Net Cotton Content

UPDATE: The Kiva/Net Cotton Content Portfolio

Welcome to the First Quarterly Meeting of the Kiva/Net Cotton Content Portfolio Shareholders.

On November 24th, we began operations by announcing our three first $50 investments in micro-lending on Kiva.com, with $150 donated by loyal and generous readers John, Rachel, Emily, Abbie, and Michelle (and your humble writer).

The Best News
I've just received word that one of my students at CCAD has invested in Kiva. Yes! She made the investment, blamed me, and Kiva told me. Nice!

Our Portfolio
I'm pleased to report — despite the world credit markets and the general downward trend in just about every economy — our three investments are still holding steady.

For background on the three entrepreneurs, revisit the original report. Here is an update on each.

Guinea Pigs in Peru!
Fully funded...

Concepción, the Peruvian guinea pig farmer, raised the rest of his $650 and is doing whatever a guinea pig farmer does.

He and his wife are probably providing a lot of mood lighting for guinea pig dancing. His first payment was due last week and has probably already been made. (Reports of payments are delayed until the funds have made their way all the way back to us.)

Strawberries in Palestine!
Fully funded and paying back...

Suzan Hamoudeh completed her fundraising and has already paid back 17% of her total $1,000 loan.

The comments from the other lenders have — at times — been politically critical of Israel's actions in Gaza. I expected as much, since this is a Palestinian farmer. However, I've chosen not to jump into the debate. That's not why we chose her. We chose her because we like strawberries and we think this strawberry farmer deserve a break no matter how foolish all the men are around her.

A Butcher in Azerbaijan!
Paying back...

Djahid Suleymanov has repaid 25% of his $1,000 loan. (Our $50 completed his fundraising.)

The only report came right after our investment from the field partner: "Thank you for your loan. It has been disbursed to Djahid Suleymanov by Komak Credit Union in Azerbaijan. We are excited to watch this business grow. Over the next 12 months, Komak Credit Union will be collecting repayments from this entrepreneur and posting progress updates on the Kiva website."

What Happens With The Money?
So, far $20.75 has been returned to our account. We can either take it back or relend it to other entrepreneurs.

What to do?
Be a schlmiel (take it back) or a mensch (relend it).

Please remember: these are real people, living valid lives, in color.

Announcing Net Cotton Content's First Rabbit Contest

Have you met my wife?

No? Yes?

Sometimes I think I have not yet met my wife.
Scientists say that every cell in the human body regenerates every seven years. (This is a fact that I am making up, or think I heard once. It might have been on Star Trek. Just stay with me, here. Accept the "fact.")

Of course, all the cells don't regenerate all at once. That would be catastrophic.

But, if no cell in the body lasts more than seven years, then my body right now is — physically — a completely different body than the one I enjoyed using before 2002.

And — back to Mrs. Isaac — since she and I have been married for 21 blissful years, you could say that, really, I've been married to three Mrs. Isaacs. Physically. And I'm on my fourth. (You'll pardon the expression.)

Meet The New Wife (Much Like The Old Wife)
Well, last Wednesday, Mrs. Isaac said something that made me think: "Huh. New wife! I think all the cells regenerated overnight."

Mrs. Isaac said: "I'd like to learn how to hunt rabbit."

As you know, I'm a recovering vegetarian with a philosophical revulsion to hunting. I just don't have it in me. I'm not a man's man. Whatever. My people are gatherers and nurturers — teachers, doctors, and lawyers. In my tradition, the hunters have always been the other people.

So a hasty cross-examination was in order.

How?

"With a slingshot."

Where?

"In the backyard."

Why?

"For dinner."

"Oh, really?" [Note: I did not laugh. I raised my eyebrows and leaned forward about one inch. That was it. I did not laugh.]

"You may laugh," Alisa says, as she does whenever we discuss issues like mortality, global warming, disease, economic ruin, natural calamity, man-on-man violence, addiction and dustballs. And now: the picture on the other side of my eyeballs of my wife stalking small mammals between here and the garage.

"You may laugh," she said, "But, during the Depression, my father fed his mother and himself."

(I think she was referring to the Depression of Long Ago, not the Depression of Noon Yesterday.)

Speaking of macro economics, I think that everyone I know (including the guy in the mirror) regenerated last Wednesday. That was the day that each of us realized that "Hey, I can't afford that." Or: "Dang, I could have bought that six months ago, but I just can't now."

I've heard Rich People finding ways to economize.

What happened all of the sudden?

