2011, That Was the Year That Was

The last day of the year, certainly the traditional point where nearly everyone looks back and reflects on the past 364 days.  Even those who lead unexamined lives might have that rare moment of introspection on this day. 

Another of the more frequent indulgences is to create “best of…” lists.  The newspapers and cyber space are teeming with pundits extolling the virtues of their list.  In keeping with that idea, here are my thoughts about the best books and movies of the year.

Our children, Justin and Liz, visited over Christmas and both are voracious readers.  Of course, you might say, as those who know me know also that I read and listen to well over a hundred books each year.  Both kids, however, came into their reading phase rather late in their short lives.  Justin once wrote an English class them on Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy without reading the book.  I am still uncertain that he has ever read John Le Carre’s best.

I mention the progeny because without them I would have a rather slim list of best books.  At Christmas 2010 I received a copy of Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart.  A satiric view of a world where social networking has run amok, where everything is know about you to everyone, where bloggers are the new rock stars, and it takes an advanced degree to work in retail.  More school does not, in Shteyngart’s imagined world, equal more knowledge, let alone wisdom.  Mixed in with the baby boomers’ collective, ongoing battle against aging, maybe even maturing, and you have an incredibly funny, yet super sad, love story.

In a visit to the Bay Area, Justin handed me another book, Ron Rash’s Serena, a tale set in a logging camp in North Carolina.  In the opening scene, encouraged by his new wife, George Pemberton kills the father of a young girl, a girl Pemberton has impregnated.  Serena Pemberton, though, is the true face of evil in this novel.  Strong willed, sexually dominant, ruthless, she manipulates those around her to acts of mayhem and murder.  The most evil woman character since Annie Wilkes, Stephen King’s less-than-angelic nurse in Misery.

Let the Great World Spin allows me to give Liz more than a nod.  Colum McCann takes Phillipe Petit’s incredible tightrope walk across the chasm of the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in August 1974 and weaves tales of those who have witnessed the event or whom the event has impacted.  A pair of Irish brothers, one of them a priest living among whores on the East Side, the judge who arraigns Petit and his wife, a wealthy woman who has joined a group of mothers grieving the loss of their sons in Viet Nam, recovering drug addict artists living in the 1920s, and a photographer whose oeuvre is the graffiti on New York subways. 

It was slim pickings cinematically as well.  Good, not great movies, or as pal Jerry Warren and I judge: Movie or Film? 

2011 was the year of Mad Men, as we watched all four seasons thanks to Netflix.  That’s 52 episodes if you’re counting.  The best film, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.  Also getting a nod, Moneyball.

The Wonderful World of Malt Disney

Having herded the LAZ management into committees I found myself standing in front of a locked cabinet at The Carnegie Abbey Club, a private golf resort in Portsmouth, Rhode Island.  The cabinet held an impressive collection of single malt whisky, and not just the usual suspects. 

"Do you have any questions?"

I turned to see the Abbey's bartender, Steve Healy, in that quintessential publican pose, polishing a glass.  When Steve ascertained that my single malt chops were of an above average level he invited me to sit a table and talk whisky.  He placed a pewter cup on the table between us and asked me if I knew what it was.  "A quaich," I answered.  And then he quizzed me on the purpose of this ceremonial drinking vessel of the Scots.


Members of your family or honored friends and guests were allowed to share from the cup.  At weddings, according to Steve, the wedding party would all drink from the quaich with the last sip taken by the groom who would then kiss the bottom to seal the marriage.*

Steve was featured in a Golf Digest article dedicated to exploring the proverbial "19th Hole".  His encyclopedic knowledge of whisky has earned him the nickname "Malt Disney."  Steve bartended a private dinner the next dinner where I was a guest and he honored me by building a wonderful vertical tasting of a trio of single malts, all served in the quiach.  Despite the suggestion that I must be drinking out of the dog's bowl, I educated my LAZ friends and soon had them sharing a sip of the water of life.

During the course of the evening I had four generous measures, tempered with wonderful food, and two Payne-Mason Corojo cigars, a seven hour endeavor. 

Thanks to Malt Disney for a wonderful evening.

We began with Bowmore, a rather light Islay whisky, moved to The Balvenie, and topped off the evening with Oban. 

