Now This From Your Vice President

It used to be that what people did for a living could be put into nice, neat titles such as "mortician" or "orthodontist" or "contract killer." Then, somehow, people got the idea that such titles were too prosaic, too boring, so they began to expand them. "Mortician" became "Eternity Domicile Specialist." "Orthodontist" became "Doctor of Oral Inquisition," and "Contract Killer" became "Reengineering Consultant."

Today, thanks to the explosion in the high-technology field, we stand on the shore of a new wave of job titles. They put whatever you call yourself to shame. What is the job title of someone who works with companies on brand identity? Try "Notionologist." What do you get if you cross a consultant with somebody responsible for implementing his or her own advice? A "Resultant."

A hotel guest-relations manager who focuses on "how people feel inside a space" is a "Director of Vibe." A guy with an environmental group who goes from town to town talking about environmental issues has the title "Circuit Rider."

Some of these titles lack even a whiff of humility. The director of a college’s distance-learning program calls himself "Keeper of the Magic." I saw a picture of him, looking smug as all get out, and my first thought was that if I ever met him, I would ask the "Keeper of the Magic" if he could pull my fist out of his face.

Then there’s a woman who works in a post-production audio facility who claims the title "Princess of Persuasion." You may have met her mother, Queen Convincing, or her father, King Argument II.

You have to wonder what some of these companies’ organizational charts look like. You’ve got the Keeper of the Magic at the top (I assume he truly can work magic), and then reporting to him is a Vice-Wizard and a couple of Senior Conjurers. The Notionologist has under her an Impulsivist and a staff of Glimmerers. The Princess of Persuasion reigns over a Viscount of Reasons and a Duke of Benefits, and under them are a bunch of wretched Serfs.

I’ll bet the Internal Revenue Service has a lot of fun when these people file their tax returns, and under "occupation" someone has listed "Sultan of Savvy." The IRS reads something like that and it says to them "whacko," and they say to the taxpayer, "Audit."

And don’t you wonder how customers deal with companies that have nontraditional job titles? It’s hard for me to see myself calling up some place and saying, "The washing machine you were supposed to deliver didn’t arrive. Put me through to the Ringmaster of Customer Outcomes."

And the person I would be talking to would of course say, "She’s not in. May I direct your call to someone else?"

And unless I was completely familiar with the company’s organization, I would only be able to mutter something about the guy with the magic or a Resultant.

This is the problem with exotic job titles: They mean nothing to you unless you’re an exotic customer. Customers like to deal with solid, recognizable titles. When they want to buy something, they’re more likely to ask for a salesperson than a good vibe facilitator. When something goes wrong, they’re more likely to ask for a manager than a Keeper of the Magic.

I was once self-employed in a company of one, and I could have given myself any title I wanted. Instead of using something hip and indecipherable, I used something familiar, solid and just a bit lofty: Vice President. But even that confused people. They’d come up to me and say, "Hey. Why aren’t you the President?"

"Too much responsibility," I’d answer.

Dan Danbom remains, sadly, titleless.