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Bad for Good

How can you write poetry?

In this morning's "Steve Martin Takes the Banjo Seriously" in The Wall Street Journal, there is a small mention of one of the many songs he's written. (Fact: Mr. Martin might have been among the world's top banjo players. But, years ago, when faced with a choice of comedy or banjo, he focused on comedy.) 

Today's gem is buried deep in this review of a banjo concert he gave in New York last week:

Mr. Martin told the crowd that "Daddy Played the Banjo" began as an attempt to write a bad poem on purpose; later, he realized, "this may be bad poetry, but it's a pretty good country song."

Write a bad poem — on purpose? That deserves some consideration.

What's This Got To Do With Us?
How many of us resist writing poetry, because we fear — heck, we know — it will be bad poetry?

I do.

So, what happens when we consider Steve Martin's strategy: intentionally write bad poetry? Surely, any of us can accomplish this!

This is part of the strategy underlying Morning Pages. Write, write, write. Contrary to most of our lives, we are to worry only about quantity, not quality. With enough quantity, quality will happen. At least some quality, at some times.

Steve Martin is constantly an inspiration. His life plays out, for all to see and enjoy, a creative adventure. I hope he's happy. I really do.

On The Art of Conversation

Do you suffer from Shiny Thing Syndrome?

Millions of Americans are afflicted with this debilitating condition. Every day, they miss opportunities to learn about important topics — fail to connect deeply with the people around them — trade superficial wordplay for understanding.

Common symptoms include:

• the inability to remember names.
• conversation fatigue, jumping from topic to topic until all conversation is exhausted within minutes.
• silence anxiety, based on the mistaken notion that silence suggests an inability to think.

What stands in their way? The latest Shiny Thing.

What Are These Shiny Things?
Shiny Things are little distractions that immediately shift any conversation. For those who are challenged — and all of us are, to some extent — we react like a cat facing a small piece of tin foil dangling from a string.

Many Shiny Things are worthy of distracting the group, such as:

• When a large truck or thunderstorm is suddenly bearing down on the conversational group.
• When a baby laughs, cries, or worse.
• When the electricity goes off.
• When smoke comes from the kitchen.
• When a neighbor is knocking at the window.
• When a giant string is unexpectedly lowered with a giant piece of tin foil attached.
• When one of the members of the group has suddenly solved a giant problem, like the Cold Fusion Challenge or the Paradox of World Peace.

However, most Shiny Things are not worthy; they are simply interruptions that are raised so that the interrupter doesn't need to think silently. Examples:

• "Oh, look, someone has walked into the room. Even though we are talking about the meaning of life, I will switch the conversation immediately to a description of the entering person's shoes."
• "Say, before I forget to tell you — even though you are describing a transaction about which I just inquired — I'm going to bake a cake next Thursday."
• "Yeah, yeah, whatever — now this!"

While these Shiny Things might seem small, they become significant by derailing all conversation.

I Battle Shiny Thing Syndrome
Shiny Thing Syndrome is aggravated by anxiety. When I am anxious, I am easily distracted and seek to control the conversation around me.

I am determined to overcome this self-limiting disease.

Happily, potential remedies are at hand. I play with these alternatives to keep the Shiny Thing at bay:

• I breathe. Buddhists don't jump to Shiny Things. Here's how.
• When a Shiny Thing dangles within reach, I remind myself of the topic at hand.
• I lean forward, toward the person who is already speaking.
• I make a note, silently, to remind myself of the Shiny Thing, deferring to the conversation already on the table.
  

How long can you stay on the topic?

Welcome to the Interview

For 18 years, I owned an advertising agency. (I still get to work there and love it more now that I don't own it.)

"Gosh, People Come And Go So Quickly Here."
Like Dorothy observed in Oz, there was too much turnover for my taste. Most of the employees left for ordinary reasons. People said "That's the way things are these days."

I always found it depressing to see people come and go so quickly. My father had worked his entire career with some of the same people — and I found that endearing and inspiring. I just wasn't any good at making that happen.

So We Hired A Lot Of People
During the 18 years, we paid approximately $14 million in salary. So we were always hiring new folks to join Young Isaac.

We hired such wonderful people. Smart. Ethical. Passionate. Talented.

Sometimes — but, really, very rarely — we hired the wrong people. Phonies. Liars. Belligerents.

Over the years, we developed a pretty good process for picking the winners. The process had a step: The Interview With Artie.

An earlier stage in the process determined technical competence. I was supposed to discover anything and everything else: collaborative nature, self-confidence, intellectual energy, and anything else I could reveal.

