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Bacon Tales

I have a friend who won't eat turkey bacon. He says it's not Kosher.

"What that?" I said. "But it's turkey." The Kosher problem with bacon is that it's pork. Pork's not Kosher. It's trayf. ("Trayf" means unfit, not Kosher.)

"But this is turkey," I chant. "And it's really good."

"Nope," said my friend. "It's still bacon."

This particular friend isn't a fool. He's a senior executive at a Fortune 500 company. He's just about the smartest guy I know. The only thing keeping him from the top is his prohibition against turkey bacon.

He knows the difference between a pig and turkey. And he knows his Kosher law.

Still, no bacon, no matter what it's made of.

Goofy?

Not So Fast
This isn't a story about how Kosher law is an odd anachronism.

This is a story about how you keep Kosher.

Yes, you, my fine friends of many religious feathers. And even you, my fine friends who have no feathers at all.

It might not be Jewish Kosher law that you follow, but you follow equally arbitrary dietary laws.

Here's proof.

Do you eat dog?
Unless you are among the geographically farthest flung readers of Net Cotton Content, you're thinking:

"Of course, I don't eat dog."

Why not?

"Because dog isn't food."

And why isn't it?

"Because dog isn't food."

Why are you getting louder? Some arguer you are. Stuck already? Sure you are.

Here's why you don't eat dog: because it ain't right.

Same with horse.
You eat cow. You eat lamb. You eat chicken. You might eat pig. You might eat goat. You might eat buffalo, deer, duck, and goose.

But, noooo. You won't eat dog? And, please, hold the horse.

As a recovering vegetarian, I think your dietary laws seems pretty arbitrary.

Back To Bacon
What if we made bacon out of dog? Would you eat that?

My favorite dog treat — not for my mouth (trayf!) — has the tagline: "Your dog won't even know it's not bacon."

Heck, my smartest friend doesn't even know my bacon's not pig.

Who cares?
You had better care and here's why:

We are clearly headed for the day when everything is served to us in bacon form.

After all, if anything unites America, it's bacon.

We bring it home. And put it on everything.

Not me. I don't put pork bacon on anything. Especially not my tongue.

For me, it's in the dog category.

Yes, yes, I hear you: "Artie, that's such an arbitrary decision."

Sorry. I know how you dislike when my arbitrariness differs from your arbitrariness.

Bacon might as well be made out of dog. It seems to be man's (newest) best friend.

Today: Pork bacon.
And turkey bacon. And soy bacon (for vegetarians).

(Hey, wait: just what exactly is Canadian bacon made from? Aughh!)

Tomorrow: Cow bacon. Wheat bacon. Ice cream bacon.

Can dog bacon be far behind?

My dog doesn't even know it's not bacon.

And vice versa.

Sharing the Recession

Everyone has been cutting back on their spending lately.

At first, in my household, it seemed a little embarrassing.

"Why aren't we able to do what we used to do?" we'd ask each other, when deciding not to buy as many pizzas or spring rolls.

We'd gaze out the window at our neighbors, who seemed — from the distance, through the curtains, across the yards — to be carrying large boxes of pizzas or spring rolls from their cars.

It was uncomfortable. It felt very personal. And it was — in a culture where buying is too often a precursor to enjoying — a little depressing. And, because it was just us, it was embarrassing.

But, Hey, It's Not Just Us.
Seems like everyone is cutting back. Even folks used to having lots have a little less lots.

Now that I am not an employer — after paying $10,000,000 in salaries over two decades — I can ask this: Are you going to ask for a raise this year?

Now, with the somewhat unhelpful attitude of a recovering entrepreneur, I can ask it this way: "I mean really. Are you really going to ask for a raise this year?"

Or will you say to the owner, "Hey, I'm good."

Back At The Ranch
Mrs. Isaac and I understand the Teenage Cost Of Living.

So we recently proposed to double the weekly allowance for our kids.

The kids did the math — computing the annual outlay — and here was the reply: "This is no time to be spending this kind of money."

They refused the raise, suggesting, "Perhaps if you pay it monthly, rather than weekly, it will seem like more."

My wife and I looked at each other, and said: "It's nice to have some wise people in the household."

Who Are These Kids?
If they are yours, please come pick them up.

No, don't. Leave 'em here. We rather like them. We can afford them.

