Net Cotton Content

Drowning in Survival

On the Death of SpeakerSite
I long thought that the best thing to happen in business was big growth and profit. I still do.

I long thought that the second best thing to happen in business was survival — and the worst thing was going out of business. I have re-ordered those for many occasions.

Survival Can Be Toxic
Survival — not thrival, just survival — can lull the business owner into complacency. The thought starts arising: "Oh, it's easier to continue rather than shut it down. After all, it pays the bills."

But paying the bills is not our goal. That's a minimum expectation. It is not why we are here. It is not the meaning of life.

And continuing on? For how long? A week? Fine. A month? O.K. A year? That's a high cost to pay. 

A Mentor Calls
My lifelong friend and mentor, Jon York, called me five years ago. He sensed some restlessness in me. I was still at my advertising desk at Young Isaac, an agency I owned.

"What do you want to do next?" asked Jon.

"Oh, I figure that I'd like to teach full-time," I said. "In about five or ten years."

Jon paused. Then: "Five or ten years? Huh. I don't know about you, Artie, but when I want to do something, I kind of want to do it now."

These words were very helpful. They fished me out of the water. I was drowning in survival.

The End of SpeakerSite
This is newly posted over at speakersite.com. 

Dear SpeakerSite Members,

As you may have seen on SpeakerSite Marketplace yesterday, we have decided to shut down SpeakerSite. This means everything: both the Community (SpeakerSite 1.0) and the Marketplace (SpeakerSite 2.0) are going away.

Both the social network and marketplace profiles will remain as-is until February 29th, 2012, so you can access your information during that time before disable existing features and remove the data. If you have used our tools to book speaking engagements (or to book speakers), any agreement that you made is solely between speaker and event planner and will not be affected.

Thank you for being a part of the worldwide SpeakerSite community. We were — and, who knows, still are the world's largest social network of public speakers. So, what happened? It's that old story in the new world: while we made a lot of friends, SpeakerSite did not generate enough revenue. All the same, we are very grateful for your kindness and collaboration along the way. Truly: it has been a delightful, heart-warming, life affirming experience. We're proud that we were, with you, a force for good: supporting the emergence of many new and seasoned speakers, providing entertainment and enlightenment for audiences, and helping to democratize public speaking.

If you have any questions or feedback, please don't hesitate to reach out. We wish you every success in public speaking. Don't let our disappearance dissuade you. SpeakerSite gone? Piffle. You still have a message. And every message has an audience.

With affection and admiration,

Artie and Rob

What happened?
I don't know every reason why we didn't secure enough revenue, but here's my favorite. a lack of demand from the side of the market with cash.

The buyers (meeting and event planners) do not perceive a need for a solution. Buyers with few transactions each year can muddle through by asking around. Buyers with many transactions each year already have a pipeline of alternatives. We speakers (a broad group with very little in common) swamp the marketplace. As a result, the buyers do not seek efficiency.

I don't know of any direct substitute. While our implementation could have been smarter, better, faster, I don't think that's what put us out. 

There are other reasons. When time weighs heavy on my hands, I'll make a list of them. But that sounds like a dreary way to spend the day today.

Admiration
I am filled with admiration and affection for all the people with whom I worked. 

At the top of that list, of course, is Rob Emrich, in whom I would never hesitate to invest. He's a role model.

Visited Upon The Son

He called. How strange. He didn't call often.

My father wrote a few letters, some of them gems, most of them driven by his obligation to be attentive to his youngest child — which can produce gems.

Still. A telephone call. During the workday? Very rare.

Personal Phone Calls
We only ever had one conversation about family telephone calls during the workday. I was driving, Alisa beside me, my father and mother in the back seat.  

My father didn't understand why some of his colleagues called home every day or, even more so, several times a day. "What is there to talk about? If there were an emergency, of course, a call makes sense. But, otherwise, it can wait. After all, we'll be home together in just a matter of hours."

Frankly, I don't call Alisa unless there's a question or concern — or a delight. I don't just call to say, "Hi. Remember me?" Alisa is busy. And, I trust, she'll remember me, even if I don't call.

But I thought my father should know of my red-blooded love for my wife, so I told him that I call Alisa throughout the day. "Hello, baby," I said, trying as hard as I could to summon up Barry White. "Hello, baby. I gotta have you. I gotta have you right now."