I was supposed to be thinking like a business person, but — like in much of my career — it seemed like a game. What can I get this person to confess?

I became good at the game.
Within 60 minutes I could come back from the conference room and tell the hiring manager at least one surprising and helpful detail or revelation. 

I developed a list of questions that worked for me. Here they are.

You'll note I don't have the usual questions. I dropped "What's your greatest weakness?" when someone once smiled and answered "Kryptonite."

Here's my list of questions, with some comments that help explain them...

Welcome to Your Interview.
You made it this far. Obviously people here like you and think you can do the job.

Our time together is just to probe into all sorts of aspects: so we have a better picture of who you are.

So, welcome to Young Isaac. Do you have any questions for me?
I was always amazed when people had absolutely no questions for me. Nothing? You have no questions for me? The worst answer is also worded inarticulately: "Naw, I'm good."

What’s the farthest from home you’ve been?
I'm interested in people who know something of the world. I can understand how someone doesn't have the money to cruise the seven seas, but I do wonder why a person lacks the curiosity and get-up-and-go to see the birthplace of their ancestors or Michelangelo's David.

If you had enough time, money and courage, where would you go?
What's on your list? Where do you want to go? I prefer to work with people who have a list of destinations they want to see, or see again.

If I gave you a $25 Barnes & Noble gift certificate, what section of the store would you go to?
This helps to reveal at least one intellectual interest. Or not.

What’s the most charitable thing you’ve done?
In my book, "people persons" are generous.

What’s the closest you’ve been to being a teacher?
Managers are teachers.

Who are your heroes?
There must be someone. Most popular answer: a parent. Weakest answer: no one.

When have you handled conflict? Please be very specific.

What was the family business growing up?
How did they pay for your food?

Are you funny?
Immediate follow-up: "What evidence supports that?"

Are you smart?
Immediate follow-up: "What evidence supports that?"

Do you have any further questions for me?
I was constantly surprised when the interviewee did not turn the tables and ask me some of my own questions. "Naw, I'm good."

You are driving through the desert. Your front right wheel flies off. You stop and retrieve the wheel but the lug nuts are lost in the sand. What do you do to get to the nearest service station, which is 10 miles away? No cell phone. Figure this out or you die.
A friend — who owns a technology company — refuses to hire anyone who cannot answer this question. Since we were seeking highly creative, intuitive people, I often thought that we would hire only people who could not answer this.
There's a very simple answer to this. Often, the interviewee would pass — and I'd say, "Let me know later." Some did.

If you could wave a magic wand and change anything about yourself, what would it be?
By this time in the interview, I'm hearing very interesting details.

If you were to pursue an(other) advanced degree what would it be in?
Again, like the bookstore question, I want to learn: what do you want to learn?

What accounts would you not work on?
There must be some client that you would refuse to work on. Weakest answer: "I'd work on anything that is legal." Really? You'd sell cigarettes to 14-year-olds? (That's not legal, but that's what the client will want you to do on the first day.)

Do you have any siblings? Pick one. How is he or she different from you?
This is immediately very revealing.

Are you organized? Do you carry a planner or PDA?
If yes, I ask to see the calendar — and our appointment, with my phone number attached. Some people are very, very visibly organized. Some others have nothing written in their calendars.

Please describe a time when you were a teacher. I’m most interested in when you were in a formal teaching role.
Again, we are all teachers.

Who was your best teacher?

Who is your most recent teacher?
Weakest answer: "I haven't had a teacher since school."

Please describe a time when you substantially changed your life because you came to a large, surprising decision.
Everyone has an aha! moment. In advertising (especially the advertising of important, life changing products and services), we're in the business of leading people — ethically — through those moments. What's yours?

Please describe a time when you lied.

Every resume has a lie. What’s the biggest lie on your resume?

Do you ever get mad?
Immediate follow-up: "What's that look like?" The person must confirm that he or she doesn't hit others. We once hired someone who, six months later, took a swing at a co-worker. He was fired on the spot, of course. I said, "There are two ways to quit here. One is to write a resignation letter. You chose the second way. I can't allow hitting here. You have to leave right now."

When was your last cigarette?
I always argued against the hiring of smokers. (They are not a legally protected class of worker.) The few smokers we hired were addicts, always fidgeting for the door.

Do you have any further questions for me?
"Naw, I'm good." I know you're good. Do you have any questions for me?

Are you a nice person? How nice?

Tell me about a time when things didn't go your way. What did you learn?
Bad answer: "Those people were jerks. I blame them."
Good answer: "You know, in retrospect, I could have done something else. That might have worked."

