Artie Isaac | Net Cotton Content

Jacquelin Fihn Isaac, 1927-2013

My mother died this afternoon.

Jackie and I had a good business meeting on Monday afternoon. We laughed and she was whimsical.

At six p.m. that night, she was pouring a drink and dropped her glass. She said, "I don't feel well." By 11 p.m., she was asleep. Mainly, she never woke up.

She died at home.
This was her wish. She had made it very clear to her doctors, to us — and her lawyer made it explicit. She was 85 and died quickly.

I'm sad.

But I also know: This is the opposite of a tragedy.

Where The Apple Falls
Much of what you get with me, I got from her: her admiration of friends (balanced with a fluctuating self-esteem), her lack of a filter (praised as "candor"), a yen for community service (based on a sense of obligation), and more.

Much more. More than I know.

Here is her obituary.
To appear in tomorrow's Columbus Dispatch:

Jacquelin (Jackie) Fihn Isaac, devoted to her family and appreciated for her efforts in human service, died March 16th of natural causes, embraced at home by her family. She was 85.

Born in St. Louis on July 6, 1927 to Alexander Fihn and Kitty Blumenthal Fihn, “Jojo” (as she was known by St. Louis friends throughout her life) attended Clayton High School and Connecticut College. She moved to Columbus in 1948 for love and life: to marry Arthur J. Isaac, Jr.

Jackie and Artie raised four children: Kitty Isaac Croke, Dory Isaac Martin, Patty Isaac Zimmerman, and Artie Isaac. She is survived by Kitty, Dory and Artie, and their families: Tim Croke, Kevin and Monica Croke, Brian Croke, Alex Croke, Marcia Zimmerman, Joe Martin, Jesse Martin, Sam Martin, Alisa Isaac, Helen Isaac, Duncan Isaac — and Beauregard, the dog she inherited from her beloved older brother, Zander Fihn.

Jackie so admired her friends. They inspired her and filled her with joy and purpose. Any listing of friends here would be incomplete. The family gratefully acknowledges the loving expertise of her caretakers, Krystyna Ganowska and Michela Di Santillo.

Contributions would be welcome to the Arthur J. and Jacquelin F. Isaac Fund at The Columbus Foundation, to Goodwill Columbus, or to the charity of your choice.

And then, as Jackie would have done in your memory, go to Giuseppe’s, have a nice dinner, and raise a glass to your own good fortune. Memorial service Monday, March 18th, 10 am at Schoedinger Mid-Town Chapel.

There will be a "Shiva minyan" — a brief Jewish worship service in my mother's home, 2688 East Broad Street, northwest corner of Remington Road, Thursday, March 21st at 7 p.m., where I will eulogize my mother. You would be welcome there, as well as at Schoedinger's, of course. And also:

Please don't feel obliged to do anything.
Our friendships — however new — are already
a great comfort to me.

If a man could drown in condolence,
I might be that fortunate man.

Tattoo, redux

A 2011 Net Cotton Content post on tattoo attracted more reader comments than any other post.

(Later "This Old Heart" broke that record.) With regard to tattoos, here is the original post, "Skin Deep." 

When I speak with anyone under 90 on the subject,
I discourage them from getting a tattoo.
My opinions — and, even more strident, my recommendations — draw complaints of my cultural incompetent and prejudice.

These accusations have merit. I admit that — when I see a tattoo, I think I know something about the person. What I think I know is surely inaccurate, or at least incomplete. I instantly write a narrative about the person based on the tattoo rather than the more substantial aspects of their character and experience. That's prejudice. I'm guilty.

If you want to read some of these complaints, here is "Tattoo, redo," a follow-up post on the comments.

But this isn't about that.

Another Bottle Washes Up On Shore
This is just my same old message in a bottle: don't get a tattoo.

Why this message again now?

This week's story in The New York Times, "Cycling: A Reminder Of Personal Connections, Not Tarnished Brand," is a clear argument for — and, no doubt, for — tattoo. (It's also a great use of the word "brand," drawing on its every meaning.)

Sports reporter Mary Pilon offers a soulful story about intelligent, articulate, highly motivated people who wear various tattoos of LIVESTRONG. They have inked the highest legacy of Lance Armstrong into their skin.

Now, of course, the stain of doping and his lifelong disqualification and ban is blended with the ink.

LIVESTRONG = Worthy Message
Is "LIVESTRONG" a valid, meaningful, important message? Of course it is.

But this isn't about the LIVESTRONG message. This is about the medium.

Two questions:

• Would anyone get a LIVESTRONG tattoo today? I'm not asking: is LIVESTRONG a wonderful message? I'm asking: would anyone get a LIVESTRONG tattoo today? Really?

And:

• Would you want to start every conversation for the rest of your life — once your tattoo is spied — with a quick review of the fall of the world's greatest sports hero?

Imagine the last words you hear, 75 years from now, spoken by your great-grandchild, standing at your deathbed: "Grandmother[father], so do you think Lance doped?")

The main reason to delay your tattoo by one day — perpetually delaying the tattoo by another day — is this: everything changes. 

Still thinking of getting a tattoo?
Wait another day.

Even if you already have one. Or 100. Wait another day.

The meaning of any name, word or icon will change. Stay flexible. Avoid the ink.  