Slainte.

The Neighbor

On my way to Rhode Island, I made a brief stop in my hometown of Chicago, IL.  Determined to keep my string of consecutive days working out intact, I donned shorts, teeshirt, and running shoes and did a brisk 4-mile walk.  My folks live in Chicago proper, near Chicago and Western avenues, two of the major arteries in the city of broad shoulders.  The neighborhood is in the process of gentrification, with the original cottages-type homes, two- or three-flats, and bungalows being razed to make room for three-storey single family dwellings, usually made of stone or granite. 

The house shown below is on the 2300 block of Huron Street, a "side-street" in Chicago parlance.

This is, as they say in museum parlance, a permanent display.  A closer examination revealed that this army of stuffed gee-gaws was weather-beaten. This wasn't their first rodeo.  Notice the huge paving stone that anchors the lawn chair upon which is seated a member of an unknown avian species with Hispanic leanings.  Not to be aoutdone, a bulky red coat is perched in a plastic chair made from recycle water bottles.  Negotiating the stairs to enter the house appears to require the nimbleness of the Walendas.

But can you imagine if this was YOUR next-door neighbor. 

Here is the poster-child for a good set of CC&Rs (Convenants, Conditions & Restrictions).  Almost makes you nostalgic for the branch of the Dukes of Hazzard family that merely did major engine overhauls in their front yard.

*Do Scottish Jews wrap the quaich in linen and stomp it?  I don't know.  This may require more research.  This research would require more drinking from a quaich.  In the words of my buddy Greg Strangman, "It's all good!"

The Pledge, Florida--State of Morons, Economics California Style

Dateline, Eugene, Oregon

The City Council of the People's Republic of Eugene, Oregon, has eschewed the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. Mayor Kitty Piercy called the Pledge of Allegiance divisive. “If there’s one thing the flag stands for,” Piercy says, “it’s that people don’t have to be compelled to say the Pledge of Allegiance or anything else.”


Mayor Kitty fashions herself as a citizen of the world.

What a crock of shit.


Take your act to Chad, Somalia, one of the -stans, or even France, England, or Germany and see how it plays.  Many Americans find it trendy to apologize for their country.  These are the same people who, when visiting foreign countries, pretend they are Canadians.  Or, in the George W. years, could be heard saying "He's not MY president."

I am proud to be an American.  I wore a baseball cap from my 30th reunion from the Naval Academy to the French Open last year.  There is an American flag on the front and the rather odd "Flower Children of the Brigade" embroidered on the back.  (That schizophrenia must be explained in a later posting.)  I wore the hat in Italy.  Wore it last year in Scotland.  In my travels I have observed that people are fiercely proud of their countries.  The French love France, the Italians are proud to be Italians (except for some Romans who still bristle as the Risorgimento), and the Scots...don't even go there.  Criticize their country and you better be prepared to practice the sweet science of boxiana.  They will kick your ass.

These folks also don't consider themselves "citizens of the world."  What does that even mean?

Here's my advice to the wrongheaded, supercilious, bilious members of the Eugene city council.  This is America.  Resign and let an American have the job...you can send your resumes out to the world and see if there are any takers for spineless twerps.  Oh, and Ms. Mayor, I'm exercising my freedom of speech.

You're an asshole.

Florida

Floridians have proven they lack the mental sophistication to read an election ballot, and, after reading it, have demonstrated the inability to properly push a pin through the same ballot.  Let's face it, when it comes to voting, they struggle.

But really, people.  A hot-looking party girl neglects to report that her 2-year old daughter is missing for 31 days, and the best you can come up with is a charge of lying to authorities?  Maybe Amanda Knox should request a change of venue to Florida.  Did anyone do any research to find out if the O.J. Simpson jury was transported to the Sunshine State?

There is so much wrong with the Casey Anthony story that it beggars the mind.  If Casey looked like Mayor Kitty Piercy you wouldn't have even heard about the trial.  This trial was another in the long line of narcotizing events designed to numb us to real issues, like the two wars we're fighting, and the debt ceiling debate. 

Economics

Governor Moonbeam and the state legislatures have offered up a budget that it heavily reliant on a rather rosy view of revenues improving.  This is akin to any of us going out and booking an enormously expensive vacation, or buying a Lamborghini, or moving into a new McMansion, because we're expecting to make more money next year than we did this year.

