I’ve got a large assortment of toys. I’ve got everything from die-cast motorcycles to action figures, many of which adorn my desk here at work. My computer monitor is covered and surrounded by 50 or so plastic and metal toys.
Because I work in a creative field, I recently suggested to my fellow employees that we bring some of these toys to a brainstorming session. At times, we designers run into a brick wall, and are unable to generate any new or interesting approaches to a given problem. We’ll sit and stew on the simplest of things without ever reaching a strong solution.
Surprisingly enough, people were very receptive to my suggestion. In fact, they thought it was a great idea. When it came time to gather together in my experimental discussion group, I grabbed a handful of old Transformers, a few anime action figures and a couple of assorted random creatures and monsters and set off to the meeting.
As luck would have it, the toy-induced meeting was a great success. We were able to develop some truly brilliant ideas for a wide variety of projects in a very short amount of time. I was commended for my suggestion and felt pretty darn good about myself.
That was about a month ago. Things have changed quite dramatically since that first endeavor into unmarked territory. What began as an innocent little experiment has quickly deteriorated into a frightening crisis.
My Think Toy brainchild (as it has been dubbed), quickly grew in popularity in nearly every corner of the company at which I’m employed. High-level meetings with senior management looked like pre-school recess in only a matter of days. Everyone was thrilled that they could become inspired in ways they never thought possible, while having a great time all the while.
“I feel like a kid again,” was the new unofficial company motto. That phrase was uttered on so many occasions that it became a bad cliché. There was talk, for a brief amount of time, of instigating that loathsome phrase into our company business plan and corporate identity. This type of thinking was prevalent after only a week of Think Toy’s inception.
Though I had my doubts and concerns, everything ran quite smoothly in those first two weeks. Productivity was up and employees were happy. People were actually excited about coming to work. In some cases, they didn’t want to leave at the end of the day because they were having too much fun.
I should have seen it coming, but I was completely oblivious to the serious problems that were on the horizon. My first clue was when I saw the senior vice president on his hands and knees in the middle of the hallway, pushing a Tonka dump truck across the carpet while making “Vroom vroom” noises. As I passed him on my way to a meeting, he looked up at me, his eyes shining with glee, and said, “I feel like a kid again.” I shuddered as a sharp pain forced its way up through my skull.
Later that same day, a group of programmers set a project back by three weeks when they spilled their chocolate milk over a mass of site-layout prints. Rather than be reprimanded for their actions, their supervisor traded them four G.I. Joes for an original Darth Vader action figure.
It wasn’t long before it was difficult to complete any of my projects in a timely manner. Most of the staff were too preoccupied with their toys to assist me in any of my day-to-day activities. A tire swing now hung in our reception area, and games such as Shoots-and-Ladders, Twister and Jacks had replaced common office supplies. HR broadcast, with great pride, that we had acquired over 300 pounds of PlayDoh, 7000 Tinker Toys, and 1.1 million Lego blocks. This little nugget of information was on the front page of our newsletter. Actually, it WAS the newsletter. A 12 page company newsletter had been reduced to a single photocopied page that had been rendered in bright blue finger paint.
It didn’t take our clients long to realize that something unpleasant was afoot. When a few of my managers challenged one of our biggest customer’s to a game of hopscotch, and the client declined, the managers called the team of confused men and women “Poo poo heads.” The multimillion dollar company that I was working for, once at the top of its game, was now reduced to name-calling. With no less wit or cleverness than the inclusion of the word “poo” inserted into the exceptional literary tirade.
Nothing seems to be improving. Even when I felt that things were at their very lowest, I still had some slight glimmer of hope sparkling just over the horizon. “This cannot last,” I would tell myself. “Everything will soon return to normal.”
Then, just two days ago, I received a memo. It was a memo concerning the future of our company. Rather than a carefully worded manuscript describing future goals, desires and aspirations, this sad excuse of communication was a simple handwritten note. A note written in crayon. And not just a single color of crayon, but a myriad of colors. Yes, the author of this lovely bit of correspondence had taken the time to write out each letter in a different color. He or she obviously had the jumbo pack of crayons, as the only color to appear more than once was red.
The memo, if you can call it that read, “I want more toys. Lotses of more toys.” At the bottom was the name of my company’s CEO.
“That’s it,” I told myself. “We’ve reached rock bottom.”
As I read that note again and again (Lotses?), I could no longer think correctly. I quickly took hold of a severe headache that refused to unclench itself from my temples. Nothing made sense anymore. The world, as I saw it, was a farce. It was a confusing mess that no longer fit together. When grown men and women in business attire are hurling spitballs at one another, fighting over who gets the jumprope next, and singing camp songs around a makeshift fire created from paper cups and wadded up creative briefs, your sense of place in the world quickly begins to slip.