The Philosophy of Macro Economics became the Visceral Reality of Micro Economics. In my home, and in your home. Dang, indeed.

Back to bunny tales...

Who's Laughing Now?
I keep imagining myself wearing rabbit fur bow ties.

And eating, a la Forrest Gump: rabbit stew, rabbit on rye, rabbit in eggs, rabbit stir fry, rabbit ratatouille... 

I mentioned this to my friend, Bill Oesterle, in an email, and his only reply was, "I can teach her." Great. Thanks, Bill.

Mrs. Isaac heard this and said, "If Bill can teach me, tell him to come right over."

Oh, Yes: The Contest
When The Huntress returns from the fields — the "Back (Point) 40" since we live on a half acre — with her first bag o' bunnies, I will somehow distract her and grab one of the little wascles.

And I will send it to one of the subscribers of Net Cotton Content. Just like that.

That's the contest.

But what's a contest without rules? (If we have a contest without rules, the terrorists have won.)

Rules:

1. No entry form required. Just by subscribing to Net Cotton Content, you are entered.
2. Unsubscribing from Net Cotton Content won't help. I know who you are and if I want to send you a dead rabbit, I'm going to do just that. You might as well be grateful.
3. No rabbits are eligible. You can't recover Flopsy's or Mopsy's body.
4. I reserve the right to send you a Partial Rabbit, or even just a Rabbit Part. If Mrs. Isaac has immediate use for some of the parts out in the field, I may only get to grab a handful of — I don't know — noses or something. (As we all know, only the feet give good luck, so we should be OK.)

Not void where prohibited by law. You don't have to be 18+ years old to win. Civil law is of no concern to me. They'll never take me alive. (Not with Mrs. Isaac firing pellets all over my property.)

Confidentiality Is In Force
By the way, Mrs. Isaac doesn't read Net Cotton Content. Her feeble excuse has something to do with, "I live with it." (I'm the it with which she lives.)

So let's keep this all between us, shall we?

Etiquette, Part 1

I always wait to make sure she gets inside.

When I drop off a friend (woman, man or child), I don't just drive away. I wait until I can see that she really does have her key, and really does get inside with the lights on.

I just want to know that she's OK. And that some horror movie hasn't started in real life. I want to ensure that my responsibilities as friend and keeper have successfully concluded.

If I were really polite, I would get out of the car and walk her to the door. I do that with my mother, of course, but —  if I tried that with any other women — I think she'd be uncomfortable and think me odd. (I surely wouldn't want anyone to think me odd.)

So — at least for now, maintaining my minimum standards — I wait and watch to make sure she gets inside.

Lately This Is Odd
So my beloved now works as the nurse practitioner in a facility for recovery from drug and alcohol addiction. She's helping all kinds of people face tremendous challenges.

I drive her to work, because it gives us some time together. And we both like it. And it's good practice for becoming a one-car family.

But, what's puzzling here is this: I wait until I can see that she is safely inside.

What's puzzling about that?
Just this: I wait until she's safely inside with 100+ addicts who are in opium, cocaine and alcoholic withdrawal.

I sit at the wheel, like a quaint little fellow, thinking, "Oh, good. She's inside now. My role as husband and deliverer is safely concluded."

And she walks into the sketchiest of communities.

NOTE: As a health care professional, she tells me nothing. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Everything she learns on the other side of that door is strictly confidential — with no spousal exemption. (But by looking into her eyes, I can see that she sees pain and struggle.)

It's Not What You Think (My Alibi)

Someday, I will die.

And, you will find, I was just about as ready as anyone.

Not emotionally. No. I'm not emotionally ready to greet the Reaper.

"I have miles to go before I sleep," as Frost wrote. "And miles to go before I sleep."

But I'm Prepared In Other Ways
I have live insurance. My family will be greatly rewarded on my departure.

I have a will. It's so clear, a naif could dispatch my humble bequests.

I've written my obituary. It's on file with the proper experts, who will simply provide you with the URL. That is, if you post-decease me. (Stay healthy. It'll be worth it.)

But There's One Loose End
And I'd like to clear it up right now.

When the historians and archaeologists, gossips and snoops find me, they will surely find my Treo. And, if the circumstances of my departure are odd enough, someone will seek clues to just precisely who hunted me.

Then, along the way, they will find that Google Maps — my fabulous navigator — has just about every trip start and end at 2665 East 5th Avenue. That's the location of a humble neighborhood tavern which is — as the saying goes, and objectively — on the other side of the tracks.

Mainly, that's not where I live.