When this happens on a personal basis it leads to bankruptcy or foreclosure.  When it happens at the government level it leads to...nothing.

The Highland Games, Proper Care and Feeding of Your Humidor, and a Deadhead Sticker

The Highland Games

Picture the rolling hills of Scotland, heather and grass, a green so deep that it hurts your eyes.  Perhaps a beautiful loch or an imposing glen in the background.  Och, aye, the Highland Games.  Caber tossing, hurling a Braemar stone, throwing the hammer, and any number of other feats of skill and strength.  Perfectly idyllic.

While Brengle Terrace Park in Vista, CA is a long way from the Highlands, it was the home of the San Diego version of the Highland Games.  Large men and women were throwing large things about on a baseball field devoid of grass.  And while Brengle Terrace is a bit urban, it does have expanses of grass and more than a few rolling hills.  Highland dancing, sheep dog competitions, piping contests, and music.  Opening ceremonies included a parade of the clans, with the Wallace clan predictably shouting "Freedom!" and the MacLaren's marching about with arms thrust into rather disturbing sheep puppet facsimiles...don't go there; I didn't.

We heard two terrific bands, Highland Way, anchored by Brian Caldwell, a native Glaswegian, and The Wicked Tinkers, a bagpipes and drums led by Aaron Shaw, also featuring a rather interesting contribution by that odd Australian instrument, the didgeridoo.

And a stop to see my good friend, Ray Pearson, The Whiskeymeister (check him our on Facebook.)  Ray plied me with a wee dram of Glenrothes and we planned the next meeting of the Vice Squad, of which I proudly serve as Vice Chairman.  We are devoted to single malts and cigars, two noble vices worthy of Winston Churchill's admiration.

For those who must hear the strains of pipes and drums, click above.

Care and Feeding of Your Humidor

At a recent meeting of the Del Mar Cigar Club, Jim Boldt of Payne-Mason Cigars gave us a lesson on preparing and maintaining our humidors.

1.) The humidor should be lined with Spanish cedar.
2.) Make certain that when you close the lid, you don't hear a noisy crack, but instead a soft thunk.  Think of the door of a Mercedes Benz closing.  If you hear a crack or slap, the seal is not sufficient to keep your cigars at the proper humidity.
3.) Before putting your wee darlings into the humidor, cure the humidor by lightly spraying a cloth with distilled water and wiping down the interior.  Do this several times a day.  The cedar's pores will close, thus preventing the wood from absorbing water.
4.) Keep the humidor away from direct sunlight.
5.) 70 degrees in temperature, 70% humidity.
6.) Use a digital hygrometer.
7.) Unless you intend to keep the cigars for longer than a year, remove them from their cellophane wrapper.
8.) If you intend to keep the cigar for extended period of time before you destroy it in a small fire, then cut the cellophane at the point where it folds in on itself, thus opening the end that you light to the air.

Who knew?

Apologies to Don Henley

"Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac..."
From The Boys of Summer

My friend and fly-fishing buddy, Gary Farrar, and a Deadhead sticker on his Cadillac.

San Francisco, Everyone's Favorite Weiner, Kilt X 3

San Francisco opened its pearly gates in more ways than one.  Lynn and I flew up to the Bay Area because both of the kids happened to be performing last weekend.  Liz performed in a modern dance show at Z Space while Justin backed old Birdmonster pal Peter Arcuni, aka, Sonny Pete at Cafe du Nord.

We spent Friday night in The City at Hotel Adagio, one of the many Joie de Vivre properties in the Bay Area.  The company was founded by Chip Conley, who remains active as Chief Culture Officer, and it remains the largest boutique hotel group in California, second nationally.  When we opened the door to our upgraded room we discovered a pleasant surprise.

In order to make guest stays even more memorable, this from a hotel group whose philosophy is that your visit should give you an "identity refresh", the associates can create Dreammakers.  Our Dreammaker was a basket stuffed with Scottish treasures: Irn Bru, Smarties, Maltesers, shortbread and oatbread cookies...er...biscuits...and a wee nottle of Famous Grouse.  The perfect gift, made more so because Ron Ryan and his staff has done their homework.  They knew that this "platinum rule" type gift would be appreciated.