Much laughter in the car. My parents knew that I was kidding. Alisa knew I was kidding. I knew I was kidding.

But I wish I had not been kidding. (Barry White was right.)

But this isn't about Barry White.

I answered the phone.

Dad: "Hi, it's Dad."
Artie: "Hey, Dad! What's going on?"
Dad: "Are you busy?" 
Artie: "I am now. I'm talking to my father. He doesn't call often, so it must be important."
Dad: "I'm wondering if you have ever given thought to becoming a stockbroker." 

My father was a stockbroker. He had entered the field around the time I was born. So he had been at it for more than 25 years. And he had built a strong reputation for ethical professionalism. 

Artie: "Haven't thought about it lately. Why are you calling?"
Dad: "Well, I'm looking toward my retirement. It will be in a few years. And, if you ever wanted to become a stockbroker, this would be a good time. You could take over my clients. That would be a lot easier than starting like I did, with a lot of cold calling. So, now would be your best opportunity to become a broker."
Artie: "Thanks. That's nice of you. What if I say, 'No.'?"
Dad: "Then I'll just turn everything over to Bill. So consider this a one-time offer."

Bill Grafton and my father had worked at adjoining desks — and, later, adjoining offices — for a long time. Every afternoon, one of them would slide the quaint pass-through window that connected their offices, and ask, "Flip you for it?" One would flip a coin, the other would call heads for tails, and the loser would go to the little shop in the building lobby and buy a Hershey bar for them to share. High finance in Columbus, Ohio.

Artie: "One-time offer? Pressure's on. May I ask you a few questions?"
Dad: "Sure."
Artie: "Do you like being a stockbroker?"
Dad: "Not a day of it."

That wasn't terribly surprising.
My father was a consummate professional. He never told me the names of his clients. That was confidential, not his story to tell. I first learned who some of them were when they visited his deathbed. Even now, more than 20 years later, people are telling me that he was their broker.

Long after my father died, I met one of his clients at a community lunch. He told me: "Twenty-five years ago, when I had just I graduated from college, I was a bike messenger for a big law firm. Every week, [Big Lawyer] gave me an envelope and told me to run it over to Art Isaac. It was money for investment. I'd hand it to your father and say, 'Whatever you're buying for Mr. [Big Lawyer], buy me one, too.' At first, I was kidding, but your father always bought me a single share of the week's stock. I probably paid for it, but he never charged me a commission or a penalty for an odd lot transaction. In the end, I had a nice nest egg. I thought that was very kind of your father, to be so generous with a bike messenger."

He was kind, but he was no fool. I bet my dad figured, "Hey, if this guy is bringing me an envelope with cash in it every week, I'm going to be as nice to him as I can be!"

Back to the phone call.
My father admitted that he didn't much care for the work. I knew he didn't like the clients who called, surprising him by barking out the name of a new company, and demanding to immediately know all about it. He didn't like scrambling around his desk reference materials for instant knowledge. And he really didn't like the clients who were angry — at him! — when their own investment decisions produced losses.

Anyway, he claimed to not have liked a day of his brokerage career.

Artie: "Oh. Well, the second question: would I be any good at it?"
Dad: "I don't think so. I don't think you have what it takes."
Artie: "Nice. Thanks. O.K. Last question: are you calling my sisters with this same offer and similar flattery?"
Dad: "No."

I figured that either (1) as a man of his generation, he didn't think that his girls should be stockbrokers or (2) he loved them more than me. Probably, though, it was primogeniture. That's when the career and wealth of the father flows to the eldest (or, in my case, only) son.

Artie: "Really? Well, thanks for your answers. I've given them a lot of thought during the past 15 seconds and I think I'll pass on the invitation. No, thanks."
Dad: "All right. Love you." [click] 

He was a sweet guy, but this wasn't a sweet call.
This call was inspired by Bill, I'll bet. My father and Bill had probably discussed my father's retirement and Bill's acquisition of my father's book of business. And Bill had, wisely, said, "I think you'd better check with Artie, first."