 

Time To Set Some Goals

To my Ohio State creativity students (and anyone using Carry Forth):

Maybe I haven't been asking the right question.

Each year, I ask my creativity students to list their goals. But, well, something isn't happening. The answers aren't answering the call.

So I'm going to ask it differently. Right here.

Why Am I Asking?
Anyone old enough to look back sees some missed opportunities.

I sure do.

I don't know where fully formed adults place the blame, but I place mine squarely on the person who never made goals for me. That, awkwardly, is: me.

Somehow, I slid through the Socratic hands of some of the best teachers this world has ever offered. But none of them asked me — at least, in a way that I actually heard — and answered — "What are your goals?"

So I feel obliged to ask you for your goals.
Because your college experience has to be more than education for the sake of enlightenment. It needs to be that and it needs to have some purpose.

You get to choose the purpose.

But I'm making sure that someone — right now, right here — asks you to consider: "For what am I investing all this time, money and effort? What is my goal?"

Are Goals That Important?
Having goals isn't everything. Living a rich, engaged life is more important. Loving others and being loved is more important.

But goals are also important. And they need to be written.

Writing your goals doesn't make them happen. But it's funny what happens when you write them.

If you abhor goals, you might consider jumping to this post. (I love this website.)

But if you want to work with me, you need to keep reading — and write your goals.

What Am I Asking For?
I'm asking for goals in four areas: business, community, family and personal. This is the top of the first page of Carry Forth.

How big a goal? Big enough that it's not easy to reach. Big enough that you might not reach it.

Big enough that it answers Ohio State's call to action: Do Something Great.

So What Goals Am I Receiving?
Without betraying any confidences, here is a complete rephrasing of some of the goals I'm receiving:

• Business: generates enough profit that I can afford the life I want.
• Community: respects and seeks me as a leader.
• Family: loves me and each other.
• Personal: ...I want to be happy and play golf.

Happy, shmappy.
Being rich, fertile, loved, and happy is important. I don't want my students to give up on these ideals.

But these aren't the goals I want them to list.

I'm looking for goals that are worthy of a headline. In The Wall Street Journal or The New York Times? Fine. The Columbus Dispatch? Fine. Field & Stream? Fine. Local suburban newspaper? Fine.

Just imagine the headline. Worthy is not newsworthy. It needs to be newsworthy. That's a good test for your goal. In fact, write your goals as if they are news headlines. (Think: obituary.)

If your goal isn't newsworthy, it might be nutritious, but not ambitious enough for this assignment.

Oh, and I've seen a student land his headline on the front page of The New York Times. No kidding. It was Jason Torpy.

Is Fame The Goal?
No. I wouldn't wish fame on anyone.

This isn't about fame. The world has enough celebrities.

This is about being worthy. Skip the fame, if you want.

I just ask you to have goals that, if achieved, would be worthy of fame.

What If You Fail To Reach A Goal?
I'm not going to hunt you down and slap you. (I'm not that good a teacher.)

But we can't let the fear of failure rob us of the thrill of ambition.

And if we don't have goals, we can't be surprised if we don't reach them.

What Else?
Without a plan, goals are just hopes. And dependent on luck for success.

So, for each goal, outline a five-year syllabus for personal creative development: the people you need to meet, the books you need to read, the places you need to go, and whatever else you need to learn so you can reach each goal.

Frequent Conversations
Most conversations with students include:

1. "Worthy" is different from "newsworthy" — this needs to be interesting enough for an editor to put it in the newspaper. 
2. Goals cannot rely too much on any other specific person (like a sibling). Don't claim your kid's Nobel Prize as your goal. 
3. Our personal life, distinct from our family life, is an often overlooked aspect of life.
4. Family goals and personal goals are sometimes the most difficult.
5. Most young people don't read newspapers, so a "headline in a newspaper" is a quaint and meaningless anachronism. Here is what they look like.

Sounds like a big deal?
It is. But if you don't do this for yourself, you are delegating your learning and life planning to your teachers.

And we simply aren't going to do it for you.

I'm too busy messing up my life to spend time messing up yours.

On Mentoring

Last week's Think Big conference in Dallas inspired this speech today to Columbus Rotary.

✍

On Mentoring

Before I start, a quick note about technology. 

Your smartphones, your iPads — I'd like you to turn them on. Not off. On.

You see: I come from the future.

It would be wonderful if you Facebooked and Tweeted and posted everything. It would be good for me, because I could go home and see what reached you. It would be good for those who are not here — another service from Rotary — because thousands could be touched through the Internet. And it would certainly be good for Rotary — because it would be another way, the most contemporary way, of Rotary saying, "It is Monday and we are here."

Hashtag: #ColumbusRotaryToday

✍

You have someone on your shoulder. Someone who rests there, whispering in your ear.

According to Warner Bros. on Saturday mornings, there is an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other.  

The devil urges you to boastful self-importance. It whispers: "It is for you that the world was created." The other — the angel — argues to the contrary, begging for modesty and humility. The whisper: "You are nothing but dust in the wind." 

In business, we don't always have a cartoon devil and a cartoon angel. Maybe, a shark and Buddhist. Grasping for more — glad for what we have.