We used material from Chip's book Peak: How Great Companies Get Their Mojo From Maslow for a Renaissance Executive Forum's Strategies for Success program.  I knew about, lectured about, and gave examples of Dreammakers.  Until you experience it firsthand, however, you have no idea of the power of that gesture.

This is why I am a raving fan not only of Joie de Vivre Hospitality, but in those markets where they don't have a property, boutique hotels in general.

The Weiner
Everyone has a new favorite Weiner, Representative Anthony Weiner, who clearly has made a gigantic ass of himself.  First, major and repeated lapses in judgment by Tweeting photos of his bulging Y-fronts to young women in their twenties.  Second, lying about it and casting about for some nefarious hacker.
Third, standing up and shrilly claiming that what he did was not illegal.  Maybe not, Weiner, but it was really, profoundly, deeply, freakin' stupid.

Fortunately he didn't trot out his wife to stand beside him while he made his apologia, as the U.S. Senator who proclaimed "I have a wide stance" did.  These tragic women look like they've chewed a handful of valium to muster up the stomach to stand by their reprehensible men.

Weiner is also guilty of arrogance. 

He vows that he will not resign.

Do us all a favor.  Resign.

Kilt
When I purchased my kilt last summer in Glasgow, the immediate concern was "where will I wear this?"  A pointless question, as it turns out.  In the past two weeks I have three occasions to don the Black Watch kilt.  Two weeks ago I attened a Cigar and Beer Pairing Evening at Stone Brewing.  Then Lynn and I went to the La Jolla Playhouse to watch a delightful comedy set on a fictitious Hebridean island, A Dram of Drummhichit.  Last evening, 6 Degrees, an extraordinary networking organization run by Matt Greene, sponsored another cigar evening, featuring not only the fine cigars handmade by Payne-Mason, but frequent and generous pours of The Macallan.

And not just the 12-year, but 15-year, 17-year and cask strength.  Brilliant!

Social Media, Da Bulls, Amazon Vine

Two weeks ago, one of my cigar smoking friends, a rather numerous bunch in all, invited me to join The Cigar Group on LinkedIn.  I was intrigued by one of the questions: "Do you buy your cigars online or from a local shop?"  The answers ran the expected gamut, though most said they supported local shops, and with good reason.  First, you can't smoke on the Internet.  Second, and more important, as the anti-smoking, anti-fun brigade continues their inexorable march, the shops become one of few public havens where you can smoke a cigar.

This week I posted my own question, "Where is the most memorable place you smoked a cigar?" and I now find myself as "The Top Influencer" of the group.

Certainly one of the appeals of social media is the opportunity to be a star, even if it is on a rather tiny stage.  Not one of the draws for me.  One of my clients, a rather hip young entrepreneur, announced in one of our recent Forum meetings, that he was the Mayor of Renaissance Executive Forums by virture of Foursquare.  Hmmm, he's the mayor of my business.  I told him I was still the king, but I welcomed his mayoralty.

Facebook allows an instantaneous connection to my friends, especially those in South America, across the United States, and the horde in Glasgow.  While nothing can beat actually sitting across from one of these people, aforementioned cigar in hand, the mere fact that there is an acceptable substitute is comforting. 

If Facebook is the territory of true friends and family, business associates, some of whom also can be described as friends, populate the LinkedIn site. 

I have a Twitter account, but I don't tweet much.  I think my mother slapped me upside the head when I tweeted in church when I was eight years old.  Or maybe it was one of those menopausal nuns from Holy Rosary Grammar School smacking me with a yardstick for tweeting in class.  Life in 160 chacracters.  Cyberspace's version of haiku.

Recently, a rather prestigious publication made a guess on how much productivity was lost at work due to social media.  The number is staggering.  Along with the Internet itself, social media is a black hole of time, sucking in the unwary.

I maintain a few simple rules.  I never spend more than 5 minutes a day on Facebook.  I may spend more time on LinkedIn, but not every day.