I like the idea that Google searchers will find this story of my father — Arthur J. Isaac, Jr, of blessed memory — in a deep search of Barry White. To help that along, I offer this Google poetry: Arthur J. Isaac, Jr. and Barry White. Barry White and Arthur Isaac. Artie Isaac loves Barry White. Barry White never met Artie Isaac. Love to love you, Arthur J. Isaac, Jr.

 

This Old Heart

Hearts age physically. They also age emotionally.

Neither is particularly pretty.

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

A couple years ago, the old man spoke. 

We were at lunch, the only lunch we ever shared.

"May I Tell You A Story?"
He didn't say why he wanted to tell it. But, as he shared, his motive appeared: he was processing a brutal fact of his life. 

Here is the story, a story of love and loss. He said:

At college, back in the '60s, I was in love with a young woman. She was a delight and we were soulmates.

As we faced graduation, we mutually decided to let our careers take us to different cities. We intentionally discontinued our relationship, one thing led to another, and we fell out of touch.

So far, a frequent story. He continued:

A few years passed and I was transferred to a different city, placed in an office, seated at a desk, and — at the very next desk — there she was. Imagine that! What a coincidence! Kismet? I don't know. There she was. And she was as delightful and well-matched for me as ever.

But, while we were separated, she had married. She was happily married. But here I was. There she was. And she was married. Happily married. I understood.

The old man raised a finger, to stop me from commenting. He continued:

Time passed.

One or the other of us eventually left the company and the city. 

More time passed.

It happened again. This time, I was traveling and we bumped into each other. Just like that. Can you believe it? A complete coincidence, again. What are the odds? Anyway, we were suddenly together. And between us: all the old feelings of admiration and longing. We chatted with heart, and a fact was quickly revealed: she was available, she had divorced.

But now I was married. Happily married! And so on. The situation had reversed to the same effect. Our conversation was limited by propriety; our meeting and parting, to a genuine embrace. 

Time passed. Again, we lost touch.

He paused. He continued:

That phrase — "but I was married" doesn't convey the value of my marriage. You know of my marriage. Legendary. The envy of others. But, more than that, the treasure of my life. The font of our children. My wife, our love, were, to me, everything.

I had met his wife. I had heard about their love. I nodded.

He was quiet. I waited. Then:

As you know, my wife died several years ago. Cancer. Untimely. Awful.

And, so, naturally, I have increasingly wondered, where is my friend, my college girlfriend, that woman who I thought was my soulmate, but never knew because our good lives interrupted us?

I don't know. I just don't know. I can't find her. I don't know where she is.

We sat quietly. He clearly feared the worst. That she was gone. Dead. Or disappeared.

I muttered something about how — now, with Facebook — that won't ever happen to my children and their lovers, how people of the social networking generation can be gone but remain easily found.

I wondered why the old man didn't pay a private detective $100 to find his lost friend. If I suggested this to him, I'm sorry I did. The idea is too obvious. If he had done it, it obviously hadn't turned up anything. If he hadn't done it, he had a reason. Perhaps his reason was old-fashioned mores: one just doesn't do that. Or perhaps he placed True Love in the hands of Lady Kismet.

We all know this pain.
The ache in the heart. A pressure in the chest. 

I've seen it — and felt it — in childhood. In high school. In college. Beyond. 

She said "no." Or "no more." Or "you? really?" Or, worse nothing of all. Once she spoke Russian.

I don't think any of their judgements were wrong. Each was following her heart, as she must. (And, to be fair, at times, I was the one saying, "no." Those times don't hurt as much. Huh.)

Still, when my infatuation wasn't met in kind, I was left, holding my bruised heart, not knowing what to do, feeling humiliated, embarrassed. This seems pathetic, that I should have had the maturity with which to address the challenge: distraction, learning, recovery, renewed adventure.

I chose only distraction, the weakest of the alternatives. I placed my broken heart in the trunk of my car and drove on. 

