THE WAY OF THE GENTILE
IN EASY TO DIGEST BITE-SIZED CHUNKS

From the "Sefer Hasidim" ("Book of the Pious"): "When Jews are traveling through a country in search of a place where they can reside, they should investigate how the gentiles live in the town that they are considering. If the gentile residents are immersed in licentiousness and if Jews decide to live in that same town, their sons and daughters will follow the example of the gentiles. In every town, the Jews follow the customs of the gentiles."

My name is Elliott Dahan. My nickname is Elias.

My father, Charles Dahan, owned baby dress factories in Brooklyn and realized, after selling baby dresses to all those Gentiles at J.C. Penney, Montgomery Ward and Sears, that his sons would have an easier time of it if they left a little room for doubt when it came to last names. My mother went overboard and sent me to a Baptist prep school in Maine.My father wanted me to have a nickname that would pass for Gentile while still giving me a chance for redemption. He also knew that if he went overboard with a “Skippy” or “Chipper” or “Biff”, no one would believe it. In a moment of true divine intervention, he chose “Elias”. He was walking around the workshop in one of his factories and noticed all those sewing machines. They all said “Singer”. He was going to name me after Isaac Singer; the guy he thought invented the sewing machine. It was only after reading about the history of the sewing machine that my father realized that Isaac Singer was a crook who tried to steal the credit for the invention of the sewing machine from Elias Howe. Elias Howe was born in Connecticut and died in Brooklyn; frightening in it’s reverse upward mobility, but at least Elias knew what worked in a pinch. That settled that – my nickname would be Elias.

The last time I saw my father he was lying in a hospital bed. He was dying. But, he didn’t look like he was dying. He was lucid, loud and sometimes hungry. I do remember the last words he ever said to me, “I named you Elias after Elias Howe. He invented the sewing machine and Elias can go either way – Gentile or Jew. I was going to name you Isaac because I thought Isaac Singer invented the sewing machine. But he was a crook. I got real confused because of Isaac Bashevis Singer . . . . . Elias was a lot easier..

I HAVE BEEN TO YOUR SCHOOLS - I HAVE BEEN WITH YOUR WOMEN

When I was 14 years old I rode a bus for 13 hours from New York City to Lewiston, Maine. I was going to interview with Headmaster Claude Lucifer Allen for admissions to Hebron Academy. My mom gave me three hardback books (the only one I remember is Last of the Mohicans) and told me to make sure I carried these under my arm when I walked into Mr. Allen's office. She told me that I would impress Mr. Allen - something about those books and me.

When I walked into Mr. Allen's office, the first thing he said was, "did you read all those books?" I said, "No, but my mom told me to be sure to carry them into your office so you would be impressed."Mr. Allen admitted me.

My family didn't have enough money to send me to Hebron, so Mr. Allen gave me a scholarship.My senior year, Mr. Allen had real good cause to throw me out four different times - nothing illegal or immoral - but definitely a more elevated form of prank than had been seen at Hebron before. Each time I would pull one of these pranks; Mr. Allen would call me into his office and ask me if I did, indeed, commit this latest prank. I would always look Mr. Allen straight in the eye and not only confess to the prank, but also go into great detail about the nuances of pulling off this prank or that prank; the peculiar difficulties of each prank; and sometimes, even a hint of the next prank to come.

There was a teacher at Hebron everyone called "Piggie" - not to his face, but in every conversation where he wasn't in earshot. He knew we called him Piggie. We knew that he knew we called him Piggie.One afternoon, walking back from pitching a losing baseball game, I crossed paths with Piggie in front of the Gym. Now, this had already been a bad week as I was a senior and in the midst of applying to colleges. Every college had rejected me and . . . . Piggie was the College Guidance Guy.Piggie saw me. I saw Piggie. He said, "Hi, Elias." I said, "What’s it to you Piggie."Just before I crossed the doorway into Piggie's house that evening to start what would be a four hour discussion on why I called Piggie . . . Piggie, he made it real clear that anything and everything we said between us that night would stay completely between us.

The next day, I was called out of Mr. Stratton's English class and told to go into Mr. Allen's office. There was Mr. Allen and there was Piggie. The three of us spent about an hour and a half talking about the time Piggie and I spent in Piggie's house the previous night. Mr. Allen was furious at me. Mr. Allen wanted to throw me out of school right then and there.When Piggie was all talked out and Mr. Allen was all listened out, I turned to Mr. Allen and said, "didn't he tell you that the first thing he told me when I walked into his house last night was that our conversation would be completely between us and it would never be repeated to anyone ?"Mr. Allen leaned back in his rocking chair. He fiddled with his pipe. He turned his head slowly toward Piggie and said, in a slow low voice, "Don’t you ever lie to any of my boys again."

Then Mr. Allen turned to me and mumbled something about how I just got off on a technicality.

Gentile Required Reading:

Lord of the Flies
Catcher in the Rye
Winnie the Pooh
Strunk & White
Harvard and Princeton are Jewish.
Yale and Dartmouth are Gentile.
Georgetown makes the most sense.

CONFUSION OVER THE GROSS VS. THE NET

The High Holy Days. Ramadan. Easter. Must see TV. Don’t miss ‘em.Walking up the wide stone front steps of the Temple Beth Shalom on Queens Boulevard, my father, my brother David, my brother Mark and I were about to pray.Standing at the already open front door, a man, a friend of my father’s, greeted him and his sons and then asked my father for his tickets. My father stopped. I stood next to him.“What tickets ?” asked my father ?“The tickets for your seats. You have buy tickets for seats inside the schul for the High Holy Day services. Didn’t you buy any tickets ?” answered the man, slightly laughing.

My father, what a joker. My father stood on the top step to the entrance to the synagogue. He looked at the man. My father knew the rule about pay-to-pray. He knew that if you wanted to pray in the synagogue you had to buy a seat. He knew all of this – but he waited to answer. He wanted me to remember this. He looked over at me, who had no idea what to do next.

“Where do the poor people pray to God ?” asked my father.The man wasn’t expecting this. “Charles, you’re not poor. Didn’t you buy tickets?”Charles Dahan. Not looking left. Not looking right. Not looking up. Not looking down. Looking straight at the man said, again, “where do the poor people pray to God.”It must have sunk in. The man wasn’t laughing or even smiling anymore. The man leaned a bit towards my father and answered, in a low, awkward voice, “upstairs, on the second floor, in the gym.”My father took my hand, walked past the man, looking him squarely in the eyes and said, “Then that is where we will pray.”And Charles Dahan, Elias Dahan, David Dahan and Mark Dahan walked into the second floor gym, pulled down four metal folding chairs from the stack in the corner, unfolded their seats, carried them to the middle of the gym floor and placed them on the heavy green tarp covering the gym floor. There was a small cardboard box near the door of the gym. My father walked from their metal folding chairs towards this box. When he reached the box he reached into his suit jacket pocket, took out a sealed plain envelope and put it in the box. He walked back to the metal folding chairs. Then the Dahan boys and sat down – to pray to God.

I was quiet all of this time. When my father sat down, I finally spoke, “what was that box for ?”“Tsedaka. Charity. I’ll tell you later, “said my father, sitting next to his son, knowing that good lessons were taught today. And, knowing that I understood.

I have a son. I named him Charles, after his grandfather. Not very original, but the only name that made sense. When my son, Charles, was 12 years old, he decided he wanted to learn about being Jewish. Charles wasn’t committing one way or the other. He wanted to know what he was getting into. So, I decided it was time to take Charles to the synagogue. Charles and I were shown into Rabbi Steve’s office. Rabbi Steve asked them to sit down and then asked me if there were any questions he could answer. I sat on the couch, next to Charles, and looked around the office. I looked at the Rabbi, leaned slightly towards him and said, “My son, Charles, is 12 years old. He asked me about being Jewish. I think it is time that he learns for himself. I’ve never made him be a Jew. I’ve never forced him to choose. He always knew that any decision would be his.”

Rabbi Steve stood up from his chair, next to the couch, went over to his desk and picked up some papers. He went back to his chair and sat down. “This is a little pamphlet that talks about the Temple and all of the things Charles can do – there are Hebrew lessons, Bar Mitzvah preparation, Youth Events . . . , “ said Rabbi Steve as he shuffled through all of the papers, seemingly trying to find one specific paper.“Here it is,” said Rabbi Steve, somewhat relieved. He pulled the paper from the middle of the stack in his hand and handed it to me. I took the paper as Rabbi Steve started reading from a copy he had in his hand. I said nothing and followed along as Rabbi Steve talked.

“These are the costs for joining the Temple,” the Rabbi said, not really looking at either me or Charles. “As you can see there are several levels of membership and, of course, High Holy Day participation is extra. One of the unique, one of the strong points, of our Temple’s costs are the customized pricing schedules based on personal income. The base cost is two per cent of income and then there are additional fees for the building fund, the school fund . . .you can see for yourself . . .it’s all on the sheet.” I sat on the couch next to Charles, saying nothing.

Charles and I and Rabbi Steve talked some more. About this and that. More polite talk than anything else. Finally, it seemed like time to go. Charles and I got up. Shook hands with Rabbi Steve. Thanked him for all his time and headed to the parking lot. Just before we got to the car, Charles, finally speaking, asked his me, “Well what do you think. You really haven’t said anything one way or the other.”Standing at the passenger side car door, fumbling with the keys, I turned to Charles and said, “I really see nothing wrong with the Price Sheet. It all seems to be very self-explanatory and well laid out. I even saw the value in the comment Rabbi Steve made about this Temple, in particular, having a very high percentage of the Movers & Shakers in the Community as its members.

