Net Cotton Content

Sunrise, Sunset

When you buy a new calendar in the stationery store, do you ever pause to think of the people who made the calendar?

It's a product, sure, but — behind every product — are a bunch of people thinking it through.

Years ago, when Alisa went back to graduate school, a smart friend offered his own experience (from when his wife went back to school): "We bought a giant calendar. It really helped us to have a giant calendar on the wall where everyone could see it."

He was right. In a full, lucky life, most arguments are about timing. A giant wall calendar in the kitchen pre-solved a lot of arguments.

But That's Not What This Is About
Now, years pass and — due to a chance meeting at a conference — I've met the people who made my calendar!

And, today, one of these calendar-makers writes to ask an Uh, Artie? question.

It's the kind of question that comes up if you're really thinking about calendars.

Uh, Artie?

May I ask you a question related to the celebration of Jewish holidays? I figured that I may since, well, the whole holiday play and all.  :-)

Is it customary in the Jewish faith to begin the holiday at sundown on the day before? Is this because there is a preference to have finished traveling (by the time the sun goes down) for the day before the holiday?

Feel free to point me in the direction of a reference or website. I just thought I would ask you as I had heard this before.

Thanks!

Patty

Dear Patty:

For Jews, not only the holidays start at sunset. Every new day begins at sunset.

I like your explanation: so we might finish our traveling during the day. I do prefer to drive during daylight. Sunlight is nature's best highway safety program.

However, I've heard that the Jewish timing is for the opposite reason: because the brutal desert sun required the Jews to travel at night. So we would wake up and start each day's work at sunset. That's poetic and reminds us of our wandering in the desert.

My Own Idea
I like to think that maybe it's because creation starts in darkness — and then there was light. Creation does start in darkness. That's when children are conceived, in my humbling experience.

Personally, I like that each new day starts with the best parts of any day: dinner, a glass of wine, contemplation about the previous day, and bed — maybe even a little creation. Work can wait until later in the "day"!

But Here's The Practical Reason
This is just my guess, but here we go:

Sunset is easily measured. You know it when you see it. If you have a good vantage point, it is a precise moment.

For most of our history, there were no clocks. "Midnight" was an abstraction.

So really, the easiest times for any Pre-clock People to end and start days would be sunset or sunrise.

The Jews chose sunset. (Because of the desert heat.)

I'll bet there's a better answer.
Where I usually look for better answers is R. Joseph Telushkin's Jewish Literacy: The Most Important Things to Know About the Jewish Religion, Its People and Its History. His short essays on more than 500 topics make great reading.

Oh, and your question asks about the "Jewish faith." I see Judaism as "Jewish tradition" rather than "Jewish faith." In Judaism, faith is elusive. Tradition won't quit.

-- Uh, Artie?

Making Peace

When I'm wrong and I know it, I apologize. (That's part of my handshake document.)

That's easy.

But what if I am not wrong — dag nab it — and you are the one that's wrong here?

Well, then, I'll just pull up a chair and wait for you to apologize to me. Because that, my fine friend, is what's going to have to happen for there to be peace in the kingdom.

But Let's Say You Don't Quite See It That Way.
You think that I am the one who is wrong. Wuh?

And let's say that you aren't a crank. Let's say — just for yucks — that you're a genuine, thoughtful, reasonable person.

And let's say you have some genuine, thoughtful, reasonable evidence that I am indeed wrong. At least a little bit.

So, you are at least a little bit right: I are somewhat wrong.

But I don't see it that way. I am too busy looking at you being wrong.

Because, well...

You started it.
That's a fact. (Except you think I started it. But that's a load of crap and you know it.)

Here's me: "Nanni-nanni-boo-boo."

Here's you: "Wah, wah, wah."

So grow up, you asshole.

This is a pickle.
Actually, it's a stalemate. It's a conflict that's not going away.

Everyone sits around waiting for the other guy to apologize.

But that's not going to happen. Frankly, nothing is going to happen. Everything stops.

Once we've hit nanni-nanni-boo-boo, we'd be more productive eating doughnuts.

Famous Examples
Without complete conflict resolution, all we can do is manage the paradox: limit escalation, minimize the destruction.

• Hatfields and McCoys — bullets flying in the hills
• Republicans and Democrats — not much happening on Capitol Hill
• Israelis and Palestinians — alas

Irreconcilable differences?
Yep.

Is anyone particularly well served
by the lack of resolution in these conflicts?
Nope.

So, What Do We Do?
How about meditating on these:

• The long view.
  Get out of today's weeks. Let's talk about where we all want to be in three years. (We certainly want to be well beyond today's mishigos. We can agree on that!) Let's imagine the distant future when all of us — even the two of us who are now most at odds — sit back and laugh at these, the good ol' days. 
  