What really sent me over the edge, though, was what happened this morning. I made one last attempt to return things to the way they should be. I had started the Think Toy movement, and I could damn sure try to end it. I had to at least attempt to put a stop to all of this lunacy. So, doing the only thing I believed to be sane, I organized a meeting with senior management.
As we sat in the office on the colorful alphabet rubber mats, amongst the wooden blocks and Fisher Price toys, I noticed that the managers were quite attentive. They were looking directly at me, paying close attention to what I was about to say. Or, so it would seem.
Bob, the vice-president that I had seen pushing his Tonka down the hallway, spoke up before I had a chance to begin. That’s not exactly true. He let out a high-pitched squeal as he grabbed hold of the now infamous dump truck and began to run around the room. The other managers began to clap their hands and laugh; their neckties rapidly swinging in tight circles in front of their chests.
My temper had reached it’s end, so I yelled for Bob to sit quietly and pay attention. Because he refused to accept my request, I walked calmly over to him and carefully removed the toy from his hands.
“MINE!” he yelled as he slapped me across the face.
The other managers let out a collective “Ooooooooooohhhhhh” as a hush fell across the room.
Mine. We were reduced to this. Mine. A month ago, Bob would have said something to the effect of, “I do not believe that it is in your best interest to take that particular route at this moment in time. It would be much more advisable to postpone your appeal of said subject matter until all parties have submitted their application of all necessary methods of forfeiture. We should take this offline. Thanks.”
Mine. A single word that summarized this whole nightmarish experience into one condensed expression.
I never finished the meeting. I returned the Tonka to Bob, who smiled broadly and continued to run around the room. Following that, I breathed a heavy sigh of dejection, and then plodded slowly out of the office.
So, here I am. Sitting at my computer typing this account of what went wrong. It’s difficult to think a the moment because an intern is shooting a Super Soaker directly in my face. I only hope I can finish writing this before my keyboard shorts itself out from the incredibly large volume of water that has collected at my fingertips.
What I will do now, I cannot say. Perhaps I’ll join them. Maybe I’ll just give in so I can “feel like a kid again.” Who knows, it may be a lot of fun to go down with the ship in a huge explosion of indifferent stupidity.
I’m afraid, though. Even now, something is holding me back from giving in and conforming to the new way. The intern with the Super Soaker is wearing pampers, and I think he just made a poopie.
Because I work in a creative field, I recently suggested to my fellow employees that we bring some of these toys to a brainstorming session. At times, we designers run into a brick wall, and are unable to generate any new or interesting approaches to a given problem. We’ll sit and stew on the simplest of things without ever reaching a strong solution.
Surprisingly enough, people were very receptive to my suggestion. In fact, they thought it was a great idea. When it came time to gather together in my experimental discussion group, I grabbed a handful of old Transformers, a few anime action figures and a couple of assorted random creatures and monsters and set off to the meeting.
As luck would have it, the toy-induced meeting was a great success. We were able to develop some truly brilliant ideas for a wide variety of projects in a very short amount of time. I was commended for my suggestion and felt pretty darn good about myself.
That was about a month ago. Things have changed quite dramatically since that first endeavor into unmarked territory. What began as an innocent little experiment has quickly deteriorated into a frightening crisis.
My Think Toy brainchild (as it has been dubbed), quickly grew in popularity in nearly every corner of the company at which I’m employed. High-level meetings with senior management looked like pre-school recess in only a matter of days. Everyone was thrilled that they could become inspired in ways they never thought possible, while having a great time all the while.
“I feel like a kid again,” was the new unofficial company motto. That phrase was uttered on so many occasions that it became a bad cliché. There was talk, for a brief amount of time, of instigating that loathsome phrase into our company business plan and corporate identity. This type of thinking was prevalent after only a week of Think Toy’s inception.
Though I had my doubts and concerns, everything ran quite smoothly in those first two weeks. Productivity was up and employees were happy. People were actually excited about coming to work. In some cases, they didn’t want to leave at the end of the day because they were having too much fun.
I should have seen it coming, but I was completely oblivious to the serious problems that were on the horizon. My first clue was when I saw the senior vice president on his hands and knees in the middle of the hallway, pushing a Tonka dump truck across the carpet while making “Vroom vroom” noises. As I passed him on my way to a meeting, he looked up at me, his eyes shining with glee, and said, “I feel like a kid again.” I shuddered as a sharp pain forced its way up through my skull.
Later that same day, a group of programmers set a project back by three weeks when they spilled their chocolate milk over a mass of site-layout prints. Rather than be reprimanded for their actions, their supervisor traded them four G.I. Joes for an original Darth Vader action figure.