Welcome To Lisska Bar & Grill
It's a humble corner tavern.

One that I've never been in. Not yet. (I've a mind to go. Want to join me? Let me know.)

But, strangely, you will hear that all my trips started and ended there. At a bar. Where demon rum is served. Hey, Lisska pours demon rum at 7 a.m., for the overnight working folks coming off the third shift.

So why does my Treo have me living at Lisska?

Here's why. This is my alibi. (I hope you buy it.)

Drexel Circle?
Back on the leafier, luckier side of the tracks, about a mile from Lisska, there's a lovely landscape feature at a main intersection.

It's a formerly major turn of National Route 40, once known as the "National Highway." I say formerly because it's not so major now. With our giant Interstate freeway system, the very name — "National Highway" — is a quaint motorists' anachronism.

Which reminds me of a story:

Approaching this intersection, back in the 1940s, my father suggested to my mother — then a newcomer to this fair city — that the motorist in front of them would "turn right at the next light."

"How do you know that?" asked my mother. There was no indication, no turn signal.

"Just watch," said my father, a man of the world. (Or, at least, a man of Columbus.)

And, sure enough, the car turned at the next street.

This was where the National Highway turns at Drexel Circle. My father deduced that the motorist would turn, because the car wore out-of-state tags.

You know, it sure was easier to impress hot chicks back then. No wonder there was a baby boom.

I mean, really. To impress hot chicks now — from what little I know in this department — you need to spend hours Twittering and Facebooking and, well, writing a blog. (Am I writing this to impress hot chicks? Of course, I am. If blogging to impress hot chicks is a crime, let me be guilty. Am I interested in offers? I think you know that answer.)

Where were we? Oh, yes: Drexel Circle.

Circling Back
So at this intersection is a lovely suburban traffic circle. It's largely ceremonial and artistic. Far less that 1% of the traffic uses it. Mainly, it's just for the lucky folks who happen to live on Drexel Circle.

But — and here's, at long last, the reason for all this (sorry) — Google Maps is always sending me through Drexel Circle. Like thus:

Clearly, that's just goofy. East Broad Street — a major five lane highway — is a straight line. The circle is a one lane affair.

But, though Google knows just about everything, it's naive on this one spot.

I'm Sick And Tired And
I'm Not Going To Take It Any More
I quickly wearied of clicking and clicking on my Treo to get past Drexel Circle. It's a series of three turns, according to Google Maps. Turn right from Broad Street onto Broad Street, turn Right from Broad Street onto Broad Street...

So, I've programmed all my trips from home to start, not from home, but from the Lisska Bar & Grill, which is near the entrance to my favorite freeway.

That Was It? Why All This?
Because you might someday hear, "Artie Isaac started and ended just about every day at a bar at Fifth and Cassady."

And suddenly my children's inheritance will be my immortal disgrace.

Quality Control

So a really, really, really good friend of mine (really good) has authorized my telling this story, but won't let me put her name on it, because she says I tell it wrong.

Still, it's a great story.

"You never let the facts get in the way of a good story," she says. She thinks I live a life of factual hallucination.

Fair enough. Enough disclaimer.

Now The Story.
My friend worked for General Motors during the 1980s. She was an industrial engineer.

GM purchased a part from a Japanese manufacturer. GM specified a defect rate of 3%. "Don't give us more than 3% defective parts," GM demanded.

When the parts came, three of every 100 parts were isolated. They were on top, in the same corner of each 100 parts. They were wrapped in red.

"Why are those parts wrapped in red?" GM asked the supplier.

"Oh, those are the defective parts that you requested," explained the Japanese manufacturer. "We made those defective for you. You insisted on a 3% defect rate."

They thought that the GM customer wanted defective parts for some purpose.

As part of quality control on a Japanese assembly line — says my Really Really Good Friend, who spent a summer in Japan working at Nissan — defective parts are sometimes introduced to make sure that the process finds and rejects them farther down the line.

So What Facts Are Not Accurate Here?
"The defective parts were not wrapped in red," disputes my Really Really Good Friend. That's the one fact that my Friend disputes. What a stickler!

But I think it's helpful. And it's my blog.

It's The American Way
Net Cotton Content promises a factual defect rate of 3%.

No more. No less.

Who's Nuts Now?

I'm no apologist for poisonous peanuts.

No, sir. The editorial board of Net Cotton Content is strictly against deadly nuts in any form.

The loss of life from the recent cases of salmonella is horrible. My heart goes out to the surviving families — and to the hundreds who were stricken.

