’s a big country. There’s a huge rural population and plenty of cities strung along its coast, so there are a lot of different people from different backgrounds.

The easiest way to recognize them is how they dress. Some men wear the long kaftan, while others wear jeans and t-shirts – although almost nobody wears shorts.

For the women, there are a few burqas, but not many. Most wear brilliantly-coloured, ankle-length dresses with vibrant head scarves. Many other women wear trousers and modest tops but, like the men, few bare legs.

Over lunch one of our clients mentioned that Moroccan society, despite appearing modern, is actually very traditional, with a focus on family and religion. He described it as traditional with a modern coating over top.

HoReCa Tour!

After a break to change and refresh, which is difficult for luggage-less Malika and Katie – who are craving their favourite shampoos and other product in this heat – we will be visiting a few bars with the client to investigate tobacco advertising opportunities, get a feel for the target in their natural habitat, and, of course, have a drink (we're in advertising, after all).

Casablanca Journal - Day 1

Three colleagues and I were sent to Casablanca for business three weeks ago. The trip lasted four days, so I kept a daily journal. This is the first day. 

We arrived at the Hassan Mosque before evening prayers
and it was a hub of activity.

So Long Luggage

We have arrived in Casablanca, although without some luggage. Katie and Malika both checked their baggage in Budapest and, probably because we only had an hour to change flights in Rome, their baggage is lost.

Their hair product and business outfits are in those cases, which is not a good situation to be in when you’re looking at two days of client meetings and retail outlet tours.

Tissue Vendors

At stoplights, vendors walk between cars selling boxes of tissues. In one case, a guy in the backseat of a BMW bought a box of tissues from a vendor while the light was changing. As the vendor was fumbling for change, the car began lurching forward, so the passenger just took two boxes instead of the change and sped off.

Medina Discovery Walk

We checked into the hotel and went for a Discovery Walk to the Medina, which is Casablanca’s old market. We quickly got lost in the maze of old buildings, narrow streets, and stalls.

Along the way we met Omar, who latched onto Arnold right away. Omar told us he would guide us through the market and took us to a shop, where he was clearly had the job of steering tourists in. Another guide brought in a couple of Dutch sailors.

We purchased a few things and Omar took us for a walk through the market, slowly guiding us to our destination: the Hassan Mosque. Along the way, he talked about fighting in the war, living in the mountains, traveling with Berber nomads in the desert, a dead wife, and all manner of hard luck stories. It all could have been true, or simply tall tales, because when we reached the mosque, we felt obliged to give him a couple of Euros, enough if he didn’t expect payment for his tour guide services.

Eating like Moroccans

For dinner we went out for some traditional Moroccan grub: Tagine. I got the Chicken Tagine with vegetables and couscous. Delicious stuff, but Malika wisely ordered the lamb with stewed prunes. She’s a light eater, so I helped out and quickly realized I should have ordered the lamb.