But, I am very confused . . . very confused.”“About what,” asked Charles.“I understand a percent of this and a percent of that. That’s not the problem. My problem is that I don’t know whether Rabbi Steve was talking about percent of the gross or percent of the net. Perhaps he was vague, back in his office, because I was supposed to figure it out myself. I can’t. I was hoping that the Lord would send me a sign – as we walked to the parking lot. As we stood here. Something simple, yet undeniable. The Gross or the Net.”

I unlocked the car door. Charles got in. I got in. they drove home. I never did get that sign from the Lord about the gross or the net. When I got home, I went to the telephone and called the Temple. A secretary answered and I said, “My son and I were just visiting with Rabbi Steve. About joining the Temple. My son wants to learn about being Jewish.” I hesitated a bit and then continued, “perhaps you have a Sunday school or something where my son can go once or twice – just enough so he can decide for himself whether he wants to learn about being Jewish.”“Of course we do,” answered the secretary, politely and with great cheer.“But, in order to attend the Sunday School you have to be a member of the Temple. Did Rabbi Steve talk to you about joining the Temple ? You know, the costs and all ?” she asked, this time just as politely, but a little less cheery.“Yes, yes he did. Thank you. I’m just waiting for a sign telling me whether the percent is off of the Gross or the Net.”Silence from the secretary. Finally she said, “Oh.”
“When I find out I’ll let you know. And Rabbi Steve also. Thank you. And thank Rabbi Steve. Both of you have been very helpful.” I hung up the phone. Looked at Charles. Shrugged my shoulders and went to the kitchen to get something to eat.

GOING TO COLLEGE AND LEARNING STUFF

The University of North Carolina is in Chapel Hill. There are other Universities of North Carolina in places like Wilmington, Asheville and Greensboro. But, when folks talk about “Carolina”, they are talking about Chapel Hill. Carolina used to be (way back in 1964) the #4 Preppie college after Harvard, Yale and some other place. Seems that those southern boys understood the power of giving full free rides to Preppies who then talked their friends into coming to Carolina with them. So, Carolina used a good chunk of their prestigious Morehead Scholarships to buy northerners in bulk.

Driving back from the Beach in 1964 – in the days before the Interstate made it a clear shot between the Outer Banks and Chapel Hill. Driving back on 2 lane roads; through crossroads of towns no bigger than another roadside attraction; past rolling, open and expansive farm fields. Driving back from the Beach with my new freshman Sweetie, Donna, by my side.Up ahead, in the middle of a clear pasture was a huge crowd. Cars lined up in rows. Row after row. Must have been 300 or 400 hundreds cars and pickups parked there in that pasture. Good solid American metal – Ford, Chevy, Dodge. About 50 yards in front of the parking area was a makeshift stage.

Curiosity put my left turn signal on and I found a spot in the parking area.Walking from the parking area towards the stage I noticed a podium, a loudspeaker system and a long row of folding chairs. Seems that the proceedings were already underway. At the podium- a guy in a long white robe. He was talking, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying because I was still a bit too far away. I did notice that behind the speaker, sitting in the folding chairs, were about 6 or 7 other men. All of them were wearing robes also. Some in red robes, some in white robes and one guy in a black robe. On either end of the stage were very large confederate flags.Donna and I found a spot to sit on the ground in front of the stage between agitated men and women – all agreeing with the speaker – all nodding their heads up and down like chickens pecking for food. And some of them jumping up every now and then, screaming out indecipherable yells (they all spoke Southern). There were children there also. Most of them were just squirming and wondering when they could go home and play with their friends.

Ah, the final giveaway was the 7 foot wooden cross to the left of the stage. It wasn’t lit up, but then again it was early in the afternoon. The combination barbecue and cross burning has always been an evening event in these parts.I looked around again. I took it all in, reminding myself that I was not on a rabid, frothing alien planet. I was not in the middle of a Saturday morning cartoon. I was smack dab in the middle of a KKK meeting. I looked back up at the stage. I focused on the man in the black robes. While I was staring him, Donna tapped me on the shoulder. She pointed to the man in the black robes and said, “I know him.”I turned to Donna, slowly, and said, “that guy, the guy in the black robes, the guy walking across the stage right now ?” “Yeah, him. He’s my minister back home in Greensboro, answered Donna.Leaning over to Donna, my mouth touching her left ear, “The guy in the black robes is your minister. The black robes signifying the holy office of the Klan Executioner.”

Nothing is ever one sided. There was a tremendous educational value to sitting in the field that day. As it was explained by one of the guys up on the stage (I believe the 7 foot cross was still unlit) – it seems that the International Communist Jews were putting up the money to buy the guns that were then stored in the Unholy Catholic Churches. It was just a matter of time before the uneducated Negro was agitated and incited enough by this evil cabal of Jew And Catholic; the doors of the Unholy Catholic Church would be flung wide open, the guns passed out to the uneducated Negro and the blood of good Christian White Folk would be running through the streets of the South. And here I thought that all of that money I have been giving to Hadassah was going to plant trees in Israel.

Donna being southern Baptist has a really long and complicated rule book she has to follow. Me, being the current generation of folks who were real happy to be alive the next day, didn’t really have a rule book as much as a Survival Manual. I squeezed Donna’s left hand ever so slightly. I raised my eyebrows and lifted my head up ever so slightly. I whispered to Donna, “get up, slowly and walk with me.” I started to get up and Donna pretended to wipe some dirt off her jeans as she rose slowly. Together we walked and talked and held hands all the way back to my car – the Alpine sports car with the New York license plates.Donna got in the passenger side and I got in the driver’s side. The top was down. We were in plain sight. I put the key in the ignition, turned it. The car started. I drove slowly and didn’t look around until we were back on the highway.

Last night my son, Charles, called me from college. He is a junior. He’s had enough and it’s time to take off a year and feel human again. I wholeheartedly agree. College serves a limited purpose for the student and only a self-serving purpose for the University. Of course, if you attend an ACC, SEC, Big Ten or Big 12 school then college makes a hell of a lot of sense. I could go on and on – just read anything Murray Sperber ever wrote.

Charles seems to be very committed to going to the Sudan and getting involved in something that has to do with archeology. Charles also mentioned that the capital of Sudan, Khartoum, does have a Hilton. Charles enjoys the perks of being a Hilton Platinum member – automatic upgrades, guaranteed reservations, bonus airline miles, separate checkout lines, stuff like that.I mentioned to Charles that the beauty of being a Hilton Platinum guy in Khartoum is that you also get reserved seating in whichever wing of the hospital makes sense – trauma, burn, even morgue. No muss no fuss and – no waiting.The Burning Bush, The Ten Commandments, The Survival Manual.

THE SCARY GENTILES IN THE MIDDLE

Jon Stewart once differentiated between the “short, fat, bald accountant Jews” and the “Uzi toting Jews.”
There is a recent development. Well, not all that recent, but insidiously creeping undercover for the past 15 years or so – the binary Bible Folk.

I grew up understanding the Noblesse Oblige – We Got Ours and You Better Believe We’re Gonna Keep It Gentiles. Those Gentiles who have the true compassion for the poor folk.

Now, you have these New Age Gentiles who seem to have taken the whole Hippie Cult idea of the 60’s a bit too far. When BushII talks about, “you’re either with us or against us,” he ain’t kidding.

Stuck inside of Nashville, trying to make a living and trying to understand the Binary Bible Folks. Standing on the front porch of the two story, 3 bedrrom home that was converted in to office space. Trying to “get it”. I know that Maurice and Michael are hardcore Binary Bible Folks and they know I’m a Blue State Jew.
“And I imagine you wouldn’t support Faith-Based Charity,” said Maurice, trying to feel out avenues of weakness.

“Of course I would,” I answered without any hesitation. “Anyone, anywhere who helps feed the poor, educate the young, house the homeless . . . anyone doing that deserves support wherever they can get it.”

I stopped for a bit to let that revelation sink in. Maurice seemed to have been thrown a slight glancing body shot. Nothing serious, just noticeable.

Finally – I couldn’t resist – “that is why I supported the Black Panthers.”

Now – one thing about these Binary Bible Folks – they have no sense of humor.

NASHVILLE - THERE IS GOOD MONEY TO BE MADE THERE

Nashville completely understands 3 industries: healthcare, country music/entertainment and publishing/printing. I would like to offer Nashville the current iteration of The Business Plan – this Business Plan will directly address 2 of these 3 industries: Healthcare and Country Music/Entertainment :

BUSINESS PLAN FOR: Tempura Industries, a division of Tatmar, Inc. (All Information the Confidential Property of Tatmar, Inc. and, if we had money, we would really, really sue you if you stole any of this good stuff)

MISSION: Tempura Industries will develop and operate a nationwide chain of For Profit walk-in healthcare clinics ("Tempura Clinics") dedicated to the treatment of lightly battered victims of domestic abuse.