But What About The Math?
Any untimely loss of life is regrettable, but let's put this situation in proportion.

We understand the crisis. We need our peanut butter. (That sounds too glib.) We need our food sources. They're critical to our survival. (Ask Maslow.)

But these urgent reports distract us from a much more fatal situation. As the "Harper's Index" might write:

Number of U.S. Deaths
From Peanut-borne Salmonella
(year to date, 2009):
9

Number of U.S. Deaths
From Traffic Fatalities
(average per day, 2007):
112

According to the National Highway Transportation Safety Administration, 41,059 people were killed in highway crashes during 2007.

This represents improvement, reports The Honolulu Star Bulletin, my go-to source for traffic and weather. They write that 41,059 is "down by more than 1,600 from 2006. It was the fewest number of highway deaths in a year since 1994, when 40,716 people were killed."

Where Is The Moral Outrage?
Why don't we focus our media attention on this killer?

Have we simply accepted the enormous danger of driving?

Why don't we look at the per capita death toll of terrorism — here and abroad — in its slight contrast to the per capita death toll of traffic on our own highways?

With our fascination for nuts — including homicidal maniacs (often called, somewhat acceptingly, "suicide bombers") — we are overlooking a much larger harvester of humans.

I know there are engineers and other experts at work on making traffic safer. But, if social pressure (with funding) were brought to bear, they'd be able to achieve a lot more, a lot sooner.

Happy Birthday, Mac.

A newly minted college graduate, I walked into the work world in June 1982.

I remember someone mentioning that the company's first photocopier had been rolled in just before me.

"Ever seen these?" asked Sheree Reinbach, the chief administrator, showing me a box of carbon sets.

"Not really," I said. "I've heard about them." They were inky pages, to be placed between pieces of paper. The entire sandwich (paper-carbon-paper) would be rolled into a typewriter. Then, striking the keys, the typist would create an original and a carbon copy.

Huh. I guess that's where the phrase "carbon copy" comes from.

I was the new monkey, so I was pushed into all the new technology. Strange ASCII terminal-to-terminal communications with a fellow at ARKLA in Arkansas. The photocopier. The fax machine, which operated with a roller, a needle and a phone cradle. (Don't ask.)

Then Came Macintosh
Actually, first came Apple Lisa. Before Macintosh, Steve Jobs introduced the Lisa. It was a toaster oven, masquerading as a desktop computer — when the phrase "desktop computer" meant absolutely nothing.

It was plopped in front of me and I was the geeky guy who got to use it. Together, we bumbled along on 512K of memory. It would crash every day, requiring a complete rebuilding of the hard disk. Sound worthless? It was so elegant and beautiful that it was worth every crash.

Then came Macintosh. Here's Steve Jobs, introducing Mac, in what might be the finest new product introduction ever.

Of course, the Orwellian 1984 Super Bowl advertisement is a legend. The board of directors of Apple Computer met in emergency session to authorize the million-dollar media buy. Ridley Scott, the now legendary director, shot the commercial in various lengths, because the media buy was so uncertain. The spot ran only once — but was replayed hundreds of time on news broadcasts.

Enjoy:

Remember kids, this was 25 years ago. In the world of carbon sets, this was huge. Scalable fonts, drawing,...WYSIWYG.

Happy birthday, Mac, my old friend.

Who Stays and Who Goes?

Years ago, back when I was one of three owner-managers of Young Isaac, we would often be faced with The Conversation about this employee or that — should she get a raise? should he be fired?

Those were the kinds of question that, in the hands of gifted managers, can really drive wonderful decisions for all involved.

But, as readers of Net Cotton Content know, I'm not a skilled manager. When the big conversations arise, I bumble and mumble. (Some gems might spill out. But a few useful observations don't make a manager.)

One Memorable Case
There was a young person — let's call her, inaccurately, "Louise" — who had come to work for us. During her interviews, she claimed to know a variety of technical software programs.

But, within a couple short weeks, it was obvious that she did not. Louise didn't know these programs. She knew how to spell them on her resume. But she didn't know how to use them.

Oh, Louise.

The Conversation Starts
So my partners and I fired up The Conversation.

There were extenuating circumstances. Louise is this. Louise is that. We liked Louise because of this. And that.

There were lots of reasons to keep her. There always were, because my partners and I were nice people. And, as advertising creatives, we are all — deep in our hearts — able to fall in love with anyone. We see the humanity, we admire the talents, we want to love.