Maybe it's a doctor and a bartender. The doctor says: "That dessert? I wouldn't make a career out of it." The bartender asks: "Another round?"

The voices vary by the situation. "Come hither." "Better stay yonder."

Who are these voices? They are the loops of ethics, morals, and practical self-management — loops that play in our heads when familiar situations arise. Crossing the street, there is mother: "Look both ways. Danger."

Where did they come from? Experience. Teachers. Role Models. 

Mentors.

Ken Ackerman invited me to talk about mentoring. Thank you, Ken. Your invitation is another example of your mentorship. Here is that talk. 

I spent last week with more than 1,100 mentors in Dallas, Texas, including Ken Ackerman. We gathered from around the world at a bi-annual convention of Vistage International, the world's largest organization of CEOs. Vistage is what Ken calls "a laboratory of leadership."

It is that: a laboratory of leadership. It is also a mall of mentors. One can browse all day for the best mentor for the moment. Each person stands ready to mentor another.

The experience of the past week — and the past year, my first as a Vistage chair, have led me to contemplate and study mentorship. From that study, I have prepared a short, incomplete list of my mentors. I will describe four mentors, briefly, and summarize the skills each has demonstrated. Perhaps you will hear about one of these mentors, what he did, and consider applying the skills.  

First, a demographic note. These four mentors are all white men. I am aware of that. I have had mentors of various races and both genders. But these are the four primary mentors who come to mind for teaching me about mentorship. They happen to be white men.  

The first mentor...

  

1. David Trowbridge

David Trowbridge died recently. In 1973 and 1974, he was my eighth grade grammar teacher at Columbus Academy. His work in the classroom taught me the trade of a lifetime: I am a writer. When at my best, I employ the technique he taught: précis, brevity in prose. I owe him this sentence. In the classroom, he was my teacher. 

But it was during his office hours that he was my mentor. David Trowbridge was the first adult with whom I sat for conversations about nothing and everything. The subject matter didn't matter. What mattered was his demonstration of how to talk to young people.

Here is the first skill of the mentor: to treat the mentee as an adult. This might sound simple, but the mentoring relationship starts hierarchically, so it can become stilted. The mentor takes on airs, like the guru on the mount.

He was "Mr. Trowbridge" to me. But, to lift me into adulthood, he always called me "Mr. Isaac" in front of others. In the quiet of his office, he called me "Artie." In public, he called me formally, as he did all other students, as a show of respect. In private, he called me informally — again, as a show of respect. 

I would knock on his door and ask permission to enter. He would always — according to my memory — invite me in. "Sit down. What's on your mind?" He listened patiently. He always seemed genuinely interested in my opinions and observations. He inquired and responded. He laughed at the funny stuff. It was as if he wanted the conversation — it was neither a burden nor an interruption.

There was nothing complex, but now, nearly 40 years later, I remember these frequent conversations as magical. I remember them as the first conversations I had with an adult, beyond my parents, where the mentor saw me, not as a child, but as an adult.

This taught me the first rule of mentorship.

This first rule of mentorship — the Trowbridge Rule — applies to any conversation with a younger person. I have taught in many classrooms: from third grade, to seventh grade, to undergraduate, to graduate school, to business people, and I have found: no one likes to be talked down to. Everyone likes to be spoken to as an adult. 

What does it mean to speak to someone like an adult? To speak to them as if they were one year smarter than they are. Everyone — especially children — like to be spoken to as if they were one year smarter than they are.

The Trowbridge Rule: Speak as equals. Never patronize. 

A note: I visited Mr. Trowbridge not long before he died. I hadn't sat with him since eighth grade. We sat in his library and chatted, like adults. I expected to feel like I was 13 again. But he had added a year to my current age. He spoke to me as if I were an adult of 53 years, not a child of 52. 

The second mentor in today's list is...

 

2. Rob Emrich (his website)

Rob is a serial entrepreneur in California. He moved there — from here — a couple years ago. To be closer to the people who live and breathe high tech. Live and breathe — and fund. But he moved for more than money. He crossed the country for mentorship. He went where his high-tech mentors were to be more easily found.

Rob has taught me this, the Emrich Rule: if you want mentorship, acquire a mentor.

In Chaim Potok's classic The Chosen, young Reuven Malter is taught by his father that it is an obligation to — each year — "choose a friend and acquire a teacher." 

Rob and I met seven or eight years ago. It was an hourlong conversation in my office. Someone from the Jewish community had sent him over to me. Rob told me that he sought mentoring. He was acquiring a teacher. He asked many questions.

Years passed. 

Rob returned with a business idea and offered me a 50/50 deal to start a company. We did. It was a great experience. And, in the end, the money wasn't bad. By that I mean, we didn't lose too much.

As we worked, Rob was always transparent about how he spent his time. He would, once a week, perhaps every other week, ask me to listen to an update on his own time allocation: just five minutes of explanation. He always invited feedback on his time allocation. Does that sound insignificant? Not to Rob. Rob knows that how we spend our time is everything.

This is the underlying ethic of The Emrich Rule: every moment matters. 

Much of Rob Emrich's time management habits come from David Allen's book. Have you read it? Getting Things Done. It is the book I recommend most strongly. When you are hired by one of Rob's companies, this book is the first tool. It is given to you with the explanation: "Read this book. This is how we work." Getting Things Done by David Allen.