It wasn’t long before it was difficult to complete any of my projects in a timely manner. Most of the staff were too preoccupied with their toys to assist me in any of my day-to-day activities. A tire swing now hung in our reception area, and games such as Shoots-and-Ladders, Twister and Jacks had replaced common office supplies. HR broadcast, with great pride, that we had acquired over 300 pounds of PlayDoh, 7000 Tinker Toys, and 1.1 million Lego blocks. This little nugget of information was on the front page of our newsletter. Actually, it WAS the newsletter. A 12 page company newsletter had been reduced to a single photocopied page that had been rendered in bright blue finger paint.
It didn’t take our clients long to realize that something unpleasant was afoot. When a few of my managers challenged one of our biggest customer’s to a game of hopscotch, and the client declined, the managers called the team of confused men and women “Poo poo heads.” The multimillion dollar company that I was working for, once at the top of its game, was now reduced to name-calling. With no less wit or cleverness than the inclusion of the word “poo” inserted into the exceptional literary tirade.
Nothing seems to be improving. Even when I felt that things were at their very lowest, I still had some slight glimmer of hope sparkling just over the horizon. “This cannot last,” I would tell myself. “Everything will soon return to normal.”
Then, just two days ago, I received a memo. It was a memo concerning the future of our company. Rather than a carefully worded manuscript describing future goals, desires and aspirations, this sad excuse of communication was a simple handwritten note. A note written in crayon. And not just a single color of crayon, but a myriad of colors. Yes, the author of this lovely bit of correspondence had taken the time to write out each letter in a different color. He or she obviously had the jumbo pack of crayons, as the only color to appear more than once was red.
The memo, if you can call it that read, “I want more toys. Lotses of more toys.” At the bottom was the name of my company’s CEO.
“That’s it,” I told myself. “We’ve reached rock bottom.”
As I read that note again and again (Lotses?), I could no longer think correctly. I quickly took hold of a severe headache that refused to unclench itself from my temples. Nothing made sense anymore. The world, as I saw it, was a farce. It was a confusing mess that no longer fit together. When grown men and women in business attire are hurling spitballs at one another, fighting over who gets the jumprope next, and singing camp songs around a makeshift fire created from paper cups and wadded up creative briefs, your sense of place in the world quickly begins to slip.
What really sent me over the edge, though, was what happened this morning. I made one last attempt to return things to the way they should be. I had started the Think Toy movement, and I could damn sure try to end it. I had to at least attempt to put a stop to all of this lunacy. So, doing the only thing I believed to be sane, I organized a meeting with senior management.
As we sat in the office on the colorful alphabet rubber mats, amongst the wooden blocks and Fisher Price toys, I noticed that the managers were quite attentive. They were looking directly at me, paying close attention to what I was about to say. Or, so it would seem.
Bob, the vice-president that I had seen pushing his Tonka down the hallway, spoke up before I had a chance to begin. That’s not exactly true. He let out a high-pitched squeal as he grabbed hold of the now infamous dump truck and began to run around the room. The other managers began to clap their hands and laugh; their neckties rapidly swinging in tight circles in front of their chests.
My temper had reached it’s end, so I yelled for Bob to sit quietly and pay attention. Because he refused to accept my request, I walked calmly over to him and carefully removed the toy from his hands.
“MINE!” he yelled as he slapped me across the face.
The other managers let out a collective “Ooooooooooohhhhhh” as a hush fell across the room.
Mine. We were reduced to this. Mine. A month ago, Bob would have said something to the effect of, “I do not believe that it is in your best interest to take that particular route at this moment in time. It would be much more advisable to postpone your appeal of said subject matter until all parties have submitted their application of all necessary methods of forfeiture. We should take this offline. Thanks.”
Mine. A single word that summarized this whole nightmarish experience into one condensed expression.
I never finished the meeting. I returned the Tonka to Bob, who smiled broadly and continued to run around the room. Following that, I breathed a heavy sigh of dejection, and then plodded slowly out of the office.
So, here I am. Sitting at my computer typing this account of what went wrong. It’s difficult to think a the moment because an intern is shooting a Super Soaker directly in my face. I only hope I can finish writing this before my keyboard shorts itself out from the incredibly large volume of water that has collected at my fingertips.
What I will do now, I cannot say. Perhaps I’ll join them. Maybe I’ll just give in so I can “feel like a kid again.” Who knows, it may be a lot of fun to go down with the ship in a huge explosion of indifferent stupidity.
I’m afraid, though. Even now, something is holding me back from giving in and conforming to the new way. The intern with the Super Soaker is wearing pampers, and I think he just made a poopie.
