This is one of the most famous comedy bits of all time:
But why is it funny? The disconnect between experiencing it and explaining it represents one of the challenges of teaching. It’s also at the heart of leadership, marketing and culture.
Design, good taste, genre, communication style–these are all human endeavors that inform our days, but most of the time, we’re at a loss to explain them.
Abbott and Costello are avatars, approachable and relatable to their audience. You can see yourself as one or the other, depending on the moment. They’ve plotted an intricate dialogue, one that builds on itself, gaining traction and increasing tension as it goes. And as each expresses their frustration with the situation (and to a degree, with each other), it’s easy to put ourselves in their shoes.
We’ve never been in this exact situation, but we’ve all experienced a moment like this.
Most of us are in on the joke as we watch it. We know it’s a joke, and we understand early on the nature of the wordplay. So much so that the sketch itself becomes an icon, one that others are based on, sometimes with great fidelity:
Funny even before the reign of U2. So iconic that it’s now a three-word shorthand.
We can have the same discussion about your logo. Or why your book cover is less than it could be.
When someone is designing a bridge, we don’t have to wonder if the engineer “gets it.” The metrics are obvious and easily measured. We have precise words and numbers that are external to our own experience and the zeitgeist, and whether a person or a machine does the calculations, it works or it doesn’t.
But much of the rest of the human experience is often too layered and nuanced to be reduced to a simple formula. We need to notice enough and engage enough to get it. That’s what Heinlein was talking about when he coined the 60s term grok.
When a municipality sets aside the resources to build a ‘signature’ bridge, their own Golden Gate, there’s often a conflict. Not just disagreement about the need for something more than the utility of moving across the river, but also understanding what beautiful and important even looks like. Some people don’t get it.
Saying “that’s not funny,” or “I think it’s ugly,” is easy. The difficult work is acknowledging that someone else might disagree.
Human emotions require a viewer, not just a creator. The funny, the beauty, the elegance: they happen for someone, in their experience.
“That’s not beautiful,” is not the same as, “I don’t think that’s beautiful.”
I don’t have to explain a joke or a sculpture or a logo. But I do have to know enough to imagine that someone else is going to get it. We can choose to care enough to figure out why someone gets something we don’t, and imagine what it might take to create something human enough that others will care about it.
There’s no algorithm, which is part of the point.
At a recent Q&A, a small businessperson asked how to get clients to be more alike, willing to engage in systemic work that would be easier to deliver and offer a simpler path to getting the job done.
Of course, once there’s a manual, anyone can do the work, and anyone will.
It might be the complex, fickle and unpredictable problems that allow the professional to thrive.
When things don’t turn out the way you pictured, how long does it take for you to move on?
Reducing this window of disappointment unlocks the path to creativity and leadership.
People who get over disappointment more quickly aren’t less excited about the project than the others. They realize that getting attached to an outcome doesn’t increase its likelihood, and in fact, makes it less likely that their next project will be as bold.
Turns out that this is a common practice among professionals in every field.
If the stakes are high enough and the duration you need to keep it together is short enough, can you control your response?
Because if we can do it then, we can learn to do it now. Acknowledging that it’s a choice is difficult, because choices come with responsibility. “I’m not a patient person,” is not the same as, “Being patient requires a lot of work for me.”
Attitudes are skills. Like all skills, they take practice, preparation and effort.
Here’s a list to get you started:
Empathy
Generosity
Kindness
Patience
Fairness
Gratitude
Forgiveness
Trust
Honesty
Humility
Self-awareness
Integrity
Accountability
Self-discipline
Equanimity
Self-compassion
Bravery
Persistence
Resilience
Consistency
Optimism
Adaptability
Acceptance
Grit
Curiosity
Open-mindedness
Discernment
Focus
Thoroughness
Initiative
Craftsmanship
Generosity of spirit
Service
Stewardship
Wonder
Responsibility
Dignity
Commitment
Presence
If we can learn them, even a little, they’re skills. Great news.
HT to Zig.
Danny Meyer and Will Guidara have each written fabulous books about hospitality.
They missed one thing.
The customers who get the most authentic and lasting hospitality are the ones who deserve it.
And the ones who deserve it actually enjoy it the most.
Extraordinary hospitality offers someone more human effort and delight than they expect.
You’re not entitled to something human simply because you paid for your ticket or your table. The kids who show up on Halloween get a piece of candy, but the ritual ends there. When someone with a great costume, or singing a song or simply creating a bit of connection or magic shows up, it’s different. That’s the one we remember, the reason we answered the door and our chance to show up and return the energy. Or even a full-sized ethical chocolate bar.
For too long, the entitled customer has demanded emotional labor without offering support or sustenance in return. It’s exhausting and unfair, for both parties.
When you’re the best customer we’ve had all day, it’s likely we’ll be the host you’re hoping for.
And the best part is, that no matter how it turns out, simply trying to be the best customer of the day is its own reward. We care because we can.
[You're getting this note because you subscribed to Seth Godin's blog.]
Don't want to get this email anymore? Click the link below to unsubscribe.