Coffee Shop Ethics 1

I'm enjoying coffee shops.

I take my laptop.

I can meet a friend.

It's like home, but the coffee is much better. And, it gets me out of the house. I see people. That's healthy.

What's The Deal?
What am I supposed to pay for all this hospitality? There's wireless, people to watch, controlled climate, lighting — lots of benefit. The coffee shop is a business, of course.

I always buy a cup of something. That seems like the deal.

And I don't nurse it for hours. If I stay more than 60 or 90 minutes, I get another cup. Or a bagel. Or something.

When I arrange to meet someone in a coffee shop, I say, "Shall we get something?"

Sometimes the other person might say, "Naw, I'm good."

Well, I'm good too, but I always say, "For the sake of ethics, one of us needs to buy something. I'll do it." I'm glad to do it. I'm rewarded quickly for my high-minded ethics: I get a nice drink. Positive reinforcement.

Plus, it seems like a way of paying rent for my temporary office (or temporary living room).

A Case In Point
I recently saw a fellow in a crowded coffee shop, who had been using a table (and the wireless) for hours.

He quietly shut down his computer, got up, and left the table and the coffee shop. He didn't clear his table. He left his stuff all over it, some of it valuable. It was like he was claiming a beach chair for later.

After ten minutes, he returned with a sandwich from a nearby store, reclaimed his table, and stealthily ate the sandwich. He kept looking over his shoulder before taking each bite. I think he knew that he was on the wrong side of the deal.

Is this ethical? (And is it healthy to eat this way?)

I think this is theft — subtle but real.
It seems to me that, if I'm in the coffee shop — especially if it is full — and I am occupying a table and drinking from their wireless, I should also be spending money right there and then. And I should NOT be bringing in other food or drink.

What do you think?

War is Hell

War is hell.

My father, an officer in World War II, could never understand, he told me, exactly why it was so important that his bed be made so tightly that a quarter could be bounced off its taut sheet and blanket.

It seems like a small complaint, no?
My father was no whiner. He knew his troubles were small compared to the complaints, dangers, deprivations, and injuries (and worse) of those at the front.

But, for my father it was — in many ways — a straw that broke the camel's back. He hated the regulations and they frustrated him to no end. He asked me, with continuing passion so many years later: "How exactly did that bouncing quarter help us win the war?"

I always wondered whether his moments of depression were in some small way connected to that frustrating humiliation (in his eyes).

His writings from his years at war are copious.
His mother, my grandmother Bella, saved all their correspondence. And they wrote each other nearly daily. So we have several binders.

There are more than letters.
All the junk is in there too. Matchbooks, telegrams, photographs, menus, and more.

...and this poem, which exhibits his sense of humor in the face of regulations and manly enforcement thereof.

Imagine my father. An Ohioan, far from home, in the South Pacific. Just wanting to take in a smoke in the evening. Or wanting to read — or write a letter — or a poem — before turning in for the night. Typing on onion skin paper on an old typewriter...

Song of the Island

On Guadalcanal, you'd better park
When the light fades out in the tropical dark
Or you'll hear the song of the tropical nights
"Hey you, turn out them __________ lights."

Conditions red or conditions green
Just strike a match in the tropical scene
To hear the chorus of the cactus nights
"Hey you, turn out them __________ lights."

Colonel, General, Sergeant Major,
Light a light and it's a wager
You'll hear the song of the cactus nights
"Hey you, turn out them __________ lights."

And you'd better turn out them  __________ lights
When you hear the song of the cactus nights
A marine is looking down his sights
And he'll shoot as one of his sacred rights,
If you don't turn out them __________ lights.

All my father ever wanted to do was create a little light.

City Year Columbus

I love City Year Columbus. (I've already told you that.)

Today, I had the privilege of speaking to them again — this time about effective communications for better teamwork and, separately, on tips for new public speakers.

Idealism is in the air!
We really need to get these wonderful role models to speak out — and teach us about becoming idealists. One of them who's ready to talk to your group is Eric Zarnesky.

I promised them that I would put today's two presentations on Net Cotton Content, so here they are:

Click here for a presentation on how ethical communication can strengthen teamwork

Click here for some tips for new (and continuing) public speakers.

They're not self-explanatory. Feel free to contact me.

Quick Opera

Our lives are such operas.

No — I have that backwards.