We came up with 1,001 reasons to retain Louise. Even though she didn't know what she was doing.

The Conversation Ends
Until The Conversation reached our homes — and the spouse of one of our partners, He's a seasoned and rational creative executive and asked this:

"If you don't fire people for technical incompetence, what do you fire them for?"

Ouch. That was a real buzz kill. And right on. My partners and I had to stop managing our firm like An Employee Therapy and Rehabilitation Group.

And we had to cut Louise.

Why This Topic Now?
Because companies are forced to cut employees in a recession. (And — have you heard — we are in a recession. And we are headed for a Recession. Which will turn into a RECESSION. And then become a RECESSION.)

And I can hear — all over town — nice people starting their own version of The Conversation.

If you are an employer, it makes sense to consider the extenuating circumstances. But it's helpful to hold in your hands a list of the employees ranked by technical competence.

And, if you are an employee, it makes sense to refocus on your technical competence. If you don't know completely how to do your job — and the job of the fellow beside you — it's time to learn how.

Right Now.
Because, if they fire you for extenuating circumstances, you can still have the dignity of know that you knew how to do your job.

But, if they fire you for technical incompetence, you're going to feel mighty glum.

Competitive Good Morning

"Good morning!"

These two gentle words seem so harmless, so kind, so genuine.

They don't invite any complaints like, say, "How are you?", "How do you do?" or — as dear old Aunt Dottie would ask, in her reliably efficient greeting: "How do?"

"Good morning!" Who ever could find a mean streak in that?

I did.

In The Land Of Hello
A beautiful island in the northeastern, most overlooked area of the Bahamas, Abaco has been the primary spring vacation site of choice for my parents since I was a teen. In economic good times (not now), the parental gravy train would slosh to Abaco and I would be aboard.

Each place leaves an indelible mark on those who call it home. I was raised in Columbus, Ohio. That remains, forever, the home of my mind and my hands. My intellectual curiosity lives in New York, my soul in Israel, and my heart is wherever my beloved stands.

But the home of my bare feet and good nature is Abaco. On this place, I have consistently found, everyone says "Good morning" to everyone else. Passing on the street or in the grocery or on the beautiful beach. "Good morning."

Until around noon, when everyone switches to the next daypart. And so on.

A One-Man Orientation Squad
As someone who has been going there — on and off, but mainly on — for 30 years, I'm something of a traditionalist. The Bahamians, of course, are the keeper of the indigenous culture. But, as tourists go, I'm one of the long-timers.

That means that I might be the person who introduces — to a novice, first-time visitor — the idea that This Is A Place Where We All Say "Good Morning" Unlike That Foul, Cold City From Whence You Came.

And I can teach them that lesson in two words, "Good morning." If they haven't been properly oriented by someone else, they are a little surprised. Because people just don't say "Good morning" to imperfect strangers back in the Old Country.

But, as quick learners — after all, the stupid surely can't find their way to Abaco — they prove their new knowledge, looking up and saying, "Good morning."

How Can This Ever Be Ugly?
Here's how.

To say "Good morning," and to receive a "Good morning" in return, the instigator must say "Good morning" early in the passing. That is, I need to say "Good morning," while the approaching person is close enough to hear me, but still far enough away to have time to issue his own "Good morning."

Walking on the beach, that's easy.

But if we are passing on bikes or golf carts, this exchange is more hurried, more urgent.

As a young, somewhat bitter young man, I discovered that, if I wait until it is just a little bit too late, it can be fun to say "Good morning."

Because it leaves the other person in awkward territory. They've been greeted, but haven't had the time to demonstrate their own good breeding and gentle nature in response.

For I had already passed them.

We call this game Competitive Good Morning — and it is most foul. As a nearly fully formed adult, I have forsaken it.

Good morning!

Right Brain vs. Left Brain

Why do kids want to watch videos over and over again? Why do they want to play horsey endlessly?

They enjoy it, yes. But they also need to confirm the experience.

Did Gilligan really mistake Mr. Howell for Ginger? I needed to watch that again and again after school.

I saw the following speech from TED about a year ago. I watched it again this morning because I needed to remind myself of the message, but also to confirm the excellence of the experience.

In the following 18 minutes, you can see a brain scientist describe her own massive stroke -- and you will always understand the conversation about Right Brain vs. Left Brain.

This is a great 18 minutes. (If the following screen isn't to your liking, click here and you'll see it at the TED site.)

If TED had produced and shared no more than this single speech, TED would have been a fantastic success. Happily, TED offers so many fascinating presentations.