Da Bulls
Last night, in one of the most poorly officiated games I have ever seen, the young Chicago Bulls fell to the Miami Heat, not so much a team as a collection of outsized egos.  (OK, I admit that I still like Dwayne Wayne.)  LeBron James flopped more than last year's Dutch World Cup team.  Bulls fans should not be discouraged.  They made it to the conference finals in a series reminiscient of the early days of Michael Jordan.  The Bulls need a latter-day Scottie Pippen, another legitimate scoring threat, to open Derrick Rose's game.

Amazon Vine
I love a good scam.  A couple of months ago I was invited to join the Amazon Vine program.  I think I was invited because I write book and product reviews.  Last year I wanted to see how many reviews it would take to break into the top 10,000.  (At the end of last year, it was somewhere in the high 30s.)
As part of this program you received an e-mail every month with a number of books and products that Amazon will send to you free of charge.  The only expectation is that you write a review.

I've received, read, and reviewed two books, neither of which is even available yet in bookstores.  One of those was by an author whose books I have read and enjoyed, a rather intelligent mystery series.

And now we close the circle on this particular blog.  We, the mob, have become the reviewers, the arbiters, the restaurant critics, the hotel detectives.  Democratization of products and services, with real-time judgments passed.  I find it interesting that first, I would take the time to write a book review, second, that someone else would read it, and third, that same someone clicked that reading the review has helped him or her. 

So much information, same amount of time, more individual discipline and judgment required.

The Royal Wedding, Reality TV, and Other Rants

Here Comes the Princess Bride:
Basically, if you are older than 8 and not a wee girl, you shouldn't care at all about the Royal Wedding.  Grown-ass people invested in a ceremony of which they have no earthly connection staggers the mind. 

Last week, while pursuing the noble trout at Lee's Ferry, the inimitable Cap'n Bill, my usual accomplice in these outdoor sojourns, attempted to ask me a question but was so thwarted by paroxyms of laughter, that he was unable to expel the simple interrogatory.  This preceded the cigar and a couple of wee drams, so you couldn't even accuse the Cap'n of being in his cups.  When he finally was able to get his breath and laughing under control he asked, "Have you purchased your Royal Wedding commemorative plate yet?"

Commemorative plates, mugs, paper dolls, magazine covers...you can buy it all.  All destined to become collectors items!

My arse.

Reality Bites:
This segues quite nicely into one of my own personal oddities, my refusal to watch a single episode of any reality TV show.  Survivor, never seen it.  American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, Jersey Shore, ad nauseum...nope. I don't know who got voted off the island and I've never made a telephone call to support a manufactured warbler or hoofer.  How all this suddenly became news baffles me.  Shouldn't the news be explaining to us the difference between the Shiites and the Sunnis? 

More people are well-versed in how Linday Lohan fared in prison than in the nuances between the aforementioned rival Muslim sects. 

The Police Blotter, aka, the NFL:
The sports world is gearing up for the National Football League draft, another narcotizing exercise made even more marginal by the fact that there might not even be an NFL season.  Imagine, waiting 15 breathless minutes for the Cleveland Browns to announce their pick for the next future felon.  Heart stopping!

For the record, there hasn't been an NFL season for me since that spoiled pissant, Eli Manning, pouted on national TV in the shadow of his even more annoying father, and sulked about being drafted by the San Diego Chargers.  Maybe we do need an NFL season...it would cut down on the number of knifings.

The Donald, for President?
Really.  http://www.breadbucket.com/ created a list of 10 possible slogans for The World's Most Annoying Man.  My favorite: If You Shaved a Jaundiced Yeti’s Nutsack and Put it on a Man’s Head, I Would Be That Man.  Makes me nostalgic for Pat Paulsen.



Obama, a natural born citizen?
Lordy, what will my uber right buddies decry now?  Course, the birth certificate showing up at this point in time begs the question Why did it take 3 years to be released?  I have a theory.  It was underneath the Rose Law Firm billing records left over from Clinton administration. 

Christopher Hitchens still has game:
My favorite curmdugeon penned a brilliant desciption of Prince Charles, the heir to the throne of England. "..a man who--like the fruit of the medlar--went rotten before he turned ripe."


Anything else, and I'd just be piling on.