• Everyone is right.
  I know we already noted that everyone is wrong. But what if we also look at the slightly absurd idea that both you and I are right? (This is the Mind of God argument that might even work in resolving religious disputes.) We don't have to prove that each party is right. We can just state it so we can move on to resolution.

• Trade sides.
  How about I take your side in the argument and you take mine. We trade wounds. We really try to walk in the other's loafers. Might be fun.

• Hold hands.
  If all else fails, bodily contact! A friend was married by a Catholic priest who taught a pre-cana session on conflict in marriage. The priest said, "When you argue, hold hands. It makes the argument shorter — and restores perspective." This can get us back to the primary mission.

Let's Meet And Agree To Move On.
We have work to do.

Who wants to work as a team?

Who wants to make peace?

There are enough dragons to slay without in-fighting.

"The Best Present Ever"

Thanks to the talented AmyD (and her generous friend Holly) for this great gift-giving suggestion.

It's a beautiful reminder that the best gifts are given, but not necessarily bought.

What is Art?

It's been a generous week, riding the cultural gravy train with my mother.

Last weekend, we attended a live telecast — in our local cinema — of The Metropolitan Opera from New York City. Then, last night, New York City came to us in the form of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the Wexner Center.

And my daughter taught me that art is anything touched by an artist.

No mas! No mas!
All my black clothing is now in the laundry hamper. I just don't have anything more to wear.

And I'm back in that age-old quandary: What is art?

The Accounting Non-Definition of Art
My old business partner, Michael Regan, had a printer's eye for visual art. He might be puzzled — as we all might be — by the content of a painter's work, but he had eagle eyes. He could look at a work from 20 paces and tell you which colors went on in what order (even on a flat lithograph).

Once, wandering through our Columbus Museum of Art, we found ourselves puzzled by the work of a celebrated artist. The artist must have received some grant money in the lottery. He'd taken that grant money and bought a hat or a shoe, or a piece of bacon, and nailed it to the wall of our Columbus Museum of Art. Or just dropped aesthetically it it on the floor. Whatever — it had been touched by an artist.

It inspired the question "What is art?"

I love this definition of art.
Michael, who once said that I knew only two jokes, stopped me with his theory:

"Art is what my accountant can't do."

I never met Michael's accountant, but that wasn't his point. He meant: if a CPA does it, it might be a demonstration of gifted talent, but it's not art, buddy.

Beautiful.

The Audit
The next day, I was at a board meeting at the Columbus Museum of Art, sitting beside a gifted CPA, Jim Bachmann, managing director of Ernst & Young. During a lull in the action, I described Michael's theory of art: "Art is what my CPA can't do."

Jim is polite and thoughtful. So he smiled and took it in, without reply.

I suddenly feared that Jim might be a frustrated artist and I hadn't helped. I spent the rest of the day playing that old familiar game, I Can't Believe I Just Said That (The Jim Bachmann Version).

But fast forward: two meetings later, the curators were dancing in front of us with the target of their curatorial lust. It was a painting by a famous painter. So they said.

It was a landscape that must have been very important indeed, because it looked like hell. And the curators were talking about its million-dollar price tag being a very good opportunity indeed.

I leaned over to Jim and, in an attempt to drag him down to my low-brow level, said, "If my kid brought that home from school, I'd send it back."

Jim must have shared my untrained assessment of this painting. He replied with a significant revision of the theory of art: "Art is what your CPA wouldn't do."

Toward A Unified Theory Of Art
Here we go:

Modern Dance — it's what we look like to the family dog when we walk through the house. Unpredictable and under-dressed, but (we think) we look graceful and expressive.

Opera — it's how we feel about the significance of our lives. We fall down and it's a big deal. Big deal? No. We're just being opera divas.

Visual Art — a chance to see what someone else sees. And to see it her way, with all her sleep deprivation and unrequited loves.

Theatre — it's what we'd see if we stared into our neighbors' windows. We shouldn't do that, but — hey — who can resist?

Country music — it's what we really think, especially after two beers.

Cinema — it's a expensive nap, with dream or nightmare provided.

Now you know what is art.
Please don't email me with your additions and rebuttals. Put them in the comment area below. Just click "Comments" below. Thanks.

Dude. Your shirt rocks.

Here are three quick items from the world of tee shirts.

1. Homage has the best designs. It's like a Time Machine, where history is re-told and memory is paid homage — one tee shirt at a time.

2. Net Cotton Content is willing to introduce its own tee shirt. It features the executive photograph of my step-grandfather Andy Sokol, the muse for Net Cotton Content. (Here's why.) This design has been road tested by my great nephew. And you can grab the design and change it. Here you go.

3. From the Crunchy People at Comfest, this poster (click to enlarge) promotes their annual tee shirt contest. Hint: work up a design that looks good with beer and mustard spilled on it.

Who Are You?

