PIPING TODAY • 46
GREY
’S N
OTE
S
Grey’s Notesby Michael Grey
Phot
o: R
yan
Mac
Don
ald
Phot
ogra
phy
No more lift. You get it. There’s a reason for regi-mental
traditions and I was about to learn that the cold, hard way.
So there am I: red nylon underpants slipping down my backside.
Down University Avenue, one of the biggest streets in Canada’s
largest city, east along Queen Street, those red nylon Y-fronts
slipped down my arse, all sort of in time to Barren Rocks of Aden
and, yes, Cock of the North. We played non-stop. Every
step, every beat, every bar of music saw slippage. There was
just no chance to hoist the knick-knacks. It was the 1980s and
thankfully for me at the time, crowds then were sparse for these
kinds of events.
I was in “harmony row” in those days — that’s what the
band called the back rank — and it was a big band. Harmony row
was a
place where the corporate-minded might place the, um, less
experienced — those “in
development”. And as it turned out, that day, I shone as a
testament to leadership strategy.
Just as we passed what was then Simpson’s depart-ment store at
Queen and Yonge Streets, my wayward pants slid past my spats — all
while the band was on the trot. A couple of what I remember to be
impres-sively nimble kicks saw my fl accid red knick-knacks free of
me and my number one dress. Lost to Queen Street and tramped on by
a drum corps, a regiment of Old Comrades and any number of tram
cars.
And I was mortifi ed; embarrassed times 10 — beyond
description.
The band duly arrived at the armouries and once huddled in the
band room not a word was said of what happened. No one noticed a
thing, and surely, if they had, I’d have known. Hello! The drummers
behind harmony row surely were a focused bunch.
And to embarrassment: On the one hand it sort of keeps us right;
embarrassment balances us. In feeling embarrassed, we let those
around us know we either tripped up a social norm or are humble in
taking in praise — and that’s a likeable quality. We feel
embarrassed, in part, because we haven’t lived up to expectations
of those around us or we’re seen to be less than who we think
are.
And a piper who loses his knicks on parade is number one on the
embarrassment list — unless he’s found out. I mean, if no one is
aware of the problem, what’s to be embarrassed about? I don’t know.
The fear of being found out, I guess.
From my experience, from this recollection alone, it seems to me
that the potential for embarrassment continues to be a powerful
human factor, one that guides us and informs us as we go about our
business. My little story of over 30 years stays with me to this
day. And now you know.
The one thing I have learned, at least as it relates to
embarrassment, is that it’s a very simple thing to avoid and that
is — say nothing, do nothing and be nothing.
And for me, and I’m hoping for you, that would be the biggest
embarrassment of all. ●
Embarrassment. Is there anything more universally human? We all
experience embarrassment and yet — unless maybe you’re Mr Ford — we
seldom forget. Psychology Today magazine says that embarrassment
happens when others observe you noticing yourself with regret.
Scientists tell us that the whole physiological thing related to
the embarrassed person — red face and all that — connects to the
evolution of humans and the way we socially interact.
Embar-rassment, and the physical signs of it, are all about telling
the people around you — the tribe — that you get that you screwed
up, maybe violated a social norm, and you’ll not do it again.
Think of pipers. Pipers who perform, those of us who put our
skills forward in an individual or band way — and we put ourselves
forward all the time, usually in a pretty public, risky way. We lay
it out, we risk embarrassment. From blooter-fi lled solo contest
breakdown to bed-messing band performance, what we do is rife with
MEP: mega embarrassment potential. Pipers seem bred to suck it up,
prevail and move forward.
For those in the world looking to build self-confi dence and
temper the embarrassment gene, I suggest they look no further than
learning to play and perform the Great Highland Bagpipe.
And all this brings me to my little story, my confes-sional.
Until now, only very close friends have shared the secret, the tale
of me and a pipe band parade a long time ago. The truth will set me
free, I hope — or, at least, diminish my embarrassment. This is me,
now telling you the story without regret.
When I was in my mid-teens I happened to play a Remembrance
(Armistice) Day parade in Toronto. As a very young piper, a member
of the band of the Pipes & Drums of the 48th Highlanders of
Canada, one of Can-ada’s oldest Highland regiments, I donned full
number one dress — to be clear, that’s uniform with feather-bonnet,
plaid, spats and the grand already-mentioned “Donald Trump”
horse-hair sporran — and marched with the regiment through
Toronto’s city centre.
