Dealing with muddle-headed Mutant Ninja communicators.

DEALING WITH muddle-headed Mutant Ninja --Communicators--

Last Saturday morning I observed an eight-year-old blast, dodge, kick, zap and fire-bomb his way through hordes of Mongol invaders, past howling red-eyed monsters and a flame-spewing brontosaurus. He negotiated a dank graveyard of zombie-like killers, survived a rock-strewn waterfall, and threaded his way through an underground labyrinth awash with slimy jellyfish creatures.

Of course, it was just a video game. But why did it give me such a strong sense of deja vu? Why did it all seem so eerily familiar? Then I had it. It was almost exactly like the latest corporate communication program I'd seen in action.

Think about it. Every business communicator has been through it. It begins innocently enough. As in Mission Impossible, the assignment comes through. Like the video hero, you accept it. You press "start" and suddenly you're transformed into Ninja Communicator. Armed with only your laser (printer, that is,) and Apple, and a pen (mightier than the sword), you set out across the trackless wastes of Medialand, bearing a message for the People. It's up to you to survive the 10 Communicator Traps of Doom.

The Hydra

Here you meet the many-headed monster, the very one that Hercules encountered in his labors. The problem: Every time you hack off one of the heads, two appear in its place. In modern parlance, it's known as the committee. This is the group of mild-mannered department heads or the special public affairs task force assigned to help you develop the program. The Hydra is especially hard to vanquish because every time you aim a solution, the Hydra changes its mind about the objectives. Handle with extreme care.

The No-Molar Morass

Just as you finally put the Hydra to rest, the No-Molar Morass spreads out in all directions. Similar to the Slough of Despond, the No-Molar is comprised of the CEO, the legal department and the service director. The No-Molar has a dental mission: It systematically removes the teeth of any program with bite. Is it humorous? Might offend someone. Is it clever? Someone might not get the point. Is it unusual? Might get us in trouble. Does it break new ground? Too risky. Our hero escapes in a shower of bicuspids, incisors, fangs and tusks.

Of course, the communication program, now toothless, can't leave an imprint on anyone.

The Plexiglass Pratfall

After almost being gummed to pulp in the No-Molar Morass, you see clear sailing almost to the horizon. Racing forward, you slam into an invisible plexiglass force field: Kayoed by the Rush to Plexiglass. It happens when a company president reads about a new program for Quality or Employee Satisfaction or Customer Service or Excellence and decides that what his or her company needs is a new Program. The new Program focuses on better communication (of course) and requires brochures, posters, buttons and inscribed plexiglass paperweights for every executive's desk. No strategies or clear objectives are required.

Glossy and expensive, the Rush to Plexiglass does substantially more for the bottom line of printers and specialty advertisers than the organization itself.

The Quotidian Quagmire

Dazed and reeling from the invisible Plexiglass blow, you tumble down to the Quotidian Quagmire, the trap of everyday experience. Reality for the people in charge is what they see every day. They associate with the same people; they play golf with the same friends; they watch the same TV shows. They avoid reading, seeing, discussing, or eating anything that would shake up their cozy, familiar view of the world. They especially avoid talking with customers or reporters.

For the denizens of the Quotidian Quagmire, any communication activity that falls outside their experience is automatically suspect. They say, for instance, "I don't like that ad. My spouse didn't like it either. Must be a bad ad." The result? Communication programs that please the Quotidians--and very few others.

The Rube Goldberg Communication Machine

Painfully, you inch your way up the soft, slime-covered walls of the Quagmire. Gasping for breath, you roll over the top to hear a cacophony of clanking from a strange, otherworldly machine. It's the Rube Goldberg Communication Machine where less is never more; more is more. Every project is a potential empire-builder. New sprockets, wheels, belts and bearings are bolted, welded and nailed on until the communication machine wheezes and groans. Nobody can remember the original purpose of the machine ... but it certainly makes an impressive noise.

The Knee Jerk 

You continue on your mission. But suddenly ahead looms the Knee Jerk, a hideous creature covered with twitching patellas. The Knee Jerk reads a letter to the editor or hears a customer complaint and immediately twitches. He then races down halls waving papers and demanding an immediate communication program to make those people understand! The Knee Jerk frequently travels in the cart before the horse. He scrupulously avoids planning, always preferring to start a project and then determine later if it's a good idea.

The Creative Coaster

Escaping from the Knee Jerk, you spy a door with a flashing neon sign proclaiming "Creativity `R' Us." Beyond the open door is a gaily painted roller coaster with another sign saying, "Climb Aboard for Creative Punch." You clamber aboard and the joy ride begins. Images flash by: zingy slogans, clever puns, witty plays on words and riveting visuals. At the end of the dizzying trip, you stagger out, head abuzz. But wait! The Creative Coaster has returned to the starting point! That's the problem with some creative trips: They're lots of fun, but when they aren't underpinned with strategy and objectives, they get you nowhere.

The Great Amender

Eager to see a friendly face, you're overjoyed to see a smiling, kindly fellow sitting behind an extremely neat desk in an extremely neat office. The kind-looking man introduces himself: Mr. Amender. He comments on all the positive features of the communication program. There's just one thing he'd like to change ... For the great Amender, one thing always leads to another. Eventually he will fix your program until it is unrecognizable, unusable and untenable.

The Big Kahuna 

Finally you reach the inner chamber of the Big Kahuna's castle. Surrounding the Big Kahuna are dozens of vassals, each committed to assuring that he only hears or sees what they want him to know. They invite you to consult their crystal ball and check the boss' biorhythms to figure out the answer to the question: "What does he really want"?

When you protest that the Kahuna needs to know the real score or the communication program won't work, they darkly remind you of the last Ninja Communicator who told the boss what he didn't want to know.

The upshot? A program that makes the boss happy for a few minutes--until he figures out that it didn't work. And who will get the blame? Not the big Kahuna!

And those are the adventures of Ninja Communicator. Despite some setbacks, you're undaunted. You get up, dust yourself off and stick a jaunty gold quill in your cap. It's time to fire up the laser, boot up the Apple and set out on the next assignment.

Margaret F. Duffy is president, Grinnell Resource Corp., Grinnell, Iowa.