Kevin the Piper and the ball bag that is Charlie Sheen

I was working late on Monday.  Lest you get too concerned, it was a freckle before 6:00 p.m. and I was actually catching up on my business reading.  I thought I heard bagpipes.  I opened the window and stuck my head out and my suspicion was confirmed.  Coming from the direction of Webb Park, a greenbelt that is adjacent to my office building, I distinctly heard the strains of a piper.  I decided to explore.

There is a small amphitheatre in Webb Park, a few rows of concrete seats and what passes as a small stage at its foot, designed no doubt for intimate poetry readings or political perorations.  Hyde Park it's not.  There, walking in a tight oval, was the piper.  On the way over I heard "Amazing Grace".  I stopped at the top step of the small amphitheatre and when the piper made his turn he saw me.  His song wheezed to a stop and he looked at me in alarm.

"Am I too loud?" he asked.

I told him that I heard him from an enclosed office a couple of hundred yards away but that I didn't mind.  I was, in fact, a fan of bagpipes.  I knew that he had probably been banished to the park by his family and neighbors, because one can't really play the pipes quietly.  And when they are played at his level of virtuosity, there is an additional bit of auditory pain inflicted.

After an attempt at "Garryowen" (Custer's battle song) and "Mary's Wedding" he stopped to chat.  Kevin had been playing the pipes for a year.  He is Irish by heritage, American by birth.  His inspiration is to play in the St. Patrick's Day Parade on March 17, 2012 in New York City.  This marks the 250th anniversary of the first parade, 1762...12 years before the Declaration of Independence.

Kevin is not a good piper, but there is much I admire in the man.  He has a goal, a deep respect for his heritage, and the discipline to practice.  I am sure that there is no shortage of naysayers and folks who think he might have a screw or two loose in his head and he has chosen to ignore them to fulfill a dream.  I hope that I hear Kevin again, and I know that his playing will improve.

 ...and now to Charlie Sheen. 

A ball bag.  There. Simply put, strongly stated.  Cocaine and drug-addled, narcissistic, hedonistic, he now dominates the airwaves and cyberspace that must have his fellow travelers (Lindsay Lohan, Brittany Spears, the Kardashians, and Paris Hilton) swooning with envy.  Sheen is an object lesson, an examplar of what is wrong with the world.  Overpaid, overindulged, and overwrought.  If anyone else launched into the type of verbal abuse and diatribes against his employer that Sheen did, they would be summarily dismissed,  fired, made available to industry, deep-sixed, cashiered, jettisoned, or made to walk the plank.  This pimple on the arse of the world is demanding that his salary be increased to $3 Million per episode because of all the mental anguish CBS and Warner Brothers have caused him.  Wait, he was the employee burying his nose and head into a mountain of cocaine, he's the one with a season's pass and his own wing at Betty Ford, he's the one who threatened to cut off his ex-wife's head...and most of this occured before the network decided to truncate the season of "Two and Half Men."  And he wants a raise.

Yeah, try that in the real world.

Last Friday a good friend of mine called and, laughing almost to the point where I couldn't understand him, relayed to me a quote from his buddy, radio talk-show host Jerry Doyle.  Jesse asked Jerry who, in his opinion, was crazier, Mohammar Khadaffi or Charlie Sheen?

"Charlie Sheen is the Mohammar Khadaffi of Hollywood," Doyle replied, "and Mohammar Khadaffi is the Charlie Sheen of Libya."

Apt.

Note: as to the spelling of Mohammar Khadaffi...isn't it nice to be able to write something and not worry about the spelling.  You can't spell Mohammar Khadaffi incorrectly.

An Open Letter to President Obama

Earlier this week, President Obama addressed the U.S. Chamber of Commerce.  During the speech he challenged business to open the coffers on the $2 Trillion in corporate treasuries and begin hiring people. "I want to encourage you to get in the game," he said.  Another Obamination.

Mr. President, business never left the game.  Businesses don't get to call a time out.  Business played a game rigged with changing rules, onerous requirements, increasing regulations, the challenges of mandated health care, a crumbling infrastructure, and a tax system that punishes the ambitious while it rewards lay-abouts.

The demand to hire people, so that "we can create a virtuous cycle" displays the profound economic ignorance of the Chief Executive.  Mr. Obama, put down Karl Marx and pick up Thomas Sowell's Basic Economics.  This book should be mandatory reading for everyone in government.  Maybe the Senate and House and the State Legislatures can assign that book for the May book club.  But certainly I ask too much, since these elected representatives seem to loath reading, proven by their inability to read most legislation.