DOMESTIC ABUSE Statistics:
• Every 9 seconds, a woman is battered in the U.S.Family Violence Prevention Fund, 1994.
• 95% of all victims of domestic violence are women.Bureau of Justice Statistics Special Report, U.S. Dept. of Justice.
• Domestic Violence is the single major cause of injury to women, more than muggings and car accidents combined.First Comprehensive National Health Study of American Women, The Commonwealth Fund, 1993.
• Domestic Violence is the cause of 30% of physical disabilities in women.California Department of Social Services, 1994.
• 50% of all women murdered in the United States are killed by a spouse or an acquaintance.Journal of Trauma, 1992
• Domestic Violence occurs in 60% of marriages and is the most underreported crime.National Crime Statistics Report, 1993.
• 90% of battered women reported that their children were present when they were beaten.National Crime Statistics Report, 1993.
• 25% to 30% of adolescent relationships are abusive.L.A. Commission on Assaults Against Women
• 1/2 of all rape victims are raped between the ages of 14 and 17.L.A. Commission on Assaults Against Women
• As few as 5% of domestic violence victims are identified as such in Emergency Department records.American Journal of Public Health, 1989.
• Domestic Violence costs an estimated $1.4 billion annually in medical bills, and an additional $900 million in mental health treatment.National Public Services Research Institute, 1994.
• Domestic Violence is responsible for a $3 to 5 billion loss each year for employers due to absenteeism. - California Department of Social Service

Summary – Domestic Abuse is a Growth Industry

Differentiating Brand Positioning and Market Segmentation: It is assumed that the Lightly Battered Abused (“LBA”) market is not monolithic. Therefore, we must appeal to the following market segments (differentiated by psychographic methods, not demographic methods): Endorsed by and highly promoted by Country Stars. Appeal to the entire gamut of country aficionados (recognizing that the Country market has tremendous cross over appeal):

(1) old time/nostalgic – George Jones and Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline and, James Brown – the Early Years;

(2) for those who will never learn – Hank Williams, Sr.;

(3) for the opportunistic jingoist – Toby Keith;

(4) hip/now – Mindy McCready;

(5) for the disenfranchised – John Mellencamp, Willie Nelson and Woody Guthrie;

(6) for basically good folks who are miserable judges of character – Emmy Lou Harris, Jesse Winchester, Poco, Lyle Lovett, AKUS and The Band.

Please note that while the predominant victims of domestic abuse are women, Tempura Industries recognizes that men are also a part of the potential target market. Therefore, in each Statistical Marketing Area we will place one “Eileen Wournos Care Center”

Background muzak rotation in all clinics – Dixie Chicks, “Earl”; “You Broke My Heart, So I Broke Your Jaw” (© Tempura Music Publishing) . . .Never, ever, ever – Stand by your Man!

Marketing Roll Out: Initially in Red States with Blue States right behind.

Revenue Streams: Aside from the operating revenue from the fees/services of the Tempura Clinics, Tatmar Industries will also develop two other operating divisions:

A) First Family Insurance – domestic abuse insurance

B) The You Earned It Law Firm – specialists in domestic abuse prosecution or defense, depending on where the money is.

CAUTION – Do Not Think About the Following for Too Long or Your Head Will Begin to Ache: How come Nashville nurtured and grew a Chain of For Profit Prisons, (Corrections Corporation of America) where the inescapable Profit Formula (no matter how you spin it) is:

Convictions – Compassion = Cash.

And, yet a leading edge wireless content technology platform company (Power By Hand) which was born in Nashville had to move to RTP to be nurtured and grow.

In closing – really a shame. I have grown to really like Nashville. I would have loved to build a great business here, make folks rich, give folks jobs . . . . .but . . . . . . . My wife evens likes Nashville. My son thought about attending graduate school at Vanderbilt.

WE HAVE TO GO TO CHAPEL HILL, ROUND UP ALL THOSE COMMUNISTS AND TAKE THEM BEHIND THE WOODSHED AND WHUP EM

1967.

A time of tremendous confusion and conflict. Especially in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Especially for a card carrying New York Jew boy liberal who graduated from a fine New England Baptist prep school.
Time to choose – side with the fight to end oppression, war and injustice OR time to party with the Entitled Gentiles of the St. Anthony’s Hall fraternity.

Didn’t really spend a lot of time thinking about it – time to Party. 2 reasons: (1) being of the “Class That Already Owns It”, the boys at St. Anthony’s would show me the true path of how to hire other folks who, at a minimum, would guarantee a return of Prime +3%, and, if feeling adventurous, enter into the high risk world of diversified growth portfolios and who knows . . . the sky’s the limit. And (2) these boys knew how to party and attracted scores of willing and compliant women who just wanted to be near trust funds.
Thursday night at the St. A house. The slow acceleration to the weekend party. Watching TV with the boys. Watching WRAL from Raleigh. The station manager, Jesse Helms (yup – that Jesse Helms) was giving his editorial. It seems that Jesse had just about had it with all of that Communist agitation in Chapel Hill. Jesse’s solution – go over to Chapel Hill, round up all those Communists, take them behind some undisclosed woodshed (of which, I am sure there were many) and Whup ‘Em.

And then it happened – seems that one of the Entitled St. A boys had a friend flying down from New York (yup – that New York) for the party that weekend. Listening to Jesse, reaching for non-glass and non-metallic crap to throw at the TV (no reason to waste a good TV), I couldn’t resist, “Here’s what we do . . . we divide up into 2 groups – one, commie hippies and one, good God fearing Republicans. When your bud lands in Raleigh we meet the plane at the airport. Don’t tell him anything about this beforehand. We rush up the stairs of that thing they roll up to the door of the plane, meet your bud, and whisper into his ear – "You are the leader of a right wing Student organization from, of all places, New York City, and you are here in North Carolina to hold a rally for “right thinking” Students – “Students For America”

“While this is happening on the landing steps, the two groups situated between the terminal and the gate the passengers walk through to get inside the terminal are fighting with each other. Half are the Communist Hippies protesting the War and half are the “Students for America”. Make it look real – but no blood. Lot’s of sign waving. Lots of shouting. Lots of pushing, shoving . . . As the passengers work their way through the 2 groups to get into the terminal, start verbally accosting them,. We need the unvarnished look of shock, horror and generally being pissed off by this demonstration.”
“I’ll take care of getting the TV cameras there.”

I called WRAL and spoke to Jesse. “Mr. Helms, “ I said, “I just wanted to tell you that while I am a student at the University of North Carolina, I wholeheartedly support your views and opinions. Yes sir, Chapel Hill has become a Godless hotbed of sedition. But, sir, I just wanted to tell you that there is a ray of hope, a ray of light, coming to Chapel Hill tomorrow.” I let this sink in because I had no idea if (a) Jesse was buying it and (b) if Jesse even understood what I was talking about.

“Please, tell me more,” Jesse said. . . . . Oh Yippee !

“Mr. Helms, tomorrow night (Friday), the Chief Executive Officer of Students for America is flying into Raleigh-Durham Airport and will be addressing a rally of right thinking students who are thoroughly disgusted with the actions of the Communist left. He will be speaking out for the steadfast majority of Americans who support both God and Country. He will be rallying the troops and giving them hope and inspiration to continue to fight the good fight. The rally will be held on Sunday morning at Y Court on the campus of UNC at 10AM.”

Another pause, “and when will this young man be landing in Raleigh,” asked Jesse. . . . and all I could think was - you know – sometimes stuff is just too easy.

“Mr. Helms, he will be landing at 7PM tomorrow night, Friday night.” I answered. I figured that since it didn’t get dark until about 9PM, there would be plenty of light for the TV cameras and there would be plenty of time for the TV folks to hotfoot it back to WRAL to get the footage on the 10PM news. Yet, I didn’t want to give the WRAL folks too much time in case one of them actually wanted to interview the esteemed Chief Executive Officer of the Students for America. Who would have thought that I just invented the “photo op”.

It went off like a charm – well, almost.

The plane from New York landed. The ground crew rolled up the stairs so folks could deplane. The plane door opened. The hippies and the Students for America (or something real close) squared off on the ground; smacking each other with hand made signs; yelling non-profanity laced insults at each other (this was a very strict rule – no profanity – we didn’t want anything cut from the news footage); pushing and shoving each other enough to make it “camera worthy” without being actual violence. Perfect.
Standing at the foot of the deplaning stairs, we waited for the Chief Executive Officer of the Students for America to make his much anticipated and triumphant entrance. Seems that the son of a bitch had started the party somewhere between New York City and the Raleigh-Durham airport. Almost fell down the whole flight of stairs. We rushed up the stairs and caught him, then propped him up; one of us and each side of him. Gently led him down the stairs.

Worked out really well though. We became bodyguards, guiding him through the hostile hippies and keeping him from having his clothes ripped off by admiring followers of the Students For America. Great camera moment – one of the overly agitated hippies smacked him on the head with an anti-war sign as we passed through the passenger gate on the way to the terminal. Another great camera moment.
Finally got him back to the St A’s frat house. Everyone continued to party the night away. And Saturday away. And, finally it was time for the rally in Y Court on Sunday morning. The Chief Executive Officer was still passed out from the night before.

I called Jesse’s direct phone number (he gave it to me). “Jesse, good news and bad news, “ I said. “The good news is that the Chief Executive Officer's mother arrived, unexpectedly, from Connecticut last night. And now, the Chief Executive Officer and his mother will be attending Church this morning. The bad news is that we have to cancel the rally in Y Court.” I let that sink in. . . .Jesse was not only understanding, he seemed to be real happy. What a perfect lead into his editorial for Sunday night. Jesse was probably thinking how he was most definitely blessed.

Sunday night – 6PM – every TV in Saint Anthony’s Hall turned on to WRAL. And there was Jesse. Talking about a true American and a saving light sitting in the communist darkness of Chapel Hill. I didn’t hear the rest of the editorial – had to go to the bathroom. The Chief Executive Officer didn’t hear any of the editorial. He was upstairs on someone’s bed.

Monday morning. I dialed Jesse’s direct phone number. Jesse answered. “Hello, Mr. Helms ?” I said, respectfully. A warm greeting back from Jesse, “Yes, good to hear from you.”

“Jesse . . .Jesse . . well, its like this Jesse. You are really an asshole. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were sitting around some beer only bar and ranting and raving your crazy shit. But, Jesse, someone actually gave you a spot on TV. And that is even scarier than you actually babbling your bullshit on TV. Jesse, you’re a buffoon. But, the guys who dressed you up and gave you a microphone are the ones who really scare me. So, Jesse, there is no Students For America. There is no Chief Executive Officer – well actually there is a guy we appointed to be the Chief Executive Officer, but he had no idea what was going on and he didn’t let partying get in the way of his duties as CEO. There is no CEO’s mother – well, actually he has a mother, but she is off in Europe somewhere buying weird stuff and shipping it back to Connecticut, “I said in a calm, melodic and measured tone. “Jesse, never underestimate the fun that bored, overeducated, northern kids can come up with on the spur of the moment.” And then I hung up.

