Jimmy Guterman

Jimmy Guterman died unexpectedly in July of this year (2016), gone too soon and leaving behind a wife and three children. News of his passing spread through the PC Week alumni network and I wished I had this blog revived at the time to write some words of appreciation for a good friend and esteemed colleague who was with me early in my career and for decades ever after.


Jimmy was a writer. He wrote about rock and roll — not as a critic per se — but one of those loves of the music who could weave a great story about its roots as well as the humor. The Sex Pistols, Sinead O’Connor,  Jerry Lee Lewis … he wrote books about all of them. But for some weird reason he took a shine to tech journalism just as it was getting to be cool in the 1980s, and stuck to it with the soul of a reporter and a certain sardonic mensch-like view of the world that kept him curious but pragmatic all the time.Jimmy not only chronicled the amazing development of the tech world over the last three decades, but contributed to it with deep thinking, great thoughtfulness, and a blend of skepticism and utopian hope that came through his work at the Harvard Business Review and on stage at TED.

When I was his editor in 1988 I sent him and another writer across the Atlantic to England to look at prototype of Steve Job’s Next PC — the ahead-of-its-time workstation with the black magnesium case, the first optical drive, and the operating system Jobs would bring back with him a few years later when he returned to Apple to revive the company’s flagging fortunes. Jimmy and his cohort Jeff Young (who had written the first biography of Jobs – The Journey is the Reward) went to some lab at one of the big universities — I think Cambridge, to do a quick analysis of the Next machine’s speeds and feeds. It was a bit of a fool’s errand — the machine was there, being tested by some coders in the beta test program, but it was concealed in mufti with a down  vest — like LL Bean would sell — and Jimmy was unable to get more than an unusable picture of a goose-down encased rectangle on a desk.

We were early lovers of hypertext. Jimmy was fascinated by early precursors to HTML and the World Wide Web and did some interest experiments with hypertext fiction. We created a partnership to do some hypertext projects — and together went to Newport, Rhode Island to pitch the CEO of the US yacht racing association a project to turn the rules of sailboat racing into an interactive, animated CD-ROM. They looked at us like we were Martians, Jimmy looked at them like they were something out of JP Morgan and Lady Astor’s garden party, and we were sent packing. Later we registered Vineyard.com and a few other domains. I hired him on a freelance basis to help write some great early features for Forbes.com, and later he repaid the favor by giving me some freelance work when he was editor of Forrester Research’s short-lived but fantastically edited print magazine.

I have, in my dusty music collection, a CD I burned with some of the worst songs of all time — songs inspired by Jimmy and Owen O’Donnell’s 1991 book The Worst Rock and Roll Records of All Time. 


Jimmy and I bickered over his inclusion of the Grateful Dead’s live Europe ’72 album — he was not a Deadhead. But his description of some of the horrors committed to vinyl in the name of rock live on on that CD. I take some small pride in knowing I contributed at least one entry that made it into the book.

Jimmy was a great craftsman with his writing. He was a careful reporter, checked his facts, but delivered very clean, spare copy with the pragmatic professionalism of a true freelancer. Everything I know about the craft of the freelancer I learned from Jimmy Guterman.

I’ll miss him. I sent him a note last winter when I realized he was an editor for Newco, John Battelle’s start up for start ups. My company,Acquia, was involved in some Newco event in Boston and so I sent Jimmy a quick “Hey-How-Are-You?” but didn’t head back.

Jimmy was one of a kind and I think about him often now. My condolences to his wife, son, and daughters and friends.

Disrupted: 50% of a book review

I couldn’t wait for Dan Lyon’s book about his year at Hubspot — Disrupted: My Misadventure in the Start-Up Bubble — so I bought the thing twice, impatiently waiting until 5 am this morning to pull down the Kindle version just so I could start reading on the morning boat from Hingham to Rowes Wharf.  I actually committed two honest-to-god “LOLs” during the 30 minute boat ride — but then again Lyons has been making me laugh since we were in high school together in the late 70s, then at the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune covering little towns in southern Massachusetts, then at PC Week, and Forbes ….. and so on and so forth.

And here I am only half-way through the book and jumping the gun and writing half a review, which is better than most of the hacks who have been riffing off the excerpt Fortune published a couple weeks ago. But, having listened to Dan during his time at Hubspot, comparing notes, and knowing a bit about Hubspot’s “culture” I pretty much know how the story turns out.