If you came to work here, what would we learn about you after a year that we couldn't possibly know today?

You've changed jobs. What should an employer do to retain you for life?

When would your goals and aspirations conflict with the goals and aspirations of Young Isaac?
This always reveals the answers to some questions that I'm not allowed to ask. Like: do you have children? I don't ask those illegal questions. But this questions gets to the heart of why I need to know the answers.

What should we fire people for doing?
Really? If you do this, should we presume that is your notice of resignation?

What should we fire people for not doing?
Really? If you don't do this, should we presume that is your notice of resignation?

Thanks for your candor. I really appreciate it.
Really, I do.

I've always been amazed at what people will tell me.

My Favorite Cab Ride

"Do you know baseball?"

These were the first words spoken to us in conversation upon arriving in New York. This was a trip, just for fun, for Alisa and me about 15 years ago.

The flight attendant had said, "Bye bye." The taxi dispatcher had asked, "Where to?"

But this was the taxi driver offering the first New York conversation. He was a middle aged white guy in an old baseball cap.

"Do you know baseball?"
Perhaps we had just passed Shea or Yankee Stadium. Or maybe there was a sports report on WINS 1010 radio. ("News, traffic and weather on the 10s. Give us 10 minutes and we'll give you the world. WINS 1010 News Radio time is...")

The cab was like any other. A little cramped by the Plexiglas divider, which was open. Dingy. Worn. The smell of 10,000 strangers, slightly concealed by a cardboard pine tree hanging from the rear view mirror — his eyes were on us in the mirror.

"Yeah, I know baseball." I'm not a big sports enthusiast, but Alisa and I like to see baseball from time to time. It's partly for the food and drink, but it's mainly for the atmosphere and the mathematics. I love the constant statistics calculations made by players, coaches, and spectators — each one set up by a moment's action.

Trivia
"Want to hear a trivia question?" asked the cabbie.

"Oh, I don't know trivia," I said. "I like baseball, but I don't know trivia."

At summer camp in my youth, there was a camper — a savant — who knew baseball. He could be asked random questions — the outcome of the fourth pitch to the second batter in bottom of the third inning in the 27th game in Cincinnati during the summer of 1941 — and he would immediately answer, "Strike" with the name of the batter, the pitcher and anything else about that or any other game. Another camper, sitting nearby with a Baseball Almanac confirmed every answer.

Question #1
"You'll like this," said the taxi driver. "What are the eight ways for a player to get onto first base? Go on. Try."

"Eight ways?" Alisa and I started the list with the obvious ones:

1. Hit
2. Walk
3. Hit by pitch

"Right," said the cabbie. "Keep going."

"... 4. Uncaught third strike. ... 5. Catcher's interference. ... 7. Balk."

"No. Not balk," said the cabbie. "Batters cannot reach first base on a balk. Balk only advances the base runners."

"7. Fielder's choice."

"No. That's a scoring distinction."

The last one took most of the trip. It turned out to be cheesy: 7. Placed on First Base as a Pinch Runner. That didn't seem to be in the spirit of the question (how batters reach first base), but it was clever and we smiled.

If you think this essay is about baseball, here's a link the a real discussion of the ways to get to first base. (Warning: this discussion suggests that the list above is incorrect. I don't understand it all.)

"Great," said the taxi driver. "Here's another."

No Pepper
"You ever see the signs that say 'No Pepper' at ball parks?"

"Sure," I said. I've seen those signs on the fence behind home plate. I think I remember seeing it stenciled on the brick backstop in beautiful Wrigley Field.

"Know what pepper is?"

"Yeah. It's when a single batter is surrounded by a semi-circle of fielders who toss balls at him, rapid fire. It's a batting exercise that focuses on reflexes."

Rarely do I think I impress my wife. This is one of those times.

Of course, knowing pepper doesn't impress one's wife.

It merely impresses one's self.

"Then here's question #2: Why is pepper outlawed?"
"I have absolutely no idea." I threw in the towel immediately. I just didn't know. (If you care, you can read this.)

"Here's why," explained the cab driver. "You know who Ernie Banks is, right?"

"Of course. Hall of Famer. Chicago Cubs shortstop." I don't know much about individual baseball players, but Ernie ("Mr. Cub") Banks is among the most widely known players.

"Right." The cabbie told this story...

Well, Banks wasn't called up from the Negro Leagues until partway through the 1953 season. That's because the shortstop position had been originally filled by a college phenom out of University of North Dakota named Steve Greenberg. Greenberg was destined to be one of the best shortstops in the history of baseball. Every baseball reporter said so.