Monday night’s WRAL editorial from Jesse had something to do with going to Chapel Hill and rounding up all those communists and taking them behind the wood shed for a whupping.

I still haven’t figured out how the state of North Carolina elected both Sam Ervin and Jesse Helms to the Senate.

HITLER – SAVED BY THE BELL

Jews love to argue. And, just like fishing has its various niches (saltwater, bait casting, fly fishing, etc); Jewish Arguing comes in several varieties:

1) The Jerry Seinfeld Louder Screaming Argument – this is the lowest form of arguing. And it seems to get louder the older you get and the closer to Florida you get.

2) The Woody Allen – “I have logic on my side and as long as I don’t really listen to you I know I’m right” type argument – very prevalent on the East Coast – especially around New York and Washington, D.C. Gotta love that “why do my people eat Matzo” bit – who cares? But, a great way to spend an afternoon.

3) The Jon Stewart – excellent – fact based, sarcastic, wise ass.

4) The Jewish Defense Attorney – the highest form of Arguing as it achieves the “Perfect Pick 4” – arguing in a logic based and intellectual way (except for those cases where a little bit of condescending emotion directed at the jury wouldn’t hurt); helping society’s disadvantaged and helpless; being a “Professional” (not quite a Doctor, but perfectly acceptable); and making a buck while doing all this good work (being paid in cash by drug dealers does have its tax advantages).

So, where am I going with this?

Standing on the porch at work in Nashville – trying to have a good, old fashioned Jew Boy Logic-A-Thon with a couple of Binary Christians. They started talking about redemption (with the hope, I think, that I would change uniforms, playbooks and coaches and join their team).

As I understand it – anyone – yup, anyone – can go to Heaven (being a Jew, I don’t really have a Heaven, so going anywhere would be a plus. But, if I had my choice of Heavens, I’d like that Moslem one with the virgins) if they Accept and Receive Jesus as their Lord and Savior before they die. The hardcore rule here is that you can’t fake it or pretend. Don’t forget, God is watching and he gets to grade this final paper.

And, the way they described their Heaven was just the way Randy Newman promised in “Sail Away” – “you can sign about Jesus and drink wine all day.” or whatever you like – so long as you give blind acceptance, devotion and faith to both the playbook and the Coach(es).

This being a Jew Boy Logic-A-Thon, I was looking for a little action.

“Let’s say that Hitler is on his death bed. He gets the clear light, undeniable, unequivocal, completely sincere Belief in Jesus. Absolutely no faking. Really, really gets it. Would pass 100% any evangelical lie detector test anyone would throw at it . . .does Hitler now go to Heaven ?” I thought I came up with a pretty airtight question.

The two Binaries didn’t even blink, didn’t even hesitate, “Yes, even Hitler, if he Accepts Jesus as his Lord and Savior, regardless of when, will be Saved and go to Heaven.” Said in a disconcerting monotone. Kinda like they really didn’t have to give their answer much thought because that’s the way it is – period.
“So, your basic Holocaust, your Jews, Gypsies, Poles, French . . . . all of ‘em – completely wiped off the books? I Accept Jesus and my checkbook balances ? . . . Of course, I have to truly, truly, Accept Jesus.” Boy, do I love setting up the Argument.

“Yes”. They answered in unison with that annoying monotone.

Now for the fun part – “OK, say that Hitler, through no fault of his own, suffered from delusionary behavior. It comes and it goes. Completely out of his control. Now, say that when he was considered “sane” and not delusionary, he committed all of his Evil. And, on his deathbed, down in the bunker, all is lost – he snaps – he goes into a truly psychotic (Jews love throwing in the word “psychotic”) delusionary state. Now, mind you, in this state, Hitler truly, completely, unequivocally believes what he is hearing, thinking, seeing and saying. And, while in this state, the vision and word of The Lord comes to Hitler. Hitler hears, sees, feels and, ultimately, Accepts Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. Now, given all of this under these circumstances – does Hitler go to Heaven.”
“Yes”. Again, monotone. No hesitation. And I’m beginning to think that maybe this Binary Christian life isn’t so bad – don’t have to think very much. And sure don’t have to make up your own mind about anything.

“OK – let’s say all the guys are down in the bunker with Hitler – Goering, Himmler, Goebels, Eichmann, all of ‘em. And they all go through the same psychotic delusionary episode – point being that all of them truly, completely and unequivocally Accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior. Do all of them get Redemption and go to Heaven ?”

“Yes.” – this is getting much too easy – and way too scary.

“So, there’s a real good possibility that Heaven could end up being chock full of certifiable, raving lunatics?”
The two Binaries looked at each other. No answer.

And that’s why – if I had my choice of Heaven – I’d go for the one with the Virgins.

TODAY I TURNED 58

Today I turned 58 – the same age my father was when he started dying.
Last week I bought a brand new Hyundai Santa Fe. Nothing fancy. Base model: cloth seats, 2 wheel drive, small V6, single CD player. I financed it for 60 months.
I now owe a man $244.02 a month for the rest of my life.

WGFM

Online Anywhere had it all – almost.

23 employees – 22 of them engineers – 17 of them PhDs. $3million in Motorola seed money.
VCs drooling all over themselves to saddle them up for the next round and take that free ride.

They had everything – except a White Guy.

There was a distinct, yet unwritten, growth path for a startup during the late 90’s: round up a bunch of H1-B visa types; start writing code; start thinking about how that code could make someone money; get some seed money; keep on writing code; keep on piling on those H1-B visas; keep on writing code . . . .need more money . . . time to find the White Guy.

What the White Guy did was really a matter of the development stage of the company. In a Series A type company the White Guy was a combination “public face”, sales, marketing, business development type. The last thing anyone wanted was having the White Guy thing and doing White Guy stuff before the code was finished. In Series B and beyond company the White Guy was most likely a CEO type; might have to sell the place; might have to go public; definitely need to speak to the press – build the hype – get out before anyone caught on.

Online Anywhere needed a White Guy. That’s where I come in.

Mind you, I was the highest level of White Guys – a WGFM – a White Guy from Microsoft. I had magic powers. I knew people other people openly disdained (and privately worshipped).
The 3 Founders of Online Anywhere were Indian: Mohan, Anurag and Sridhar. All 3 were newly arrived in the United States. All 3 got really good book learning from universities in the United States. All 3 missed the point.

Anurag got his PhD from Indiana University at the same time that Bob Knight was throwing chairs. Anurag never – ever – not even once – attended an IU basketball game. That’s what I mean by missing the point. Go to any Cal or Stanford game. Turn on the TV to any Duke basketball game. Notice a whole bunch of Chinese kids jumping up and down. Some even have their faces painted. They get it.
These Chinese kids understand it. Sooner or later after graduation, they are going to be sitting in an interview with a future employer or asking a Venture Capitalist for money. Their resume is being perused by the guy on the other side of the desk. And then the hardcore, straight to the matter, question is asked, “how ‘bout the Bears?”

Warning – Improper Literary Reference: I know I should be using something from Rudyard Kipling, but I’m hung up on Gilbert & Sullivan and “Three Little Maids from School Are We”. Something to do with the sing-song sound of the Indian accent while in the middle of an agitated English sentence; something about all three of the Founders coming to the United States for an American University education; and, something about Anurag attending Indiana University while Bobby Knight was there and Anurag never once went to an IU basketball game.

Things I was told during my formative years:
1) You can never become the President of the United States; but you can become one of his top Advisors
2) You can never become the President of General Motors; but you can become the Vice President of Creative at his Advertising Agency
3) And, during my interview with the Admissions Director of Harvard, “we could make an entire incoming freshman class of nothing but Jews – smart Jews, rich Jews, poor Jews, athletic Jews, Jews from the City, Jews from the Country . . . an entire class of Jews . . . but we don’t.”

One of the original “Angel” investors in Online Anywhere was Bill Draper. He was a Patrician out of Central Casting – aging with perfect white hair; pictures of his old Yale classmate, Bush 1, on his office wall, a penchant for sports coats and regimental striped ties and a sense of true comfort with who he was. Every four or five weeks or so, Mr. Draper would come over to the Online Anywhere offices with his doting and protective assistant, Robin, by his side. The visit was ostensibly meant to provide Mr. Draper with an update on the progress OA had made since his last visit. But, the highlight of each visit, as I was soon to find out, was the “Walk of the Great White pasha” through the halls of the OA offices.
I was sitting in my office while Anurag and Mohan and Shridar were updating Mr. Draper and Robin on the most recent developments at OA. Suddenly, Anurag comes into my office and tells me to follow him. I close down my game of Windows Solitaire and follow Anurag to an open spot in the hallway. Against the wall. I’m standing there waiting. And then he walked by – pith helmet on his head, gin&tonic in his hand and carved walking stick by his side – The Great White Pasha.

He smiled at me – the smile of a Gentile who was pleased as punch to see that Online Anywhere understood the rules and was able to attract a White Guy . . .no, the highest of White Guys – a WGFM. I smiled at him and counted my stock options. The Pasha was in the Hallway. The Lord was in his Heaven. And the options vested upon sale of the company. . . .just the way it was supposed to be..

Makes you wonder though. What about the next generation of Indians. The kids born here who have to become Americans. The sons and daughters of Anurag, Mohan and Sridhar. Huh, what will become of them?

That takes you to the concept of “Hindu Hubris”; not just a lack of understanding of the rules of The Way of the Gentile, but a belief that they were actually above it. You come to the United States. You attend American universities. You make yourself and Gentiles boat loads of money . . . you think you actually are allowed to bypass The Way.