Opera is just like life, I guess.

I'm no expert on the opera. My annual plan is to see (more) opera. And now the Metropolitan Opera has made it easier, through their simulcasts in movie theaters nationwide.

In the meantime, this comes from Net Cotton Content reader, Jim Bishop. It's an operetta.

"Operetta" is like chaw.
When you don't have time for an entire opera, you can put a little operetta between your cheek and gum.

Except chaw will give you cancer and you'll have to have part of your face and throat removed for that long end game, the awkward part of life. Not that's opera in real life!

Operetta will simply make you scratch your head. But not chronically. Unless it's very good opera.

Here's one worth seeing twice.
It's made by distant family of Jim's in — get this! — a 48-hour artistic contest.

When technology and art, talent and energy are all crammed into 48 hours, anything can happen.

Even high quality.

Do you have five minutes? Here you go....

Quillions from Alan Dague-Greene on Vimeo.

No Show

I can't remember the last time I just plain didn't show up.

Today, I did it — and I did it big.

A room of worthy folks, willing to hear my plea. They were counting on me for entertainment and enlightenment.

And I didn't show. My calendar had the time wrong, but I knew — at one point — full well what time the meeting was.

What the hell happened?
It was simply a lack of attention to detail. I live by my calendar. And I entered the time wrong.

And, now, it's a horrifying lack of etiquette. I am so embarrassed.

Wasting one's own time is a lost opportunity. Wasting someone else's time is a crime.

Now, I'm just sorry about it.

Damn.

My Fellow Tweeps

I keep wondering what the new President would say  — or type with his thumbs — if his Inaugural Address were limited to one Tweet.

On Twitter, a cross between instant messaging and blogging, every message is limited to 160 characters.

That's it. Communicate while counting down with every keystroke (including spaces): 160, 159, 158...

160 and no more.

(At 349 characters, the above message is already more than two Tweets.)

"My Fellow Americans?" (142 characters left)
I've been thinking a lot about public speaking and Twitter these days.

So, I recently tweeted, asking the question: "What if the Inaugural Address were only a single Tweet?"

Some of my Twitter friends suggested:

(christineburns) "It's a tweet to be your President."

(Jim1Coe) "My fellow Americans, now is the time to reach across the street and ask how you may help your neighbor, your retailer, your US."

(nheltman) "This is our chance to make a difference. We either work together or fail."

Here's my entry:

(artieisaac) "I said, 'Yes we can.' You replied, 'Yes, we did.' In boom times we can squabble. But now, my fellow Americans: 'Yes, we must.'"

(Only 128 characters? It's going to be cold, Mr. President. Keep it short and, er, tweet.)

Do you tweet? It's great exercise for your inner headline (and haiku) writer.

Cold? Tired? True, that.

Is it just me, or is everyone feeling a little cold and tired?

Hey, I'm cold and tired. I'm tired of the economy and international suffering. And I'm mainly tired of being cold. (And, in my neighborhood, it's cold.) You?

[cold + tired] = ?
Does the combination of cold and tired cause us to reveal our true hearts?

If so, does being cold and tired act like a truth serum? Does it make us say the bitter truth, like when we come in, stomp the ice off our boots, and speak the bitter truth about the bitter cold.

Vulgarities come to the tongue so easily. Is that the truth serum bringing out my innermost thoughts, without the social filter?

Or is the combination of cold and tired act as a hallucinogenic? Does it make us insightful and goofy, grasping at the intuitive connections that might keep us alive?

In this weather — and in this economy — a little folly could be fatal. Must...stay...serious....

May you find some warmth and rest this evening. If not sooner.

Audition for The Odd Couple

Want to act?

Sure you do.

We need four men who can act like they just want to play poker. And two women who can act like they just want to have a good time.

The show will rehearse during April (Sunday-Wednesday evenings). Curtain's up May 7-10.

This is arguably the most popular play ever written. (Please, let's not argue.)

Auditions are tomorrow evening and Saturday afternoon (with callbacks on Sunday).

Hey, Artie. Why such last-minute notice?
So you won't have enough time to come up with some phony baloney reason for not auditioning.

We want you. We want seasoned pros and first-time theatrical virgins. The director, Ian Short, is the most gentle, talented soul I've ever met. You'll love him.

C'mon. Here's where and when.

When the going gets tough. The tough get Odd.