But Greenberg was playing pepper one day during practice, when one of the balls hit him in the shoulder — and injured him, ending his career. Just like that. The balls move too fast in pepper, the players are too close to the batter. One ball, and Greenberg's career was over.

That's why pepper is outlawed.

Greenberg was lost in the history of baseball. He never set the records everyone thought he'd set. He played only one third of a season. Gone.

You can check this by looking into Banks' career. It starts with only two thirds of the 1953 season. He was called up to replace Greenberg.

What Happened To Greenberg
"That's tough," I said. "Whatever happened to Greenberg?"

We pulled up in front of the hotel. The ride was over.

"What happened to Greenberg?" The cab driver took off his cap and turned it around so we could see its front. It was an old baseball cap. University of North Dakota.

He pointed with the cap to the hack license in the lighted holder next to the meter on the dashboard: Steven Greenberg.

I remember saying something like, "Get out! That's amazing. I'm sorry, but that is a great story."

The cabbie was silent. He said nothing else. The ride was over — and the story had been perfectly timed to end as he threw the switch on the meter.

I paid the fare, collected our bags, and we walked into the hotel — stunned.

Stolen base. But a great story.
In the 15 years since, the Internet should offer some confirmation, but a casual search today reveals nothing. It didn't happen.

Yet the rookie almanac says that Ernie Banks debuted in September, playing only the last 10 games of the season. But, before that, for the Cubs during 1953, Roy Smalley played shortstop during 82 games; Tommy Brown, 25; Eddie Miksis, 53.

Maybe I have his name wrong. Maybe — probably — the cabbie was a former actor, or a former playwright, but not a former baseball player.

In any case, this wasn't about baseball. This was about New York. And storytelling.

And how any cab driver can get the biggest tip from a fare.

Memorial Day

This weekend is about more than beer and brats, of course. It's about those who served. (Served more than beer and brats, of course.)

And it's about those who are serving right now.

And, Strangely, It's About Those Of Us Who Never Served
Memorial Day isn't just for veterans, their families and — all too often — their survivors.

It's also about how all of us — including those of us who have never served — are changed by the service of others. Guided by Harvey Mackay's 66, I always thank those who serve and often others how they feel about having not served.

A teacher of mine, Danny Gordis, once said that he was surprised to realize that "he had always thought he was so privileged to be a member of the first generation of people in the history of the world who did not have to fight for their way of life." (I'm paraphrasing here; he was more eloquent.) Among the surprises, Gordis teaches, is that there is no free ride. We all pay.

Today, Peggy Noonan writes so beautifully — as she does nearly every Saturday — in The Wall Street Journal. Her "Those Who Make Us Say 'Oh!' — A tribute to America's war heroes, past and present" is a well-crafted, moving memorial.

This week, after my creativity class, on the way to my car, I crossed the Ohio State University Oval, where amid a sun-drenched sea of bikinis and Frisbees, the ROTC was recognizing the achievements of its students. I'm old enough to remember when ROTC was demeaned on campuses.

War happens. I respect the warriors who stand ready to face the battle.

In honor of those who served, including my father, Arthur J. Isaac, Jr., of blessed memory, and my brothers-in-law, Joe Landrock and Joe Martin.

The Wumpus

I don't know what to think of this fellow.

Sometimes, entertainment shouldn't be funny.
The Odd Couple is about despondency, divorce, anger management, obsessive compulsive disorder, and slovenliness — yet it is a hit comedy every time it is staged.

The movie version of The Odd Couple is just plain depressing (to me), because — with neither a theatre audience nor a laughtrack — it's nothing but sad topics.

Introducing: The Wumpus.

Someone I love thinks it's very funny.
It's a puppet, for goodness sakes, I'm told. It's a parody.

And so well done.

I think it's quite sad.
The depiction of mental illness and homelessness seems all too real.

And, yet, we imitate his speech.

Hey!... 

Yes.

What do you think?

Who Loves You, Baby?

Thanks to Nils Root for quoting his father in a recent midterm exam in the creativity class (and for permitting my quoting it here):

"What you think of me is none of my business."

I just love that.

I'm simply not that interested in what others think of me.
It's just not interesting. Can't we find something else to talk about?

Sometimes people think they are doing me a favor by reporting that someone thinks ill of me.

Remind me: what good does that ever do?

Since the second-hand information might be inaccurate...and spending time talking about other people is needlessly distracting...and negative vibes are corrosive, I'd rather miss the report all together.

Someone else thinks ill of me?
Piffle. Tell him to come to me directly.

Complaints are welcome — as long as they are first-hand.