Remember that tall, cowboy dressed guy in DeNiro’s office in the movie “Casino”. DeNiro thought that he was above The Way of the Gentile. The cowboy (long time native of Las Vegas and member of the County Commission) wanted DeNiro to keep his nephew on the Casino payroll even though both DeNiro and the Cowboy knew that the nephew was a total fuckup. DeNiro said no. The Cowboy looked at DeNiro and told him something to the effect that,” you are only a guest here in Las Vegas. You may think that you live here and you work here and you are a part of everything here, but, believe me, you are only a guest.” If DeNiro can’t bypass The Way, then you can only imagine the level of ultimately self-destructive hubris floating around in the heads of Anurag, Mohan and Sridhar.
But wait – there’s more.

What about all of this current fawning and hubbub about “India – Land of the Future”? Intel puts in big bucks, Cisco puts in big bucks. BillG put in $1.7 billion. And all the while everyone is proclaiming that India is where it’s at.

Let’s digress yet one more time. . . .

What is the most important export of the United States? Huh ? Huh ?

That’s right – from the Land that brought you 3 Card Monte, Snake Oil Salesmen, Consumer Branding and a religious belief in “I got mine,” . . . . the most important export of the United States of America is The Debt of the United Stats of America.

What do you do when you’ve already run your streak peddling bullshit paper in Europe and Japan? You find new buyers. You hedge your bets. India and China. Never want to have too much of your gross sales coming from just one customer. I’m not an economist but I do know Term Life Insurance when I see it.
From the October 28, 2005 San Jose Mercury News article giving children names at birth, “Playing the Name Game”, “On playgrounds around San Jose, Aditya may be heard as often as Timothy and Paul.
The parents of Brandon and Tiffany Chang understand The Way. Mike Gaines’ parents (nee Ginsburg) understand The Way. My own parents understood The Way. It really is a minor concession, the first name of your child, but it is a very telling one. Either you are with us or you ain’t. Watch you manners though – don’t make a mockery of this name thing – no “Skippy” Wongs or “Chipper” Goldbergs.

Now, there is a Variance to this First Name rule in The Way of The Gentile – you are allowed to use the middle name of your forefathers. Yup, my middle name is Eliaou. How about the really big one - Dr. Ben Shalom Bernanke.

Yup, the perfect guy to head up the Federal Reserve. It’s always best to have a Jew watching your money – a wonderful old wive’s tale that has led to disparate levels of Jewish employment on Wall Street. But, in Dr. Benjamin S. Bernanke you get a Jew who was raised right. He goes by Benjamin S. or Ben S.. You know and I know that his middle name is Shalom, but no need to upset the Variance.

SEARCHING FOR THE RIGHT WORD(S)

Think about how you would feel if you had someone who would scrub your back in the shower every morning.

Now, Dear Reader, I am going to ask you a Question.

I do not want any knee jerk answers or cutesy answers or erudite answers or trite answers or any answers that didn't make you stop for a minute.

When you have your answer, post them to the Comments section of this blog.

The Question - And now how you would feel if that would never ever happen again.

Man Needs More Than
Piece of ass
He Also Needs
Peace of Mind
(Don't worry folks, I'm not off track. This really does have someting to do with The Way of the Gentile).

That Which a True Gentile Would Never Say –

Miami Beach Jews have been known to smash down the temporary accordion walls used to divide hotel ballrooms for snappy events – like Bar Mitzvahs – in order to get to the buffet table and the Jumbo Shrimp.

The most pleasant Gentile experience (and the second most educational – behind Hebron Academy) was when I was working for the Tribune Company. A subtle, yet noticeable, example of Gentile Grace was exhibited at the buffet table; although 180 degrees from the Miami Beach Jews. Those that Were and Are the Tribune would always let the minions, middle managers and uninformed go first in line at the buffet table. This simple act of noblesse oblige and compassion for the little folks – letting them hit the buffet table first – Wow !!

Those that Want To Be the Tribune would stand next to those that Were and Are the Tribune while the little folk went through the buffet line. When the little folks filtered through, those that Want To Be would not look for approval or permission to go to the buffet table from those that Were and Are. No need for that. God is in his Heaven. All is Well. There are still plenty of Jumbo Shrimp left.

All is orderly. All is tradition bound, time honored and oh so understood and understated.

Which brings me to the title of this section - That Which a True Gentile Would Never Say –

Many, many years ago I worked for a division of a big ass corporation. Comraderie was expected, if not actually required. Every day I would go to work wearing the same style of Bass Weejuns I had worn since I was 14 years old – when I went off to Hebron Academy and started my journey of learning The Way of the Gentile. When the soles on the bottom of Bass Weejuns become detached from the shoe, you don’t throw them away, you get a roll of wide white athletic tape and wrap the tape around the front of the shoe. If I have to explain it, you’d never get it.

One affectation that preppie boys never, ever, ever did was to put a penny in penny loafers. And no preppie would ever call these shoes “penny loafers”, they were Weejuns.

There we were, standing in the communal reception area of this division of a big ass corporation, making small talk, pretending to solve or even care about business issues. Suddenly, my boss said, noticing my Weejuns, “how come you don’t have any pennies in your penny loafers.”

I was a deer in the headlights. Response was instinctual. No thought. No hesitation. “Pennies in the loafers – oh yes, that is what the boys from public school would do.”

And the second the final word oozed from my lips in a smarmy manner never seen before, I realized that I had committed an unforgivable Gentile faux pas. . . . I had reminded folks that I always wait for the little people to go first on the buffet line.

ENGLISH AS A SECOND (OR FIFTH) LANGUAGE

My father said that he spoke five languages: French, Spanish, Arabic, Hebrew and English. My mother said that my father spoke five languages. I was getting by with only one language; so, I took everyone’s word for it – my father spoke five languages.

The advantage of speaking five languages is that you can use the right-sounding language for the appropriate occasion. My father yelled in Arabic when fighting with my mom. Then, he would open the kitchen window, stick his head out (he loved “The Honeymooners” – especially Jackie Gleason) and he would recap the latest argument for all of the neighbors in Arabic. He also spoke in Arabic when talking with his buddies and when cursing.

He spoke in French and Spanish at odd times. Mainly, it was my mother who would speak to him in French and Spanish and he would answer. My mother, along with a whole bunch of post World War II/1950’s/1960’s folks thaught that there was something inherently classy about “The Continent”. She majored in French and Spanish at Brooklyn College. There were times when she had a paper due in college but my father wanted to go out dancing (he loved dancing). So, my father would crank out the paper in no time at all and take my mother out. Problem was, the college was trying to teach classy French and classy Spanish to its Continent-emulating students while my father was more of a colloquial guy. When the paper called for the phrase, “the woman went to the cabaret,” my father would write “the chick went to the bar.” My mother still graduated from Brooklyn College and even became a French & Spanish teacher in the New York City school system.

He spoke Hebrew in a measured tone. I don’t remember him ever yelling or even raising his voice in Hebrew.

His most recent linguistic conquest was English. Not really a conquest as much as a draw – both sides (my father and the English language) kind of knew that this whole thing wasn’t going to really, really work out. So, my father used/spoke English very sparingly.

Except when he was writing songs. I can’t think of any songwriter who captured the American Spirit with the English language better than my father. He understood why folks came here. He understood why folks stayed here. He understood why folks wanted to be a part of Here. And he understood it in English.
My mother would go to the grocery store with here two-wheeled folding metal basket. This was the main mode of grocery transporting before the lawless and immoral age of stealing shopping carts. This was the main mode of grocery transporting before there were shopping carts. We would hear the front door close behind her and we knew that it was only a matter of – oh, about half an hour – before she would return home with the groceries.

After about twenty minutes or so, either me or one of my brothers would start peeking out the window in the living room which looked out onto the street which led to the grocery store. And then she was spotted. No seasick sailor adrift for weeks in a becalmed sea upon first spotting land could have been more excited – more animated – than we were when we saw Mom walking up the street pulling the grocery cart full of brown bags. The cry went out, “she’s coming.”

We lined up behind the front door – left to right – so she would have that full frontal visual and auditory experience. We waited. We waited. Slowly, slowly . . . the sound of the key in the front door, the front door slowly opening, the front door opened far enough so we saw her and she saw us.

And then one my father’s songs – “I Sent Her For Potatoes, She Came Home With Tomatoes”. That was not only the title of the song – those were the only words of the song. But, no song spoke of America as a land of hope, riches, optimism and joy then that song. Potatoes – Irish Famine, hard times, kind of tasteless without salt and butter. Tomatoes – classy, succulent, tasty . . . the perfect Classy Continental vegetable.

His other Top 10 Hit had a more personal, universal appeal. But, without the Freedom From Fear that was America, you couldn’t really sing this song. The song was, “Enjoy, Enjoy, Enjoy The Happiness.” Again, the title and lyrics are the same.

It took me over 50 years to get it – the glass is half full or half empty thing. This song could mean that life really does suck and you should enjoy those fleeting, happenstance, mistaken and random moments of Happiness when you can or it could mean that things ain’t all that bad – crappy stuff is kind of to be expected – all things will pass and Happiness; along with Life and Liberty are part of the LifeTime Guarantee you get at the U. S. Citizen Swearing-In Ceremony.

It took me 50 years to really get it – my Father had a way with the English language.

January 20, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0)

HOW TO ACT AROUND PEOPLE WHO MIGHT PUT MONEY IN YOUR POCKET

Completely subjective and based on: (a) what the future holds in store for you; (b) what the past did to you; (c) where you are stuck in the here and now

$ 0 $ 100,000 Polite, but distracted. Not quite rude and impatient, but OK to answer your cell phone during the meeting
.
$ 100,000 - $ 750,000 Feign interest in what the other folks are saying. Make eye
contact. Body language should have you leaning forward on a periodic basis without being threatening.
$ 750, 000 - $5,000,000 Drop comments showing that you have done your research -

Google the hell out of the person(s). Get snappy facts. Now, sprinkle them sparingly and gently in the conversation.