Time is everything, dispensed as pearls, not wasted. He likes to have fun and spends time in fun, too. But when he wants mentoring, there is a meeting and an agenda. When he has mentoring to offer, there is a meeting and an agenda. The meeting might be five minutes: always an agenda, presented in advance.

Years after we first met seven or eight years ago, when he first sought me out as a mentor, Rob sent me a transcript of that first conversation. He had, back then, when we first met, asked permission to record the conversation with a small audio recorder. Then he had gone home and transcribed the conversation. 

That might seem like a bad use of time, but Rob doesn't have mentoring conversations that aren't worth recording. When time matters, you pick mentors carefully. You ask questions that get to the heart of the challenge. You dig deep for the answers you need.

Every moment matters. Acquire a mentor and every moment matters.

Oh, right. I was supposed to be his mentor. That was his expectation. But that's not how it was. He was from the start — and is today — my mentor. 

A side note: Rob Emrich was my first mentor who is younger than I. Now, most of my mentors are younger than I. At first it was a humbling reminder of mortality. But, though it clearly says "second half of life," it also bodes well: if your mentors are younger than you, there is a continuously growing pool of mentor candidates.  

The third mentor...

 

3. Lee Lemke (his LinkedIn profile)

In 2008, the day the recession began, I sold my advertising agency and really didn't know what I was going to.

Lee Lemke called me from Huntington National Bank. He suggested that there was a creative challenge and I might be helpful. 

But that wasn't my business. That wasn't what I was doing. I told him so. I said something like, "I don't do that." Something like: "huh?"

He said, "I know. I think you would be really good at it. We need you to do this."

So I started. Every couple of months, Lee would call me and suggest a change in how I was being applied. He kept changing my job based on where we were and what the bank needed. I stopped saying things like "huh?" and just accepted his marching orders on the spot. 

Lee's approach to mentoring produced the Lemke Rule: focus on the talents.

He has a knack for management, for focusing on the talents at hand and applying them. Before I met Lee, I saw people as people. He saw me as a person, of course, but also as a peculiar set of ready skills and talents. 

And it was a great experience — and produced significant value for the Huntington.

The final mentor for today...

 

4. Adam Harris (his LinkedIn profile)

Adam lives in Nottingham, England, where he is a Vistage Chair.

Adam is a mentor to me, though he is much younger. He might be the youngest Vistage Chair.

Adam has taught me this: we must get to the root.

Issues — whether challenges or opportunities —  are rarely as simple as they seem. Think of a tree. The challenge or opportunity is easily seen: the leaves on the tree. But there are branches where they live, and a trunk of the tree, and as the mentor works, we eventually arrive at the root issue.

And the root issue is the only place the issue can be fully addressed. 

How does Adam get there? He asks questions.

And that is the Harris rule: mentoring is asking questions, not giving answers. Adam asks questions — and then questions the answers. That's because, when we go to our mentors, we already think we know the answers. Adam is where I turn to get my answers questioned. 

I find that every mentoring conversation ends only when I walk away. Because Adam always has another question. Just last week, he helped me through a sticky situation. But while the conversation ended with me saying, "Thank you. That was very helpful." — he was still standing there with a question on his face. "Do you really think we've gotten to the bottom of this?"

✍

Rather than summarizing now, I will post the entire presentation on the web this afternoon. I'll send the link to Scott Brown who can share it with you.

I would rather spend the remaining minutes this way. Before I entertain questions, I want you to — just for two minutes — split up into pairs at your table. Tell the other person only this: finish two sentences. "One of my favorite mentors was ___________" and "He or she was a great mentor because ___________________."

[After two minutes, ask for comments or questions.]

[If time permits, recite Billy Collins' The Straightener.]

Call to Action:
Now, at the end of January, the year is still new. What do you want to learn? Who is in a position to teach you? Might that person become your mentor? All you need to do is ask. 

Benediction:
I wish you a year of growth. May you have the mentor — and be the mentor — the world needs.

City Boy

I split myself into little pieces several years ago.

I decided:

• My hands work in Columbus.
• My heart sits beside my beloved.
• My soul walks in the Negev.
• My imagination lives in New York.
• My intellect is challenged in New Haven.

It's not that I must physically stand in each place to exercise the corresponding body part. I just imagine myself there, wherever I am. 

This Is About New York
Last weekend, I met eight friends for dinner in an Italian restaurant in New York City. 

We chatted about what it means to be a New Yorker — and whether someone raised elsewhere can ever become a New Yorker.

Ancient History
In college, a roommate from New York City annoyed me by calling New York, "The City." (To be fair, The State Of Being Annoyed is a choice and just about everything back then annoyed me.)

Anyway, the roommate persisted on referring to The City as if it could mean only one place. I would always demand clarification by asking, "Bridgeport? Do you mean Bridgeport?" Bridgeport was a post-industrial town halfway between us and the so-called City.

He would laugh (at my mock irritation and yokel perspective) and I would continue, demanding that the "Tri-City Area" was Columbus, Newark, and Granville.

This always went nowhere.

Until years later, I moved to New York and fell in love with The City.

The Question
Who is a New Yorker here?  

I asked for a show of hands at dinner last week. The college students at the table — and the working folks who had moved to the City within the past 12 months — didn't raise their hands. 