"What you think of me is none of my business."
So says the source: Nils' father, Dave Root, a pastor in Mansfield, Ohio.

Turning Pro at The Odd Couple (part 2)

The Odd Couple taught me another lesson on becoming more professional.

(Yesterday was Lesson #1.)

Lesson #2: Commitment
You already know about Arnett's decisions to leap in and bow out. I so truly respect him for those decisions.

As it turns out, his next decision places him in the Respect Pantheon.

Since the very beginning of the project, we'd all imagined that Arnett would play his marvelous trumpet at some point, probably during a scene change.

Long story short: Arnett came to opening night, trumpet in hand, ready for action. When he came into the green room, the cast jumped to their feet, taking turns embracing him. While it had been only eight days since his decision, it had been a long time for the production: we had worked hard in eight days to bring the show to opening night — and this felt like the return of a long-lost friend.

Of course, he played beautifully.
For members of the audience who didn't know the back story, it was simply a musical treat. Arnett played a lovely "Tenderly."

For the audience that knew (some of) what had happened, it musically resolved several issues: yes, Arnett is still a collaborator in this production, and, yes, of course, Arnett's trumpet is the source of great beauty.

For the cast and crew, it was a wonderful resolution. Available Light is about theater, yes, and it is also about relationships. And this relationship had weathered a Great Challenge — because everyone remained an adult.

What was, frankly, even more amazing to me was that Arnett came to every show. He returned to play, beautifully, for every performance. I asked him why — and he said, smilingly, characteristically smoothly, "Well, it's on my calendar."

Indeed it was on his calendar. A professional's calendar.

Would You? Could You?
I'm not sure how well I would have responded in the same situation.

When I've bowed out, I usually also disappear. I don't recall having the courage — the professionalism — to return to the scene. I've preferred to dust the indelicate situation under the rug, step away, and move on.

Arnett's a pro. He came right to the scene to put his best talents into play. That's a true artist.

Admiring Arnett taught me a lot about commitment.

Turning Pro at The Odd Couple (part 1)

 The Odd Couple taught me two lessons on becoming more professional.

Lesson #1 today...

Lesson #1: Preparation
There are moments — for me, before a show — when I feel like I'm just not disciplined enough to be an actor. (Or a business person. Or a father. Or the operator of a motor vehicle.)

So, watching the cast of The Odd Couple — and admiring them at every step — I mentioned to Matt Slaybaugh, the producer of The Odd Couple and artistic director of Available Light [Theatre]: "I just don't think I'm disciplined enough to be an actor."

Matt replied: "What do you mean? It isn't about discipline."

Artie: "It is for me. I just can't find sufficient discipline to learn my lines well enough."

Then Matt said (and here's the lesson):

It isn't about discipline. It's about this: at some point, you will experience a magic moment on the stage — a moment of completeness, of control, of being the character.

It won't be about remembering your lines. It will be about the character's intention. You will be the character.

And the rest of your life, you will be focused and committed to trying to have that experience again. It won't be discipline that gets you there; it will be desire, the desire to achieve that experience again.

This is about more than life on the stage. It's about life on the planet. In your job. In your family. In the mirror.

[Lesson #2 tomorrow.]

Summer School

Remember the 90-Day Self Education Budget?

Well, with summer soon upon us, so is my 90-day study list.

Summer School
Here are my learning goals for this summer:

1. To move sod and till a garden. I'll admit that I've done this already. Alisa said that the new garden needed to be tilled after The Odd Couple. Well, The Odd Couple ended on Sunday, so I tilled on Monday. Happily, my son and I had already moved almost all the sod.
2. To teach a 15-year-old to drive. This is well underway, but the road test will be late in the summer.
3. To memorize dialog. I tried to do this in The Odd Couple. There was some success, but I still need to learn what I didn't ever figure out. There's something I just didn't understand in that process.
4. To become a better writer. I'm going to read a book on grammar and composition. There are so many good ones. It's time I read beyond The Elements of Style. 
5. To climb a mountain. Late in July, my son and I are climbing a mountain. (More on that later.) I have got to get ready for it. I've never done anything like that.
6. To ride a unicycle. Bill gave me his old unicycle years ago. I've stared at it and though, "Later." Now is the time. I pumped up the tire last week. ("Tire" is a noun that rarely is kept singular when one is pumping.)
7. To fully understand A Christmas Carol. I want to adapt Dickens' wonderful work for the stage. I need to study it closely.
8. To become a better listener. This was on last year's list. I did make some progress, and I have far to go. The test: can I truly hear my son's heart?

What's on your list?