Dan is a disciple of some classic newsroom curmudgeons (especially the late Jim Michaels who ruled over Forbes with the best bullshit detector in  the business) and he nails the zeitgeist of a contemporary tech startup with pitch perfection.  Given we’re roughly the same vintage and have followed the same professional career track, there’s a lot in Disrupted that hits painfully close to the truth of my own situation as a 50-something white guy who stopped being a reporter to dive in as a marketer inside of the kind of tech company I used to cover for nearly two decades alongside Dan.

Of the two of us, Dan is by far the funnier and better writer, with much bigger balls. His novel Dog Days is a fictional harbinger of Disrupted and the shit he stirred up at Forbes under his own byline was always fun to read; but it was his Secret Diary of Steve Jobs that gave birth to one of the better cat-and-mouse games in the Valley as even Forbes publisher Rich Karlgaard started offering a free iPod to whomever would out the first genuinely funny satirist of Valley inanity. That Hubspot would hire him as a “marketing fellow” made sense on the surface. Lots of ex-reporters were taking corporate content gigs, myself included, launching custom publishing operations like Adobe’s CMO.com and Qualcomm’s Spark. Alas, as readers of Disrupted will discover, Dan found himself in the grasp of Lead Gen — aka getting people to share their email or phone number so they can be spammed or called until they either cave in and buy something or vow never again to part with their contact information  in exchange for an “e-book” of some tedious “thought leadership” written by a marketing intern captivated by the emerging industry of marketing “gurus” who have managed to repackage the old sins of 2nd class direct mail and telemarketing into something suspiciously full of benign purpose, or as Hubspot dubbed it “Inbound Marketing.As I wrote last week on “ageism” in tech — sure it sucks to be an out of work reporter in one’s 50s forced into PR or content marketing and find after decades of cutting through corporate-speak and marketing bullshit one is suddenly inflicting the same on the world in the service of growth and the brass ring of a possible IPO. Dan made it through to the IPO and then decamped for Mike Judge’s HBO series Silicon Valley where he’s still  a writer.

Someone needs to make a movie out of Disrupted — especially since Hubspot gave Dan the parting gift of a sordid scandal in which one exec was canned, another fled the scene, and the CEO got a reprimand for trying to either grab a copy of the manuscript or extort the publisher into killing it. Hubspot will be fine, it’s the world of marketing automation that needs to be afraid — very afraid — as Lyons holds up a mirror and calls it like it is. I’m sure an entire subculture of social media consultants,  growth hackers, and  funnel optimization and lead nurturers are going to rise up in outrage and claim he didn’t get the point, but watching them turn to LinkedIn, Medium, and even dear old Forbes.com to try to salvage their reason for existing has been a lot of fun to watch and marvel over.




Ageism in Tech

A VC friend of mine who isn’t known for candy coating things, told me once that his firm likes investing in startups with young, early-in-their-career employees because “One thing they always make more of is young, cheap people.” This same master of the universe also told me about delaying layoffs at one of his firm’s portfolio companies “until the holiday heroin wore off,” and was full of other carnivorous, bloodless sentiments like “The biggest job of a CEO is to make the next payroll.” So much bottom line tough talk but the fact is that older workers are more expensive, firing them before Christmas is shitty, and we’re all replaceable sooner or later.

From Eskimos shipping their elderly off on a cake of ice, to the grim truth that “nobody gets out of life alive,” there’s a certain awful naked lunch realization we all have to face that at some point the we’re going to get old, the wheels will fall off of the bus, and we’re all going to take the big dirt nap. My old writing teacher Gordon Lish once told another student in a seminar that 20-somethings should never write about sex because they hadn’t had enough of it yet, and no one under 30 really and truly accepts their own mortality.

I was recently asked whether I saw “ageism” in my company. At the doddering age of 58, with sore knees and weak eyes, I guess I should know. Sure, I’ve paid attention to the plight of older workers in the tech sector over the years, and know it must be especially grim for a coder or engineer the further they get away from their graduate studies. I saw the resistance of COBOL and FORTRAN programmers as mainframes were replaced by the PC revolution. I know a lot of talented programmers spent a lot of time off the clock learning the latest framework or language to stay fresh and au courant. Me? I’m a hack, a writer who was lucky enough to move on from journalism and go corporate while the getting was good back in the mid-1990s. Although I can take a little solace that the ability to write a good headline isn’t going away any day soon, I also get more than a little concerned by machine learning systems that can churn out a perfectly good quarterly corporate earnings story and do the work of some poor Bloomberg reporter in half the time. When a headhunter looks at my resume, they invariably say something like “colorful” or “very unique” but that’s code for saying I’ve switched careers a few times over the last three decades (more from boredom, a terrible attention span and curiosity than some master plan).