Eg: Tribune bought Compton’s from Britannica. Time came for “The Tribunes” to fly to California and see what they bought. Mr. Brumbach (the head boss); Mr. Madigan (the soon to be next boss); lots of Tribunes.

I knew that I would have to meet The Tribunes and even present myself in front of them in the Compton’s NewMedia Board Room/Conference Room/Room with a really big table and projection TV. I was given one piece of very valuable information by my boss, Norm. He said that Mr. Brumbach just came back from meeting Nicholas Negroponte at the MIT Lab. Norm said that Mr. Brumbach was really sold on “the digital future” (realize that we are talking about 1994 here ??). On my flight down from San Jose to San Diego, I was thinking about how to make that “personal connection” to Mr. Brumbach; knowing that there would be absolutely nothing personal in the connection – it would be very blatent ass kissing from me to Mr. B.

Thumbing through a Wired Magazine, I came to the last page and noticed an article by Nicholas Negroponte. All about human interfaces and elegance and connection. To me it was all about Mr. B. . . . . .and there it was, the quote I needed from Nicholas to Mr. B. . . “the most powerful human interface is the wink.” Great stuff. I had no idea what it meant. I had no idea if it was true. I had no idea what the next sentence was. But, I knew that this one quote from Nicholas to Mr. B. and delivered by me was exactly what I needed.

I met The Tribunes. I made my presentation. I sprinkled the “wink” comment in my conversation. Mr. B not only smiled at me, he turned to Mr. Madigan in a very subtle way and nodded to him.

$5,000,000 - $10,000,000 Your “Best Friend”

Eg: Another Tribune anecdote – Jim Longson was the Tribune guy sent out from Chicago to run Compton’s. A really nice guy. A really smart guy. But, a pretty sheltered Corporate guy. He didn’t have a lot of moves except for his wearing to two tone shirts (collar one color and rest of the shirt another color).

I was never known for my social graces. Somehow, hanging out and socializing with work-type folks never made sense to me. There are only 2 reasons you are in the company of these folks: (a) you are trying to get money from them, or (b) they are trying to get money from you. I would never go to dinner with folks. I would never go shows or events with folks. I would go straight up to my hotel room, order room service and watch both free and paid Cable TV.

One day it came time for Jim and I to meet with the guy from Hewlett-Packard who bought what we were selling and he had the ability to write an order for $5+ million. All during the meeting I was giving the best leaning forward body language, dropping comments about fine wine (the HP guy liked his wine – especially when other folks bought it for him), making jokes . . .Yup, I was a real Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Mercenary.

When the meeting was over, Jim, in a dazed state, speaking slowly and gathering both his words and his thoughts, turned to me and asked, “how did you do it. How did act so . . . . ,” Jim couldn’t find the words, but I knew what was on his mind.

“ For $5 million bucks, he just became my best friend.”

$10,000,000 + Give serious thought to committing illegal acts

The Do’s and Don’ts of how to act around people who might put money in your pocket –

DO –

1. Act in a polite, yet firm manner. Never attack or offend unless you are sure the person(s) to whom you are talking are terminally ill and won’t be around long enough to throw some money your way.

2. In a circumspect (a word for which I will forever be indebted to David Hiller) way, try to get info from person(s) with whom you are meeting mainly - industry dirt and other people who might be in a position (either now or in the very near future) to throw some money your way.

3. Dress for the proper level of the occasion – never overdress (to much of an underling) or underdress (don’t disrespect those who might throw money your way).

DON’T –

1. Act in a condescending or subservient manner – (please reread the section above “WGFM”) – those who are in a position to throw money your way are, for the most part, petty and nasty. If you show ass kissing beyond acceptable levels based on your current status and the status of the person(s) to whom you are talking, it will almost always lead to you being the butt of jokes and openly humiliated. Here’s the point – I have no idea how to write the roadmap for driving that fine and ever changing line between the showing of proper deference and respect, and being a smarmy toady. Boy, if I knew that one I’d be really, really rich.

Eg: When I was doing time at Microsoft, I had many run-ins with the head money guy for Microsoft, Greg Maffei, a man who completely filled his total void of personality and warmth with arrogance and self-importance. But, he did have his hands on $25 billion at the time. . . . .see where I am going with this ??

Greg and I were attending one of the Venture Capital conferences – this one in Monterey – where folks looked busy and never looked at you. The Conference was over and I was with Greg in his hotel room. He had his bags packed and he was ready to check out. He had about 5 or 6 bags to carry. Without asking him or saying anything, I picked up 2 or 3 bags and started to carry them out of the room. Greg saw me carrying his bags and said, “you don’t have to do that.”

I stopped just before opening the door of the hotel room, turned around toward Greg and said, “I know I don’t have to, but you’ve got a lot of bags here and it seemed to be the nice thing to do.”

What I said was completely lost on Greg. But, it really didn’t matter – he still had his hands on $25 billion and every one of the Venture Capitals, supplicants, ass kissers and schnorers would now see me and Greg walking together across the lobby of the hotel – him carrying 3 bags and me carrying 2.

2. Assume – don’t assume anything – ever. Don’t forget, those that can throw money your way are only concerned about themselves. Don’t assume familiarity. Don’t assume knowledge. Don’t assume anything.

3. Be Late – you had better be coming from either the Emergency Room or a Nobel Prize reception if you are going to be late. Late/On Time – the oldest, simplest, most straightforward measure of the proper order in the food chain of those who can put money in your pocket. They can be Late. You can’t.

January 29, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

THE TOP 10 GREATEST SONGS OF ALL TIME

It’s not easy being hip. Miss just one day of dedication to hipness and you can be a victim of “what is hip today may soon become passé”.

Don’t be fooled into thinking that self-serving “Best Of” places are hip. Those Best Hamburger in (pick a town, any town); Best Pizza; Best Chiropractor; Best Small Arms Gun Dealers . . . don’t count.
Hip = those personal expressions of who you are, why you are distinct, why you are different, why you see what others don’t . . .why you can follow the crowd as well as anyone. Some guy on the “Evening Magazine of Hip” TV show says that American Fusion Thai Food is hip. It doesn’t matter whether you like – or even want to try eating this stuff – its hip. You’ve got to do it. The guy on channel 7 said so.

What is the hippest of all hipness ? – Music.

Even hipper than Summer Sanders spouting Top 10 lists on ESPN. Even hipper than Tyra Banks picking the next Hot Model. Even hipper than having Xhibit “Pimping Your Ride”. Even hipper than self indulgent Blogs.

So, in the spirit of Community Service, I now offer the Top 10 Greatest Songs of All Time: (You’ll note that some of these are single songs and some are whole albums – you will also note that I still call them “albums” and not “CDs”)

“Don’t Do It,” by the Band; “Compared to What, “ by Les McCann and Eddie Harris; “Mr. Fantasy,” by Steve Winwood/Traffic; “Sympathy for the Devil,” by the Stones; “Long Black Veil,” by the Band; “Graceland,” by Paul Simon; anything on “Good Ole Boys”, “Sail Away” and “Born Again,” by Randy Newman; “Free Bird” and “Sweet Home Alabama” by Lynrd Skynrd (come on you effete hipsters, you know you love Lynrd Skynard) and in the same Southern Vein – anything from “Eat A Peach” from the Allman Brothers; “Delaney & Bonnie On Tour With Eric Clapton” & “Motel Shot” also by Delaney and Bonnie; “Stardust,” (the whole album) by Willie Nelson (don’t even think of driving cross country at night without this album); “Eddie and the Cruisers,” by the Beaver Brown Band; “Basket of Light,” by the Pentangle; “Alison Kraus and Union Station – Live’” by AKUS; “Drums of Passion,” by Babatunde Oltunji (highly specific – play this while trying to disrupt a tennis match being held on the courts below your dorm room window – or if you are Carlos Santana); “My Love Will Not Change,” by The Del McCoury Band; “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” By the Band; “The Very Best of Otis Redding Vol 1,” by Otis Redding; “Little Pink Houses,” by John Mellencamp; “Teen Spirit,” by Nirvana; “This Is My Father’s World,” by – I have no idea – but I loved singing it during Vespers at Hebron; “Fathers & Sons,” by Muddy Waters et al; both “I Sent Her for Potatoes and She Came Home with Tomatoes” and “Enjoy, Enjoy, Enjoy the Happiness,” by Charles Dahan; “The Doggie Song,” by CW and Elliott Dahan; “San Lorenzo,” by Pat Metheny; “Life is a Carnival,” by the Band; “Welcome to the Jungle,” by Guns N’ Roses; Little Feat (depends on your mood); “The Resurrection of Pigboy Crabshaw,” and “East-West,” by the Paul Butterfield Blues Band; “Moondance,” and “Tupelo Honey,” by Van Morrison; “Joshua Tree,” by U2; “Chasing the Devil,” by Tom Rigney; “Where’s the Money” and “Striking It Rich” both by Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks; “Slow Train Coming,” by Bob Dylan; “Just Another Band from East L.A.,” by Los Lobos; The Lara Price Band; “Gilded Palace of Sin,” by the Flying Burrito Brothers

Well, there you have it – the Top 10 Greatest Songs of All Time. And please, no need to thank me for making your road to hipness a little shorter and a little smoother. It’s the least I could do.

You might be saying, “Hey there definitely seems to be a conundrum here.” And by that you realize that anything which makes a Top 10 list becomes unhip simply because it made a Top 10 list. The hoi polloi know about it. Riff raff talk about it. And, current students and recent graduates of lesser Universities swear that they knew it all along.

But, don’t worry. I guarantee you that this List is Timeless – just like a pair of cordovan Bass Weejuns.