Those of us who had moved there decades ago put up our hands. Including me. 

"You, a New Yorker?" asked my daughter, just like a New Yorker, though she hadn't claimed the status for herself.

"Yes," I said. "I am merely on vacation in Columbus. To spawn."

"What am I? Spawn?" she blanched, just like a New Yorker. If she had replaced "spawn" with "chopped liver," she would have been a New Yorker. 

I shrugged. "Whatever. So what's it going to take for the rest of you to become New Yorkers? When does someone become a New Yorker?"

What It Takes
Nothing, was the first answer. You cannot become a New Yorker. Ever. You have to be born in New York to be a New Yorker. You can't convert.

And, he added, those of his friends who were born in New York were a little goofy, so it wasn't an ideal. The tablemates who had raised children in the City argued against this slander.

Another person said, "Five years. After five years here, you can claim residency."

Another said, "Two hurricanes." The recent storm is still a crisis for many in New York.

But it was this answer that most tickled my imagination:

You are a New Yorker only after
you have had sex and been in a fight.

The answer had been offered quietly, from the end of the table. But I heard it.

And I probed. "So," I asked the person, "are you a New Yorker?"

"Not yet," was the quiet, smiling reply. "But I had a big date last night."

A better detective would have asked, "Which of the two ingredients do you still lack: the sex, the fight, or both?" But I didn't. Propriety prevented.

Plus, I already knew. Because sex in New York includes the fight that quickly follows. They come together, two for the price of one.

I know this. Because I am a New Yorker.

************

If you are visiting The City, here's some fun.

Blown Away

Greetings from Ohio.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how the Presidential election isn't my main cause.

I understand that it's very important — and I have registered approximately 100 people — and I will vote — and I ask you to vote — and I am not undecided — 

But the vote I cast doesn't describe me. You won't know me better by knowing for whom I voted. (That argument is here.)  My blood type (B+) is closer to my identity than D or R or 3rd Party or disenfranchised.

I Care More For Art Than Politics
The political campaigns continue to assemble musicians to support their final rallies here in Ohio with well-chosen, heart-swelling themes: Stevie Wonder, Marshall Tucker Band and more.

For me, this song will be my musical memory for this season, a season that just happens (for me) to coincide with a Presidential Election.

That perfect feeling when time just slips
Away between us on our foggy trip.

 

From "somewhere safer / where the feeling stays," I offer this in loving honor of my family, friends and their neighbors who are still working their way out of Sandy, and in respectful memory to those who are being laid to rest.

We are all "undecided."

What is it, nine days?

Nine days before we — as a nation — make our biggest decision of the year. Zealots say: "the biggest decision of our lives." (Zealots are sometimes right.)

As a recovering marketer, I can't help but see this in clinical terms. Like the analogies from SATs of yore:

• As voter : consumer, candidate : packaged good
• As voter : candidate, vote : purchase
• As my candidate : other candidate(s), least disagreeable : threatening

But none of us knows if the final analogy is true. There are data. But the truth is elusive.

We Don't Really Know.
We might change our minds. But we are not undecided. All of us know for whom we will vote.

But our knowledge is not based on real understanding of how the elected will govern on January 21st. That's unknowable, no matter what they have said and done. Our decision is — and will be — based on our interpretation of selected data. Thin ice, anyone?

Marty Saperstein, one of the smartest guys who will spend time with me, holds a Ph.D. in statistics. I asked him yesterday, "Is anyone really undecided? Or do they just not want to talk about it?"

Marty said, "That's right. During surveys, when people say they are undecided, we ask them why. Nine out of ten of them respond with a negative. For example, 'I don't want to vote for that other guy because of [some micro or macro issue].' So they are decided, but they might not realize it yet, or just don't want to put it in those terms."

When I asked Marty for whom he is voting, he responded with a question, before giving me the simple answer: "For whom do you think I am voting?" My answer to that question, he says, reveals my own choice, because I will "think the best of him for voting the same way." He's a wily researcher.

By the way, Marty and I are not voting for the same candidate. This is proof that smart people can disagree with me on this election. (More on that below.)

But We Do Care.
Recently I sat with an otherwise equanimous fellow who was redfaced, steam coming from his ears over this election. Steeped in conspiracy theory and reports that have come from under rocks, he spoke daggers about the other candidate. He sounded like he was going to split in two. The rest of the table just watched him.

And I have seen and heard the same passionate frenzy from the other side about his candidate.

Stick a fork in us. We are boiled over.
Usually (by which I mean all other episodes of Survivor), we get to see the vote each week. We never have to wait months — years! — to vote everyone else off the island. Trained by drive-thru dining, we are not a patient people.

We have seen the two finalists do what is not necessary to govern. We have seen the debates. Or, as I think of the so-called debates, two very smart introverts throwing pies at each other. I watched only one of them (the second Presidential) and, frankly, I wish I had skipped it. I wasn't any smarter when it ended.

How I Truly Feel

1.
I believe that those who vote for the other candidate(s) are NOT necessarily ignorant or stupid. We simply disagree on the criteria for employment in this key CEO position.