Why do I work?  Well, to keep the wolf from the door certainly. But that’s like saying I’m giving up French cooking for a diet of Soylent. Do I wake up at dark o’clock and spend two hours commuting to a downtown office in Boston because I want to wake up early and drive the same highway every morning listening to the NPR Spring beg-a-thon? Do I sit down at my desk out of a sense of obligation to ring the bell and punch the clock? Nah. I like being around my colleagues. I like the energy of a good problem. I like the dysfunction of a start up. But most of all I like being old and realizing as I tackle a problem that I’m drawing on three decades of experience and am able to retrieve from my years something approaching the “wisdom” ascribed to being an older worker; examples I’ve seen before that a colleague in their 20s probably hasn’t been exposed to yet. And I like working with young people and not in the Jane Goodale observing the social habits of chimps either. Sure, there’s a lot of challenges in managing people versus working on a story or project — journalists are terrible team members and pretty much solo practitioners — but it’s the chance to teach and guide that makes me gets up  in the morning and making the long trip to my desk.

Bill Ziff once told me in a profile I wrote about him for Forbes that taking over his father’s publishing company saved him “from a life of abstraction” in academia. My mentor at Forbes, Jim Michaels, worked deep in his 70s as the magazine’s editor, never seeming to lose his sharp mind nor his love for new technology and the impact it had on the business world and society at large.  At McKinsey, every new consultant plucked fresh from Wharton or the Harvard Business School hopes to survive long enough to be elected a Director, but the reality of the Firm’s “up or out” culture is the average consultant lasts little more than two years before being “graduated” (to coin Dan Lyon’s Orwellian term for what HubSpot calls firing people) to another gig. My generation — the Typewriter Generation — we grew up with grandparents who put in 40 years at the same behemoth and retired with a gold watch and a nice pension. I started my career thinking longevity in a job was a good thing, that churning from one job to the next was a negative besmirch on the CV. After 13 years at Forbes, I started to wonder if I was in it for 20 more like Michaels or some of the other senior editors. Eventually, after deciding it was time to leave Forbes — not because I saw some bad times ahead — I started to bounce around. McKinsey for a couple years. Lichtenstein with 21inet for a couple, eight months at IDG, five at Lenovo — moving from reporter to editor to publisher to consultant to managing director, VP — changing my specialties from writing and editing to everything from web analytics and digital marketing to public relations, even engineering, Olympic sponsorships and crisis communications. It’s been fun, but definitely nerve-wracking.

I could get off my ass and research what the HR “thought leaders” say today’s Millenials can expect n terms of the number of jobs they’ll hold over the course of their career. It’s a lot. I feel bad for anyone fresh out of college trying to land a substantial job with benefits. The gig economy. The unpaid internship. The hustle with all that pent up education and vitality and ambition only to be thwarted by a sclerotic economy and a workforce constipated with old Baby Boomers like me — I’d be pissed too. I was pissed. I graduated from an Ivy League college into the “Carter Recession” and was washing dishes, tending bar and selling my precious bodily fluids to science to keep myself in weed and beer. The worst decade of my life has been my 20s — but once I settled down, got hired at the Lawrence Eagle-Tribune and told to cover the selectmen in the town of Salem, NH, I started to find my purpose.


I haven’t read Disrupted yet. The reviews say it has a theme of “ageism” but I think not so much. Dan and I have worked at the same places and had the same career trajectory more or less and we’re good friends and we share war stories. I don’t think his book about his 18 months at Hubspot is so much about being an old guy in a company run by the young and naive as it is sheer glee at the banality of startup culture and offices run on a bread-and-circus mentality with the decor — as he puts it — of a day care center. My other good writer friend, Charles Dubow said to me once about working at a digital publication post-Forbes, “It was definitely a case of children-running-with-scissors and it made me realize the scariest episode of Star Trek was when Kirk and Spock were stranded on that planet run by children.” Reporters are professional cynics, trained to poke at dissembling bullshit — Forbes reporters under Jim Michaels were especially coached not to buy into some company’s bullshit about “corporate culture” and we are conditioned to roll our eyes over the sheer silliness of casual Fridays, “team building exercises,” and Orwellian abuses of the language into meaningless cliches signifying nothing.  Watching a younger colleague discover some ageless truth and decide to rename it — e.g. calling “advertorial” something like “content marketing” or “native advertising” — well, calling them on it is just going to piss them off, so it’s our job as the old, infirm, wise and treacherous to smile, and know inside that their time is going to come and everything old is new again.