February 06, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

MY FIRST JOB INTERVIEW

1969

I was a 2nd year student at New York University’s Graduate School of Business. I lived on 29th Street and 3rd Avenue right there in Manhattan. I was in the middle of it all. Everyday I would walk over to the BMT line on 28th Street and take the subway downtown to Wall Street.

Four years of college and two years of graduate school – it was inevitable. I was coming to the end of the parental/government loan gravy train. I had to face the real world. I had to get a job.

As a major in marketing with a real keen eye to advertising, I wanted to apply for jobs at the trendy boutique advertising agencies in vogue in the late 60’s and early 70’s. But, not having the self-confidence to believe that I was actually creative I decided to play it safe. So, it was Doyle, Dane, Bernbach, J. Walter Thompson and Grey Advertising for me.

Being one of those hybrid Jews – mother and father Jewish, but a second generation, born in America Jew who went off to a Baptist prep school, I knew that the interview process would be focused and “completely understood.” I was allowed to be a “creative” type; most likely a word guy. Italians were usually the visual guys (just ask Jerry Della Famina).

But, I did have that NYU MBA – so at least I had that going for me.

I sat down at my Royal manual typewriter and pounded out a whole bunch of cover letters and resumes. Went to the corner and mailed them out.

Over the next two weeks, several replies came, including an invite to interview at one of the bastions of Gentile sinecures. All I could think about was Gregory Peck in “Gentleman’s Agreement.”

I told my buddies about the upcoming interview and that is when they explained the true nature of interviews by creative folks at advertising agencies – a no win situation. Either you were going to be interviewed by a truly creative type, young, ambitious and totally without any power to do anything for you. Or, you were going to have an INDY interview: an “I’m Not Dead Yet” interview by someone who was once creative or at least knew how to take credit for it. The INDY interviewer was usually in his late 40’s or early 50’s and has reinvented himself as a “mentor” or “an eye for great talent” or “an elder statesman”. Anything but productive and creative. The INDY interviewer, not really have a whole bunch to do, would oftentimes fill up his daily appointment schedule with interviews – never could tell when he would find something he could use.

The day of the interview arrived and I put on my favorite (only) blue three piece wool dark herringbone suit. White button down shirt. Blue/Red rep tie. And, of course, my cordovan Bass Weejuns. Now, most folks will tell you that I should have worn a black lace-up shoe. But, I was entitled to wear cordovan Bass Weejuns as a previous preppie. And, this blatant act of disregard would show the interviewer that I was the wildly creative and spontaneous person he could point to at meetings.

Madison Avenue and a bigass building. Take the first elevator, an express, to the fifteenth floor and then transfer to the local elevator and get off on the 22nd floor. No need to look for an office number – or even an office. They occupied the whole floor and the reception area was through a huge portal entranceway to the right.

Went in. Introduced myself to the receptionist. She dialed the Interviewer’s secretary and told her I was here. She then turned to me and said that he would be right out. I settled into a real comfy leather wing chair and thumbed through recent copies of Advertising Age.

The Interviewer’s secretary came out about 15 minutes later, introduced herself, told me the Interviewer would see me now and led me back into a maze of windowed offices lining the outside walls and cubicles filling up the middle. A short walk and I was standing in a large windowed office with a whole office suite of furniture: couch, coffee table, side chairs, small round meeting table and real wood breakfront with a coffee urn and real china cups and saucers. I was headed to the small round conference table when the Interviewer stood up behind his desk and, pointing to a straight back chair in front of his desk, motioned for me to sit. Of course the interviewer never left his proper position behind his desk.

He looked to be in his late 40’s or early 50’s.

I sat. He sat. He opened a folder on his desk and the chitchat started. Nothing stressful and nothing unexpected – the usual about my college days, my prep school days, my graduate school days. Everything except my current dazed states.

The Interviewer was the Head of Creative. So, sooner or later he had to both: (1) impress me with his creativity and (2) drive it home that I would probably never be as creative as him. He showed me his cut glass and metal statuette awards on his window sill. He told me about his rising through the ranks. He went into great detail about his more successful campaigns. I just sat there in my now familiar (to myself) out of body mind shift: while outwardly smiling and nodding and rolling over exposing my belly, the inside of my head was thinking about what a sad man who time had passed by was actually trying to impress a young man with only a minimal future in head of him.

Finally, it happened, the interview “hot seat” – the sudden unexpected “zig” to the polite fodder “zag”. The Interviewer leaned, ever so slightly towards me, and asked, “Are you creative?”

“Yes,” not defensive, not arrogant, not loud, not soft

“Can you think quickly? Think under pressure? Think in front of other people?” he droned in a monotone.
Again, from me, “Yes.”

The Interviewer leaned back, lifted his head slightly and said one word, “Cars.”

I nodded and said, “What size?”

“Big.”

Without skipping a beat and without any outward sign of lack of confidence, I started, “OK – big cars. TV spot. . . . Inside of a Cadillac showroom. Screen fairly filled with a brand new Cadillac convertible – top down. Slowly change focus to showroom window, camera shooting from inside the showroom, facing out to the street. Now in focus, from outside the showroom, entire Negro family with their noses pressed against the showroom window – from the outside looking in. Young Negro child tugs at father’s coat sleeve and say, “Daddy, when we gonna own a Cadillac?”

Slowly change focus again to the original screen filling shot of the Cadillac convertible in the Showroom.
Voice Over Announcer – “The Cadillac Afrique. For the Pigmented Family of Distinction.”

I didn’t wait for the Interviewer’s response. I got up from my straight back chair in front of his desk and headed for the office door. I stopped at the office door, turned my head toward him and said, “I’ll show myself out.” His eyes were truly bugging out.

February 08, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

REVELATIONS I (The Practical Bible)

Women like Sex
As much as men
Just not with you
Sorry

February 09, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

MY SECOND JOB INTERVIEW

1969. Fairly soon after my first job interview.

Just before I started Graduate School, my father gave me a present; a flawless tan lawyer’s briefcase with a gold clasp on the end of the closing flap. Classic. Traditional. Opened as wide as a largemouth bass.

Looking for a job was not nearly as odious as I thought it would be.

But now I was applying to those hip boutiques creative “shops” that were popping up all over Manhattan in the late 60’s and early 70’s. I could wear sideburns. I could wear a moustache. I could wear Beatle boots. The sky was the limit.

The hippest of the hip Agency was Wells Rich Greene. Smaller building. Only a local floor elevator. Hard to distinguish the reception area from the rest of the floor. People walking around; scurrying really. Busy, absorbed, talkative – being Creative. Their signature account was Braniff Airways – stews with hot pants – not quite as all the way there as the stews from Lucky Airlines in Robert Downey’s “Putney Swope”, but Braniff was trying to make a buck.

I took the elevator up a couple of floors. The doors opened and there I was facing the hip beehive. I exited the elevator with only the slightest of uncertainty, heading toward a round reception desk off to the left.

“I’m here to see Mr. Hip. I have an appointment,” I said, briefcase at my side. Wearing my finest (my only) three piece blue herring bone suite, white shirt, striped blue and red regimental tie and, of course, my cordovan Weejuns.

The receptionist smiled at me, picked up her phone, spoke in low tones to someone on the other end, turned to me and said, “He’s right behind you.”

And she was right. There was Mr. Hip in his slightly flared pants (tasty – not garish bell bottoms) and a subtle floral print shirt open at the collar. No need to check to see if he was wearing boots.
We shook hands and walked toward his office. Sitting next to each other around a small round table. Real comfy chairs that tilted back.

We talked a bit. About music. About New York. About the War. We talked – but I felt uneasy; not with the conversation. With the not quite eyeball to eyeball look I was getting from Mr. Hip. The guy could smile but couldn’t make eye contact.

He asked another question – about something current – I was about to answer the question and stopped, “something’s not right here. Is there something bothering you about me? Is there something wrong,” I asked.

He stopped for just a second. Finally looked me in the eye and said, “Well, the fact is that I’m a bit thrown off by your suit and tie and briefcase and all that. This is a hip shop. We are really only looking for the creative types who can fit in here,” he said in a low tone – all the while keeping that eye contact.

I stood up for the full three piece suit fashion effect. “Well, I’m here for a job. So, my operant level is “lowest common denominator,” I started. “Let’s say you’re an asshole. Well then, this three piece suit and white shirt and red and blue regimental tie would fit your comfort level – not to mention the perfect preppie statement of my cordovan Weejuns. Now, let’s say that you aren’t an asshole and you realize that there is a guy across the table from me looking for a job, then you would get past my lowest common denominator fashion statement and try to find out who I am..” I stopped.

He leaned back a bit. Looked me up and down. Moved his gaze off of me and on to my leather briefcase on the floor next to my chair. “I can dig that, but what about the overkill of the briefcase,” he asked.
“Overkill for some – de rigueur for others. How do you know that I don’t have anything except a fine assortment of Hershey Bars in here? No papers. No documents. No Wall Street Journal – just chocolate?”
“I don’t”, he responded, taken aback a bit.

And on cue, I reached down and picked up my leather briefcase. Picked it up with a flourish. Slammed it down on the little round table. Flicked open the gold clasp with a flourish. Spread the top open to full large mouth bass extension. Picked up the briefcase. Turned it over. Slammed it down on the table. Picked it and there they were – twelve assorted Hershey Bars – some solid chocolate, some with nuts.

Mr. Hip smiled weakly. “How’d you like to be the Account Manager for Braniff Airways?” he said with all sincerity.

I gathered up my Hershey Bars. Put them back in the briefcase my father gave me so I could get a good job. Closed the top. Latched the gold clasp. Grabbed the leather handle. And said, “No thanks, Not today. I was trying to see if there was a middle ground.” I started toward the door of his office.

He got up. Followed me to the door, Shook my hand and said, “Stay in touch.”