The ceremony was and is important. Marching from the regiment’s
home at Moss Park Armouries to the cenotaph at Queen’s Park is a
distance of about two miles — and that’s one way and not the
easiest in mid-November Ontario. On this day it was cold. It was
freezing. It even snowed a bit. Throwing caution to the wind, I
added to my defences. With a thumb at the nose and caution to the
frigid wind, I’d been clever, or so I thought, and wore pants —
that’s underwear to the North American brigade — a vain attempt to
warm my fi ngers and everything else.
It was on departure from the Queen’s Park cenotaph — the start
of a two-mile return trip to the warmth of Moss Park — where for
me, trouble brewed. Here’s the thing: the elastic on my “warm-ing”
circa 1983 Yves Martin (red) underpants starting to go. The damned
thing let loose. No more elastic.
IF you work, you know what a “meeting” means. And, of course,
even if you don’t you may. If you work, and it happens to be in a
big sort of place, one with lots of cubicles, printers, paper,
people and mostly tastefully-hung prints of politically correct
images, you really know what a meeting is about. The lifeblood of
the working world the offi ce meeting has gifted an endless stream
of inspiration from Dilbert to Ricky Gervais and a hugely long list
of like-minded comedians. It was at a vintage offi ce meeting
yes-terday that I hit upon an incredible convergence of ideas — and
none directly related to my work.
First, let’s keep it real. I don’t care if you’re Barack Obama,
Sergi o Marchionne or Donald Trump, the man with the horse-hair
sporran head covering, it’s just plain humanly impossible to stay
focused and far away from your blessed happy place for the whole
duration of a good old offi ce meeting, especially one that exceeds
an hour. The mind zigs, the mind zags. Leveraging the strategy to
drill-down to shareholder value might be a happy fi nal result but
sometimes a few mental pit-stops colour the fi nal outcome, even
“create synergies”.
This day I was duly dialled-in — focused and ready to pour on
the value-add. Situation normal. The room was set up in a
super-collaborative L-shape and I confi dently leaned back in my
healthily ergonomic (yet strangely uncomfortable) chair and,
listened in.
In crossing my legs in that cool sort of way one does to show
relaxed confi dence, I felt a strange scratchy feeling on my left
calf. A glance down to investigate made my guts lurch. There,
peeking out from under my trouser leg, was the sniff of a dryer
sheet. You know those anti-static-cling towels that you sometimes
throw in with clothes in a dryer. With face surely radiating a fair
shade of day-glow red, I furtively reached down and yanked away the
fragrant remnant of calf-scraping embarrassment.
I’d hoped no one had witnessed my little episode of dryer sheet
drama. With crumpled calf-scraper in hand and a look around the
room — along with the the soothing uninterrupted hum of fi scals
and full court-presses — I stared in the face of the itchy out-come
of wearing anything but dry-clean-only clothes to the offi ce.
I was royally embarrassed. I was sure not one of the 10 or so in
the room had caught any sign of my careless home laundering. And
then, like a soothing gift from God, Rob Ford came to me. What
would Rob Ford do? The sweaty, rotund, prevaricating and
embarrassing mayor of the city of Toronto; would the
dryer-sheet-in-the-trouser-leg make his face redder? Unlikely.
Google his name if you have never heard of the fellow. If you’re
not a resident of Toronto, he’s fascinating like a train wreck.
My embarrassment and Rob Ford’s recent adven-tures, those
showing his complete absence of the embarrassment gene, made me
refl ect on the idea of embarrassment. I triangulated Rob Ford and
got to turd polishing — and that, you’ll know, is the crasser side
of corporate-speak.
Coping with a “big riddy”
yes, Cock of the North. We played non-stop. Every step, every
beat, every bar of music saw slippage. There was just no chance to
hoist the knick-knacks. It was the 1980s and thankfully for me at
the time, crowds then were sparse for these kinds of events.
I was in “harmony row” in those days — that’s what the
band called the back rank — and it was a big band. Harmony row
was a
place where the corporate-minded might place the, um, less
experienced — those “in
development”. And as it turned out, that day,
way we socially interact. Embar-rassment, and the physical signs
of it, are all about telling the people around you — the tribe —
that you get that you screwed up, maybe violated a social norm, and
you’ll
Think of pipers. Pipers who perform, those of us who put our
skills forward in an individual or band way — and we put ourselves
forward all the time, usually in a pretty public, risky way. We lay
it out, we risk embarrassment. From