We’re all full of shit, and spout delusional cliches at some point or another. It’s predictable for one generation to write off the one ahead of them as being out-of-touch,senile Matlock-watching fuddy-duddies or the one behind them as brash, clueless upstarts with their new-fangled toys and execrable music. I’m not looking for some special treatment or veneration just because I have a lot of numbers on my odometer, but I also know this has all happened before and is going to happen again. It’s on me to stay relevant, and send the elevator back down at some point.  Should I be looking over my shoulder? Hell yes I should, as the late Andy Grove entitled one of his books, only the paranoid survive. I’ve got a lot of peers who didn’t get out of daily newpapers in time; who hung around newsrooms for too long; who didn’t see the sucker punch of digital coming to mess up their Typewriter-defined careers.  A lot of us adapted. Some went freelance and are writing great books and others have hit hard times, done in by bad health or too much trust that the good times would last forever.  I don’t want to be a skydiving grandpa, and god knows I don’t want to be like a former boss who suddenly hit the Grecian formula and started going around with an untucked shirt and designer jeans like some corporate version of Whatever Became of Baby Jane.

Best I can hope for is to pass along some hard-earned life lesson, like “Never turn down an offered Tic Tac. You might need it and resist the temptation to write rambling geezer screeds.




Favorite things: cooking in steel drums

I don’t know what got into me one night a couple weeks ago but I suddenly had one of those primal caveman urges to eat Texas BBQ beef brisket. Spring fever? Some food show on television that had me yearning for something to eat? One thing led to another and I went on an obsessive hunt for how to move beyond merely cooking outside in the March rain to a whole new level of OCD cooking. In the past it was smoking bluefish or trying to make some impossible French sausage thing called a “galatine,” now I need to get back to my Houston roots and figure out barbecue.

I kept hitting two names — Franklins of Austin and the Pit Barrel Cooker — Franklin is the savant of brisket and the PBC is like the most highly rated, recommended backyard barbecue pit on the market consisting of basically an oil drum, a couple pieces of rebar, a charcoal basket, lid and stand. Franklin has a cookbook, so that went on the Kindle. The man is into the best beef so I ordered a pair of black angus brisket flats from Creekstone Farms (forget about finding decent brisket on Cape Cod, especially around St. Patrick’s Day when everything is corned beef brisket for the odious traditional boiled cabbage dinner that makes the house smell like a diaper pail).

The barrel arrived, required zero assembly and went out behind the boat shop. Couple bags of regular Kingsford charcoal, a “chimney starter” and a pair of big cheap roaster chickens and I was ready to season the thing. Split the two birds down the middle, cut out their backbones for stock, rubbed them with the usual mixture of stuff to turn them red and hung them on hooks from the rebar, put on the lid, and went away for 90 minutes. When the digital thermometer read 165 I fished them out, brought them inside and made the house smell like the real deal. Total success. Like best chicken ever.

For Easter I sucked it up and hung a beef rib roast in the barrel — two hours later with a temp of 135 I had the best hunk of cowboy ribeyes ever. This was too easy. I mean you light the charcoal, give the coals 15 minutes to get going, hang the meat (there is a grill option, but hanging lets one cram a lot of meat into the barrel at once), slap on the lid, pay heed to the rule “if you’re lookin’ you’re not cookin'”, set a timer and walk away. There’s one adjustable vent at the bottom, you crack it about 25% if you’re at sea level, and that’s that.

Now brisket is a different deal. The things take a long time to cook. Pull too soon and they are tough as sneakers. Too long and they turn into expensive pot roast. So Franklin is the prophet and I am getting ready by reading his OCD instructions of trimming and rubbing and phenomena such as the “Texas Crutch” (wrapping with foil or butcher paper after six hours), the “Stall” (the point where the internal temperature levels off and doesn’t move while some meat science involving evaporation, cooling, collagens and the Maillard Reaction happens. This coming weekend is the test when the daughter comes home with her Austin-born boyfriend and I try to impress them.

Anyway — if you’re getting ready to drag the grill out for the spring and are thinking about yet another Weber, get the Pit Barrel cooker. So simple a caveman could do it.