February 15, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

BUT WILL BILL GIVE ME A NEW KIA?

When Charles was in the 7th grade we enrolled him in the Harker Academy. As time went on the disconnect between what I thought a prep school was supposed to be and what passed for a prep school in the Silicon Valley grew wider and wider. In my days at Hebron, I learned reading and writing, but Mr. Allen also threw in lessons in respect, humility, decency, appreciation and good form. At Harker, during a Parent-Teacher Day, I saw a father scream and yell at a Teacher because she gave his son a “B” in something or other. This Parent-Teacher Day was held in the Harker Academy Gym so this unseemly tirade occurred not only in full view of all the Teachers and Parents, but also in full view of the Husband&Wife tag team that owned and operated the Harker Academy.

The Father yelled and Mr.&Mrs. Harker just stood there – watching – doing nothing.

I waited for them to approach the Father, firmly grab his elbow, squeeze real hard, and escort him out of the Gym. Never happened.

One day Charles came home from the Harker Academy. I came home from working at the Foster City office of Microsoft. We started talking and he told me two things that happened at Harker that day: (1) Charles and a couple of 7th graders were hanging out near the basketball court during recess. One of the boys in the group, the one with the real large gold Rolex on his 7th grade wrist, suddenly blurted out, “When I grow up I want to start a software company and screw my partners. That’s the way to make real money.” And (2) Charles’ class assignment was to reenact the Indian Caste System and Charles was chosen to be one of the lowest of low lifes.

Item (1) engendered immediate disgust while Item (2) seemed to miss the point – if you wanted to put kids in a socially abhorrent situation why not stick with tried and true, All American socially abhorrent situations: some kids could be southern plantation owners and other kids could practice being kidnapped, shoved into boats and shipped over to pick cotton and sing about Jesus all day (listen to Randy Newman’s “Sail Away”); some kids could be shop owners and restaurant owners and hotel owners in Miami Beach during the pre-Jewish/Arthur Godfrey days and some kids could watch Gregory Peck in “Gentleman’s Agreement”; some kids could own railroads and some kids could come over from China and build them; some kids could be Brahmin and some kids could be shanty Irish . . . .more than enough socially abhorrent situations right here in the good old USA to go around.

So, in short order, we took Charles out of the Harker Academy and decided to home school him.
I was working at Microsoft at the time and this Internet thing seemed to be a great way to learn about Home Schooling. I searched and searched all over the Internet for “Home Schooling”. I read every article the Internet threw at me. But, it really wasn’t enough. This Home Schooling thing was real and personal and very scary – I wanted to talk to folks who knew it, been through it, could understand what I was going through and could tell me what I really, really needed to know. I didn’t realize it at the time but the folks nowadays call that “Community.”

The more I thought about the Internet the more an image of the ultimate Homepage kept on creeping into my head; a Homepage neatly divided down the middle with a picture of a Library building on one side and a picture of a Community Center on the other side. That was it.

I kept on thinking about this whole Community thing. I did my research. There is no more powerful way to attract and retain folks on a website than Community. Building the Library was essential – but not nearly enough. I started talking to the smart kids in Redmond about this idea of the Library and the Community, covalent pillars holding up the World Wide Web. Even the folks at Microsoft thought this was a big idea.

Walking across the campus in Redmond on the way to the real swell highly subsidized employee Cafeteria with a member of my Team at Microsoft. I was going on and on about the Library/Community Center thing when my Team member turned to me and said, “You should go tell Bill about this.”
Meeting with Bill meant having him listen to your idea and then Bill giving you a tremendous amount of abuse about you, your thought processes, your . . .anything. Bill was one abusive guy. The kids at Microsoft considered being abused by Bill as a Badge of Honor.

I had no real problem about being abused by Bill, as long as there was something tangible in it for me. After all, this was business. So, I asked my Team member, “If I go see Bill and talk to him about this will he give me more money or more stock?”

My Team member stopped walking, digested what I just asked, tried to process it and finally answered in a low and confused tone, “No.”

“Well then will be give me anything? A new Kia? Anything?” I asked.

Again, my Team member’s response was low and confused, “No.”

“So, the deal is I give him this unbelievably powerful idea and he gives me nothing but abuse?”

“Right”

“ Well, to hell with that.” My Team member stood there for a second.

I continued to the Cafeteria to get my real swell discounted Lunch.

No accounting for the sensibilities and priorities of the Hitler Youth.

March 15, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

WITH APOLOGIES TO RANDY NEWMAN - "IT'S MONEY THAT I LOVE"

I went on another job interview the other day. Old habits are hard to break. Plus, I needed to get out in public and see if I still could Wow ‘em.

A lady named Robin Wolaner, posted the following job description on LinkedIn on April 3, 2006 –
“Several colleagues and I are working on a seed-funded, consumer-facing startup. We've got great investors, product and technology strength, but need someone with sales/marketing/business development experience and passion. I want a true partner, for a company that has huge potential but is very early stage. If you haven't spent years at an internet company, you probably wouldn't fit. Only interviewing candidates who already live in the Bay Area.”

I’m in the middle of my own startup (NOTE: SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION . . . . http://www.pacificartisans.net) but I needed to catch up on the latest behavior that passed for serious business in the Silicon Valley.

On April 3rd I emailed her my resume and cover letter. And we started the email exchange dance:

From Robin to me - Hi Elliot,

Thanks for sending your resume through KarmaOne. Since you're in Mountain View and I'm in San Francisco, why don't we set a time to chat on the phone to see if there might be a fit?

Please suggest some times that work for you.

Best,
Robin

We went back and forth a bit and finally decided that Friday, April 7th would work for both of us.
Well, 11AM came and went and no phone call from Robin, so I wrote to her:

From me to Robin - Robin -
Did you want to talk this morning?
Elliott

And, quicker than you can say, “yes I have several mobile devices,” Robin emailed back to me:
From Robin to me - Elliott I am mortified that I missed our appt. I will be back in touch. Robin
Pls forgive typos/brevity, sent from my blackberry

I am truly fascinated by Silicon Valley folks. The simple gesture, the sincere contrition stopping short of mea culpa – doesn’t cost anything; gets you where to need to go; and feels really, really good. Robin’s lack of the simple gesture meant that I had to see this one through.

So, I wrote to Robin and suggested that we reschedule the phone call. Robin responded:
From Robin to me - Elliott, this week is a blur due to kids' school break, Jewish holidays and big upcoming research project for the company. What does the 20th or 21st look like for a phone call - between hours of 8 and 3?

Thanks for your patience,

Robin

The April 7th phone call was now put off until April 20th. Again folks – the simple gesture. Robin and I talked on April 20th and then planned to meet for a face to face interview on Friday, April 28th at 12noon in Max’s Deli in Burlingame.

I was there at 11:45. Robin was late. We sat and talked for about an hour. I really don’t think either of us felt all that comfortable with the other.

Now, I agreed to an NDA (Non Disclosure Agreement) so there is little or nothing I can tell you about the actual Stealth Venture that Robin is starting. But, then again, that really isn’t the point of this writing. I can say that before the meeting, Robin did send me a PowerPoint outline for her new venture.
I’ve been working with startups for about 10 years now and there is one immutable law– if you can’t raise money – go home. And, the only way I know to raise money is to present what you are going to do; why is it a great solution to a real problem; why is it better than anything else anyone is either doing now or will ever think of in the future; how much money is it going to make; and, most importantly – how much money are the investors going to make.

Robin’s PowerPoint had none of this. It was a real swell looking PowerPoint. It had colors, graphics, charts, graphs and bullets. But, I just couldn’t find any reason why anyone would give her any money. It didn’t even hint that there might be some substance hidden somewhere.

Robin was not hesitant about saying, many times, that her boyfriend was Stewart Alsop, Jr. Aside from the great bloodlines of his father, Stewart Alsop and his uncle, Joseph Alsop, Stewart has a very, very high standing in the Silicon Valley. Not just a smart guy – but also a money guy. Wondering about Robin, her stealth venture and raising money became a lot clearer.

On the drive home from the lunch interview, I started thinking about Bill and Melinda and how Bill really, really did it right.

A while back, Bill was juggling world conquest with wooing Melinda. Melinda was some kind of product manager or something like that at Microsoft. Melinda had a wonderful idea for a new interface – BOB. Now, BOB was a dumbed down interface that was supposed to be warm and fuzzy and kid friendly. It was a horrible failure.

But, here’s the point – funding BOB only cost Bill $25 million. And it wasn’t even out of his own pocket. Microsoft picked up the tab. If I laughed at BOB, Bill must have laughed at BOB. But, as I said, Bill was wooing Melinda. Bill also gave Melinda her own legion of indentured geeks. Bill gave Melinda money and power. Let’s say that again – Bill gave Melinda money and power.

My Uncle Bill had a wife, Dina. Dina fancied herself a painter. She really sucked. She also painted very large paintings. Her paintings had that loud, supposedly modern expressionist style to it. No, her paintings just sucked. Her works ended up having an overriding “Suck –In Your Face” quality about them. Uncle Bill did good business with a lot of people. It soon became very obvious that if you wanted to do business with Uncle Bill, you had to buy one of Dina’s paintings.

Uncle Bill did show some compassion. He never asked if you actually hung one of Dina’s paintings in your house. And, he always called before coming over to your house.

So – let’s recap:

$25 million and Power gets you a wife.

Startup money gets you a girlfriend

Getting other folks to buy your wife’s ugly art gets you peace of mind.

No one has ever said it any better than Randy Newman – “It’s Money That I Love”

Money may not buy you love
But, it will buy you a half pound of cocaine
And a sixteen year old girl
And a long black limousine
On a hot September night.
That may not be love,
But, it’s all right

(This one was for Beth Garza at Hebron Academy who wrote me a real nice note this morning and made my day.)

May 03, 2006 | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)