It's my job to write and your job to read. (And, of course, both our jobs to think.)

Except today.

Once a year, I ask the readers of Net Cotton Content to talk back.

Here's this year's five short questions.

Please reply.

Click here to take the survey.

Thank you, most sincerely.

Thanks, Boss

Dear Boss,

What a great company retreat. Thanks for lunch, dinner and lunch again. Thanks for the learning.

And thanks placing me in a pond of brilliant fish.

Here's what I didn't have time to say...

I sold my first company a couple years ago.

Now I've started another one.

Which means I'm working on the side for you.

And I know a little about your entrepreneurial life.

I've been there.
Whenever I'm the owner of a business, I bear the ultimate concern over:

• cash flow and the cost of capital.
• the embarrassment that might result from the potential fall of the house of cards.
• the performance and competence of my team.
• my team's trustworthiness with my beloved clients and our hard-developed intellectual property.

I know what you know: that employees will never understand the entrepreneur's fear.

I understand.
Even more, I know that you might get filthy rich because you might sell your company in five years for a gazrillion dollars. I want you to know that I encourage that potential outcome. I hereby give you permission to become filthy rich on my back.

You are risking your net worth on your company. I am not risking my net worth on your company.

I don't want your job, even if the upside is a gazrillion dollars.

So go for it. I'll help.
Call me anytime. Ask me to do anything. If I can't, I'll tell you. But don't ever hesitate to call me because you wonder if my time is too precious.

To the contrary: to spend time with you is why I'm working for you. That's the reason, boss.

So far, so very delicious. I'd delighted with the experience. I'm fully compensated.

And I'm willing to do more for less.

Multi-Living

Two Septembers ago, the kids went back to school and I found myself feeling a little glum.

I had sold my company in April and summer home with the kids was great.

Then, with them going back to school, I knew, "It's time to get a job."

Glum-de-dum-dum.

"Don't Get A Job."
"You've had a job all these years," said my beloved Alisa ("uh-LEE-sa"). "Now, I've just taken a job and it offers health insurance. So, don't get a job. Just have a lot of projects. That's what you like to do anyway."

Oh, how I love Alisa. She knows me.

Mrs. Isaac met me in business school when she was Miss Cox. She first saw me in the Follies, the semester-ending song-and-dance review. (She'd bought a ticket, so I figured she was entitled to all the entertainment she could stand. That's the Follies Customer Service Pledge.)

Miss Cox quickly learned that — while our more industrious classmates, like Miss Cox, were at Columbia to study Debt Markets and Net Present Value Theory and Operations Research — I was there primarily for the Follies.

I figured: I have an entire lifetime to massage spreadsheets (that sounds saucier than I meant), but I have only a few chances to wear tights on stage. I got my MBA so I could be in the Follies.

(And while I was getting my MBA, I also picked up my Mrs.)

"So Just Have a Lot of Projects."
How I love this woman. She knows me.

I've always been more devoted to the extracurricular than to the curricular.

Sure, when our kids show signs of Being Too Extracurricular, they're grounded. But me? It turns out to be exactly the philosophy that keeps me grounded.

Which Reminds Me To Tell You About My Balls
So, now 18 months after I jettisoned my full-time job, I find that I have a lot of part-time jobs.

It feels like I am juggling a bunch of balls. Here are my balls (in alphabetical order):

• Actor (and writer) at Available Light
• Creativity Counsel at Young Isaac
• Entrepreneur at SpeakerSite
• Improvisational Theatre Corporate Trainer at Improvedge
• Leadership Coach at Integrated Leadership Systems
• Marketing Consultant also at Young Isaac
• Professional Speaker to any audience that will sit still (and pay my reasonable fee)
  
• Teacher at The Ohio State University Fisher College of Business, Columbus College of Art & Design, and various other classrooms
• Volunteer at Haven Of Hope Cancer Foundation, Jewish Family Services, and Available Light
• Writer-in-Residence here at Net Cotton Content

So what's the problem?

The Problem With Having Too Many Balls
First, it's hard to answer the familiar question, "So what do you do for a living?"

Months ago, I would offer a long story. But people walked away in the middle.

Now, I let the other person go first. Then, I can usually offer the short answer that might be most interesting in that person's context.

Otherwise, I just say, "I write and teach and I'm a serial entrepreneur." And then I answer questions.

But there's a more existential question.
I'm focused on the juggler's cascade. And I notice my balls are getting progressively heavier.

They turned from Styrofoam to wood. Then to bean bags. Now metal. And some are starting to take on a golden hue.

Shouldn't a grown-up focus on the golden balls? Isn't there a danger of juggling too many balls at once?

Decisions Must Be Made
A grown-up would do some sort of analysis.

So I did that. As you can see (click to enlarge), I rated my balls against certain criteria.