2.
Registration and voting are work, but they are among our most important jobs. I am sad about low voter turnout. I agree with David Foster Wallace:

“If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don't bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who please rest assured are not dumb, and who are keenly aware that it is in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical and to give you every possible reason to stay at home doing one-hitters and watching MTV on primary day. By all means stay home if you want, but don't bullshit yourself that you're not voting. In reality, there is  no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some Diehard's vote.”

3.
I am not riddled with fear about my choice not being the choice of the majority. After all, none of us — not even the candidates themselves, despite all the campaign declarations and previous decisions — knows what January 21 will present in the ways of challenges and how the President will respond.

4.
We will have a President and I will salute him. I wish only for the health and enlightenment of humanity, guided by wise and learning leaders.

5.
I long for elections where I am torn between two equally appealing candidates, rather than where I hunt for the least objectionable.

Meet Stanley.
You might remember the fellow I had decided to avoid — and then, at what I had secretly planned as our final lunch, I decided to renew our companionship. I called him "Stanley" in a recent post.

That friend — the real "Stanley" — responded to me in an email. He is Mark Wallinger and he permits me to share his response (excerpted): 

Really, really enjoying my political retirement. Living in Ohio, you can’t escape it all, of course, but I have better things to do with my time than take a survey, answer a robo-call, get agitated by what this party said about that one. This discourse is nothing new, just on more platforms, more frequencies, more often.

So it goes.

And I’m not sipping tea, or walking in woods. Instead, I’m vigorously pursuing things that interest me, my craft, my family and friends.

I’m not manipulated into faux “debates” that matter little. Somehow, in recent years, we’ve been led to believe our opinions on every single subject have value and enter into the frequency of the social discourse. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sometimes it’s just more noise.

The results? I participate less, learn more. And I’m happier now ... and isn’t that a key goal of life: happiness?

I think it's time to schedule lunch with Mark again. Perhaps after the Big Election.

Happy voting. May you — may we all — be delighted with the outcome!

Please, do NOT leave comments of advocacy for any candidate. Thank you.

Not Our Last Lunch

Did you watch the recent political debate? Did you see yesterday's football game on television?

I didn't. And I'm better off for it. 

Here is an argument for not aggravating yourself. 

It starts with a story about lunch with my old colleague, Stanley.

I found that I dreaded lunch.
Not every day. I love lunch.

Just this day. As the date approached, I recognized that: I just don't like having lunch with Stanley. (Not his real name.)

Lunch With Stanley
Every year, sometimes twice a year, we would meet for lunch. It was an informal tradition, more of a habit.

The idea: let's catch up. We had worked together on occasional projects during the past two decades. And so it seemed that staying in touch with Stanley was a continuing good investment.

Stanley was smart, so I might learn something.  

But I never did learn anything. Year after year. Except that, yet again, I didn't enjoy lunch with Stanley.

Lunches with Stanley weren't collaborative or collegial or affectionate. They were argumentative, status-driven, an attempt to prove one's own competence. 

Q: Can a single moment be both aggravating and boring?
A: Lunch with Stanley. 

The Secret Plan
So, on this particular day, on the way to lunch with Stanley — actually, all the way back to when we scheduled this lunch — I had a plan: this would be my last lunch with Stanley.

I probably wouldn't tell him. That would be rude. But I would go to lunch to confirm, once and for all, that I don't enjoy lunch with Stanley and that I wouldn't ever schedule another.

You might say that I packed a bad attitude in my lunch sack. I saw it as a necessary coda. 

A Surprising Lunch With Stanley
About halfway through lunch, I was surprised to realize that I was enjoying lunch with Stanley. Lunch with Stanley had never been so candid, so deeply sharing, so truly interesting. Neither boring, nor aggravating. Quite the contrary. Life affirming. Nourishing.

This threatened my secret plan, but I refused to allow lunch to end without knowing: would this be our final lunch?

So I put it on the table: "Stanley, I have to admit something. I came to today's lunch thinking this would be our last lunch. I had come to recognize that I don't enjoy our lunches. They have always felt fake and competitive. I have always left disappointed and emotionally rattled. So I decided I would come today to determine, once and for all, that I'm frankly better off not having lunch with you."

Stanley stared at me. "Go on," he said calmly.

I continued. "I wasn't going to say anything today. I was just going to disappear and never reschedule. But something has happened. I am tremendously enjoying our conversation, in a way that I have never enjoyed before. And I don't get it. So I am bringing it up.

"Something big is different. The dynamic here is different. And I'm wondering why.

"I know that, during the past couple of years, I have changed. The relief of selling my business, the influence of Vistage, and my maturation into middle age — they have all made me more mindful, less needful. I just don't need to prove my competence to you. So there is some change on this side of the table.

"But something must be different on your side. This couldn't be all be me. So I have to ask: what in you is different?

Stanley Changed.
"You are right," Stanley began. "You are right to see a change. I noticed something about myself about a year ago. I was always aggravated and aggitated. There was a seething anger within me.

"Of course, there is no good reason for this. I am among the luckiest men on earth. So well married, so well familied, so well challenged in my work. I should have felt continuous gratitude.  

"And it came down to this. I was spending all my time keeping current on the political news. I was watching and studying every day's happenings. And I was absorbing all the bitter bad will expressed among the participants and pundits. It was corrosive and it was making me an angry man. You felt this during out lunches, I have no doubt. I certainly felt it at every meal and between them, too.