Business will begin hiring (and some companies are already doing so) when it makes good economic sense.  Unlike the government, when a business hires someone that person actually has to do something, and that something must make a contribution to sales or production or distribution or maintenance.  While government can create multitudes of jobs where those hired do nothing, business cannot.  The first rule of business is to make a profit.  Without a profit, no one has a job.  Without those jobs, no payroll.  Without the payroll, no taxes.  


The people who create those businesses, the entrepreneurs, (not the bloated corporate empty suits) are risk takers and visionaries.  But they are not suicidal and delusional.  


If you are a business owner, congratulations.  You have survived the worst economic downturn we have seen in the last 80 years.  While happy days may not be here again, there are clear indications that the economy has turned the corner.  Corporate recruiters and staffing companies are becoming busier, a clear indicator that companies are at least dipping a toe into the employee pool.  Valet parking is up, suggesting that eating dinner somewhere other than In 'N' Out and CPK, is once again an option for an evening out.  


As to "get in the game", at the risk of being redundant...we never left.  

Early 2011 Ramblings

The Coaching Carousel

Once again the NCAA, the supercilious governing body for collegiate sports, sports its own hypocrisy. Finding that five members of the Ohio State University team guilty of various and sundry (and I do mean sundry) lapses of judgment, the sachems levied a four-game suspension. To be served during the 2011 football season, thus allowing the miscreants the opportunity to play in the bowl game. Money talks.

Meanwhile, coaches are blithely walking away from contracts, implied obligations to players, schools, and alumni as they move to what is always dubbed “my dream job.” The latest, Brady Hoke, who takes an overall losing record from his days at Ball State, and most recently, San Diego State to fill his larder at Michigan. You can’t truly demean a man who is merely trying to make his family secure, but the Aztecs opened the coffers to try to stem this defection. If you can’t live on over $1,000,000 a year something must be wrong.

Major Dick Winters

Made reluctantly famous by the Stephen Ambrose book and Steven Spielberg/Tom Hanks HBO mini-series, Band of Brothers, Dick Winters was true to form to the very end. The man who claimed not to be a hero, but to have served in a company of heroes, passed away, and news of his death was made known only after the funeral.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition
                                     Henry V, Saint Crispin’s Day speech before the Battle of Agincourt

The Rhetoric of Death

The tragedy of the shootings in Arizona is that, a tragedy. Six dead, another 13 wounded, a congresswoman the target of the attack, a federal judge a target of opportunity, a 9-year old girl slain.

I ask that you only listen to the rhetoric. Whether it is the sheriff of Pinal County, or one of the pundits, or the somber news anchors, or even the deer-in-the headlights Congressman Robert Brady, (D. PA)*, ask yourself a simple question or two.

Are they stating a fact or an opinion? Are they reporting news, or speculation?

We have a former FBI profiler, who has never met the perpetrator of these crimes, opined for several minutes about the progression and escalation of behavior, and on and on and on.

Of course there will be another cry for gun control, a debate between two sets of zealots. While I strongly believe in the right to bear arms, and am a gun owner myself, I don’t necessary see the need for a 30-shot clip for a handgun. (To stay on the tracks of this train of thought, this is only my opinion.)

*Representative Brady would like to extend the same protection for hate speech and threats enjoyed by the President to all members of Congress.  Other than a trampling of freedom of speech what could possibly be wrong with this lamebrained idea?

Movies and Books


After bemoaning the dearth of outstanding movies in 2010 and the paucity of great books, 2011 has started out with a bang. In the first case, literally. The Coen Brothers’ treatment of the classic 1969 western True Grit is better than the original. Then again, anyone reading this would have done a better job as LeBouef than Glen Campbell. But it is Colin Firth in The King’s Speech who has turned in a stunning performance of the stammering Bertie, who reluctantly became King George VI.

On the book front, another nod to Chris Britton. The man is money when it comes to book recommendations. This time he steered me to Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese. This is the type or rich novel that John Irving, Richard Russo¸ and Michael Malone once wrote.