Then I thought of an old story about Peter Drucker, taught to me through Jorge Lopez. Dr. Drucker said, "When I approached a conventional age of retirement, my wife and I recognized that we had a choice: slow down or speed up. We sped up."

More Balls, Please.
Like the Drucker Speed Machine, I face a similar choice: become less extracurricular or more extracurricular.

I've decided: I'm going to become more extracurricular.

The risk of becoming more extracurricular is a lack of focus. But the risk of becoming less extracurricular is also real: missing the opportunity to experience other adventures.

So, just this morning, in the spirit of George Plimpton, I applied for a job in a deli. I've always wanted to work in a deli. I refuse to accept that I lost my chance, just because I reached this age or this exalted level of professional status. ("Exalted"? Give me a break. I'm only 50 and I'm a freelancer).

After all, it's now or never.

And I'm having a ball.

Bucket of Anger

We each carry a Bucket of Anger.

That's not so bad, really. It's just the way life is. Sure, it would be nice to not have a Bucket of Anger, but we each have one.

What's important is how full it is.
An Empty Bucket would be great. More on that, later.

It's the Full Bucket that's a problem. Because, when one little thing falls into it — even just a few drops of fresh anger — there is nowhere for that anger to go.

Something has to spill out. Anger spills out.

A Real-Life Example:

You are driving and some bozo cuts you off.

Arrghh. You become immediately angry.

And it is your sudden mission to chase him down and kill him.

Or, at least, to teach him a lesson.

Is that mature? No. Is it the reaction of a fully-formed adult? Nope. Could you find a better reaction? Yeah, probably — sure.

But there isn't time.

Because that new water has to flow somewhere. Right away. It spills out — all over your life.

Drain That Bucket — At Least Half Way.
Now, imagine the same bucket, but only half-full. Or half-empty. Or half-whatever.

When some new anger drops into the bucket, it has somewhere to go. Where it can be held. So you can drink it in. Or it can evaporate. Later.

A New, Improved Real-Life Example:

Now you are driving and some bozo cuts you off. (He's still a bozo.)

You have a moment to consider what just happened. You can think about it. And in the time you are thinking about it, you don't jump right to anger.

You think something like, "Huh. What a bozo. He's a bad driver. I hope he arrives at his destination safely. And if he doesn't, I hope he doesn't hurt anyone else."

And you drive normally, giving him proper ACDA (assured clear distance ahead), just as if he didn't cut you off.

Sounds better. Healthier. More grown-up.

How Do I Do It?
It's just about always a good time to reduce the level of the angry water in the bucket.

But how?

Process your anger. Look at your Full Bucket. Think about the beliefs that have made you angry. Like:

"I believe that motorists who cut me off must learn a lesson. Immediately. From me."

That is clearly a dysfunctional belief. It must be destroyed.

It can be assessed, destroyed, and replaced as you do the hard work of becoming more authentic.

Want To Read More On Anger?
Sure. Sounds like fun.

It is. Here's my favorite book on anger.

For Jews Only

Shalom, fellow MOTs.

In December, I performed in a new play called Amalgamated Consolidated's Annual XMAS Spectacular, featuring Winford Doke, CPA Artie Isaac.

Nu? How'd it go? It fell soundly between a Kiddush Hashem and a shanda fur die goyim.

We sold out a couple houses and it was a fun experience. Some said it was even a success.

Now, however, it's February. And that's the time that we all need to start preparing for Christmas. As do the retailers, so do the playwrights.

I Need Your Help.
But first, here's the background.

Sean Christopher Lewis, Matt Slaybaugh (a couple of nice Gentile boys) and I wrote this play to do a few things, as described toward the bottom of this post.

Now, we are rewriting the play. Because the first attempt was a theatrical first draft. Because there are structural problems we can correct. Because we saw, during rehearsal (when it's too late to keep revising), that there were many opportunities to improve the dramatic product.

But That's Not Where I Need Your Help.
Here's where I need your help.

A trusted and beloved friend said to me, "As an educated Jew, I think the play treats the subject too lightly. It's glib."

So I need to beef this up. With Kosher beef. That's where you come in. Because the other playwrights don't know bupkis about being Jewish. And I, apparently, only know enough to be glib. Jeez.

I need you to send me some stories about when Christmas or the December Dilemma created some very meaningful moment. Or just an important or useful insight you have about the whole year-end mishigas.

Whatever you send me, send it in 50 words or fewer. Don't send me all your baggage. I know you have issues. Just give me the high points. Share the full unpacking for your rabbi. (Rabbim get paid to care.)

If I use your story in the 5771 version of the play, I'll give you a special reward, like a free ticket. (But for that, you won't sue me for using your words.)

Hey! I already have new a tagline for the show.
As if a show with a long title needs a tagline. Anyway, here it is:

"A Christmas Tradition since 5770."

L'hitra'ot!