"So I wondered: why was I so committed to watching politics? I had come to think that it was a measure of competence, even a measure of patriotism, to know my position and how to defend it. And, objectively, I did know my positions and I was good at defending them. But the art of constant political advocacy left me bitter. I was always bitter.

"When I thought more deeply about it, I decided that — for me — it doesn't matter. If I am not facing a moment to vote, I don't need to watch each and every day's political news. I know which candidates, which issues, which platforms appeal to me. I can know all I need to know by reading not more than 30 minutes of news each week. I can still intelligently choose and contribute to campaigns without three hours of televised arguments every day. It wasn't good for me."

He was proving the monk's lesson correct.

"So I turned it off. And I've been happier ever since. Immediately. Truly. And ever since."

He smiled.

I think it is time to schedule lunch again with Stanley.

Ask Yourself.
Did watching the debate change the way you are going to vote? Did you really need any information? Do debates matter? (If we are hiring a chief executive — and we are, make no mistake — do we really care so much if they win a season of Survivor? Or are we going about this in the wrong, most tribal way.) I read enough about the debate to know that all it did was this: people argued about which candidate is less like Dr. Strangelove.

How about that football game. Did you truly — deeply — enjoy the experience of watching that recent football game? Are you improving yourself by shouting as young men pound each other, risking (and sometimes suffering) grievous injury?

Is this time well spent? Are these experiences making you complete? Or are they dragging you backwards, back into your lizard brain, igniting your primative anger? Are you stronger afterwards, or somewhat depleted?

Wouldn't we all be better off by taking that time to walk in the woods? To play with a child? To read poetry? To draw a picture? To needlepoint? To drink a cup of tea?

To lunch with Stanley?

I've seen marriages on the brink of disaster. I've seen friendships torn asunder. I've seen people who cannot talk with the other side. (Diplomacy isn't talking with people who agree with you. Diplomacy is talking with those who disagree with you.) 

I do care.
Don't call me apathetic. I care deeply.

As my friend Cindy Lazarus teaches, "It does matter who is elected on city council, in the local judicial races. It does matter. They make decisions that influence our lives and the health of our community. And those that rise, rise to statewide and national prominance. It does matter."

I do care. 

But watching is not caring. My care is expressed in action. I register more than 100 voters each year (not just during election years).

Don't kid yourself: watching politics is not active engagement. After 30 minutes of reading each week, anything more is political porno.

Your time is your life. As the actor Bill Murray once said: "When we are adults we get to choose our diversions. We should choose them wisely."

First Question

What do you ask someone you have just met? 

How can you ask a question that will get to the essence?

Of course, if you want idle chitchat, you can ask a question about something else: the weather, that tree over there, the painting on the wall. They aren't bad questions, but will they help you truly understand who you are meeting?

"I'm Mo."
A few years ago, I was enjoying an informal dinner with our daughter's classmates and their parents.  

I struck up a conversation with a dad, and — after an exchange of our names and daughter's names — I asked the question: "So what do you do?"

"What do I do?" he asked, somewhat surprised at the question. "What do I do? Is that the best you can do? That's the best question you have? What do I do? I'm Mo!"

If this hadn't been in the home of a friend, if this weren't in the trusted community of parents, I would have quickly excused myself, collected my family and headed for the car. It would have felt threatening.

But you don't know Mo. And I'm not going to introduce you to Mo beyond these three statements. He's a fascinating fellow. He told me one of the funniest stories I have ever heard. (I recently told him I would like to get it recorded.) And his response to my question has reshaped how I meet people.

Mo was right.
Asking Mo, "What do you do?" won't get to the essence of Mo. If he answers the question in the usual way, he would reveal a rich career of success, with a worthy turn. But it won't help the new acquaintance know Mo.

Because Mo isn't what he does for money. Because what he does is this: he's Mo.

And so are you. You are Mo. 

What the Question Isn't
Eric Weiner, in his delightful and insightful The Geography of Bliss: One Grump's Search for the Happiest Places in the World, points out that the first question changes from land to land.

In America, the question for the stranger in the next seat on the airplane may be, "What do you do?" But in Switzerland, boardered by so many other rich cultures — German, Austrian, Italian, French — it's more helpful to find out what nation has influenced your seatmate.

What he or she does for a living just doesn't tell you as much.

I Was Accused of Bullshit.
During a business trip this week, I was seated at dinner beside an ambitious, successful, smart businessperson. He had already heard from me — I gave a short presentation before dinner, to introduce my workshop the next morning — so he knew something of me.

But, no, we didn't know each other well.

At dinner, he asked me who I would be voting for in the upcoming Presidential election.

"I won't tell you," I said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because it won't tell you anything about me. You are asking me this question to know me better, but I assure you, my answer won't help."

"That's a bullshit answer," he said. Silently, I thought, "No it isn't, although bullshit questions deserve bullshit answers." But I waited for him to speak.

He did: "So, then, who did you vote for in the last Presidential election."

Again I demurred. I told him a lesson I learned from Danny Maseng, a brilliant scholar, a world famous songwriter-musician, an actor, an inspiring teacher, a friend — and a veteran of the Israeli Defense Forces. At dinner one night, Danny said: 

Some people, when they learn that I was in the IDF, ask, "Did you ever kill anyone?" I refuse to answer the question. Not because I am troubled by the answer to the question, but because — if I answer the question — they will think they know something about me.

But the answer to the question — whether it is "yes" or "no" — does not tell you anything about me. I don't want to establish a relationship based on their assumptions about the meaning of the answer. It doesn't mean anything about me.

I feel that way about the answer to the question: "Who will you vote for this fall?"

I told my dinner companion, "On the list of what makes me tick, who I am, my essence, Who I Vote For is way down that list, two-hundredth in importance, at best. Let's start somewhere else. Ask another question."

My Students (Don't) Know.
At the end of each semester, I poll my students, asking for a show of hands. I ask: "Do you think you know my politics?" Everyone raises their hands.

"Who here thinks I am a Republican?" Half the hands are raised. "Who here thinks I am a Democrat?" The other half raise their hands.

I consider this a badge of honor. I don't think it is my role to tell them how to vote.

I just tell them that voting is important — and they must be registered to do it. (It's not too late to register. Here's how, in Ohio. If you register by October 9th, you can vote on November 6th. I directly register 100+ students every year.) 

But they don't know how I vote. I think I become less of a teacher and less of a role model, if they are clouded by knowing how I vote. 

But this isn't about voting.
This is about the question to ask someone to get to know them better. 

Here are some suggestions:

• For what are you famous? Everyone is famous for something. Like my aunt for her apple pie.
• What made you laugh today?
• What did you learn today?
• Where in the world would you go, for a visit, if you had unlimited time, money and courage?
• If you had the perfect student, who would it be and what would you teach him or her? Could you teach it to me?
• If you could meet your great-great-great-great-great-grandparent, what would you ask? And what would you ask your great-great-great-great-great-grandchild?

A hundred questions come to mind. What question do you ask when you are first trying to meet someone?

So, What Do I Do?
People ask that question of me all the time. I meet strangers daily and they always ask the American question: What do you do?

Let me save you the trouble. If you ask me these days, I will answer, "I am an unlicensed rabbi serving non-Jews."

We laugh, and it leads to a meaningful conversation.

A play, a sermon, a poem

Holy shirt! Something has happened. Something good.

A sudden burst of productivity.
During this week, amid a delightful crush of workaday (whatever that means) appointments, presentations and travel, I have also written: a play, a sermon, a poem.

The play is called List of 10.
It's about a man (Andy) who lives with a list of the women he would call if his wife were gone.

It's not the normal tale of popular culture. Andy is not a philanderer. But he wrestles ethically with mortality, imagination, and honest urges. (Poor bastard.)

I've sent the play to a few folks who might give me some feedback. I'll edit it once and then I will invite you to a public reading.

The sermon is for Temple Israel tonight.
Unlike the play and the poem, which arrived spontaneously, the sermon was scheduled. It had to be written — a promise to a rabbi.

Every year at this time, when the rabbis are polishing their sermons for the High Holy Days, I offer to fill in — so they can focus on preparing for the HHD. The congregational turnout is predicted to be light tonight, especially because I've been promoted as the speaker. 

Here is the current draft, subject to revision before (and during) the presentation at services tonight.

I probably shouldn't release this until after services. Too late now. (I avoid backspacing.) So please don't show it to any Jews until tomorrow.

Oh, and feel free to come to Temple Israel tonight. The live version is different. It includes a nervous man. Erev Shabbat, 6:30 p.m.

The poem was a lark.
I had the thought a day or so ago. Something about how a shirt tells the story — a shirt tale! — of the day just lived.

Then, yesterday, I was enjoying a Vistage meeting in Cincinnati. I had gone to experience how the Vistage master Al Stuempel chairs a meeting. Toward the end of the meeting, I did the unforgivable: I zoned out and wrote the poem. At lunch afterward, I read it to the members of the group and they smiled with encouragement, tinged with baffled wonderment. 

Here it is. I hope you like it. (Warning: it doesn't rhyme.)

Reading Between The Cuffs
(On A Shirt, At The Hamper)

These two red dots on the front placket remind me
of the flip of his fettucini at Giuseppe's.
At first I was embarrassed for him
— but now I know that the sauce will not stain,
and his encouragement and trust are indelible,
never to be washed from my gratitude.

This wrinkle — these wrinkles — 
wouldn't smooth out all day,
announcing that I am a self-dressed man,
even if I am not self-made. 

At the hidden armholes, parts are still damp,
beneath the arms (the pits),
fully moistened during the heat of the drive home.

The edge of the cuffs are worn, a little frayed,
proving that I am experienced, 
that I am not new to the world. 

Good news! The breast pocket is clean,
— redemption! — a sign that I am aware,
because it survived another day without an open pen,
without blue ink bleeding across my chest,
without someone saying to me, "Oh, that poor man."

And this splash of coffee reminds me,
my beloved, of that moment at breakfast,
as you launched my day
— and my mouthful of coffee — 
when you made me laugh, upon first sip. 

Why the sudden burst?
I think it has a lot to do with two unexpected influences during the past couple weeks: a piercing performance of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya and my return to Transcendental Meditation.

More on those later, I suppose. 

I wish you a sudden burst.