What is the cure?
I thought I knew. Here's what I thought were the cures: 

• Time. Doesn't it heal all wounds? It doesn't. Decades pass, but heartache merely goes cryogenic, as easy to thaw as a frozen meal — Heart: Ready To Eat.
• Next. Isn't new love, a true love the antidote? It isn't. The perfect marriage — of which I know, for mine, if not perfect, is surely the least imperfect — isn't a cure. The new relationship is a heart transplant, not a heart repair. The old heart lies beside the photograph, still beating its retreat in the trunk of the car, good for little else. Except, of course, to remind us we are alive.
• Maturity. Don't we ever grow up? Not I. Another widowed friend in his 70s recently spoke of the pain. His heart was freshly broken. Not, this time, by bereavement. But rather by a week of dinners, on a vacation that had to end. "How dear," I thought shallowly. "How real," he felt deeply.

We are all freshman at the senior dance. We are all at summer camp.

Is this is a high-class heartache? 
After all, many of us are so contented in fruitful relationships.

But there are those whose heartache is based on loneliness. We must respect their sorrow. It must be greater. But from here, with these hearts on the floor, we can't tell.

We're looking at old hearts in the trunk, pained that we cannot live two lives at once. Driving on.

Will someone please call a surgeon
Who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart
That you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over... 

 

I wish us all strength and a fullness of heart.

One Bud, Well Bit

In the fall of 1978, I arrived at Yale to a class welcome by the then new president of Yale, A. Bartlett Giamatti.

Bart talked funny.
He couldn't help it. He'd read too much Dante.

During his Welcome Address To The Incoming Class of 1982, he compared his own summer of 1978 to ours, filled with uncertainty about arriving at Yale: for us, as freshman; for him, as the new president, a freshman of sorts.

But he didn't say it that way. He said, during the summer,

"The worm
of apprehension
bit deep
in the bud
of anticipation."

I recall we applauded the line. It was perfect. The phrase washed over us with delight, the intellectual joy of realizing that, yes, in fact, we had arrived at a special place, where words are discretely chosen, arguments are deeper, authenticity is pursued.

And we all knew — we felt it in our bones — how the worm would not let that bud alone.

Bart and Me
Bart eventually advanced his career toward his true love. More than Yale, baseball. He left Yale to become president of the National League and eventually Commissioner of Baseball.

As President of the National League, Bart courageously banned Pete Rose from baseball. It's a long story that many might remember: the popular player, called "Charlie Hustle" for his grit and determination, was destined for the Hall of Fame, but gambled on baseball. So Bart banned him. I don't think Mr. Rose was even allowed to come watch a game, except at home on his television.

Still now, decades later, Pete Rose remains the only living human who is ineligible for induction into the Hall of Fame. I think he needs to die first. And even then?

At the All-Star Break that summer, 1988, The New York Times asked sports fans, "Who are the league M.V.P.'s at this stage?" I responded briefly with this published letter. (When I didn't hear from Mr. Giamatti, I sent him the clipping from the newspaper. He responded with this keepsake.)

Bart was soon elevated to Commissioner of Baseball. Back then The Commissioner was a position of courage, an independent power, staring down both players and owners, as an advocate for neither, rather as a single-minded defender of the Integrity Of The Game Of Baseball. After Bart died, his lawyer and long-time friend Fay Vincent (and chief investigator of Pete Rose) became the eighth Commission of Baseball. Mr. Vincent expelled George Steinbrenner, who was later reinstated.

Unless the current Commissioner — coincidentally known as "Bud," as in "the bud of anticipation" — wishes to write me a letter and set me straight, I believe the Commissioner now serves the owners.

Great Reading
One of the best essays ever written is about baseball, by Bart Giamatti. You don't have to love baseball to love this essay, this writer — and his son, the actor Paul Giamatti. (Here is "The Green Fields of the Mind.")

But This Isn't About Baseball.
This is about the worm of apprehension, biting deep into the bud of anticipation. 

New Bud, Same Worm
Tomorrow morning, we drive our elder child to college in New York City.

We were supposed to leave this morning.

But the Hurricane Irene rages toward Manhattan, expected to arrive at the original college drop-off time.

Our family is already worm-bit. Now, we hope for the best for all in the path of Irene.

And we wait for a chance to leave apprehension behind, shake off the worm, and get to the future.

All my life, I have thought of his immortal phrase: "The worm of apprehension bit deep in the bud of anticipation."

Now, I see it from another perspective.

About Your Complaint

Remember my grandfather, Andy Sokol, of blessed memory? Net Cotton Content is named for him. (That story is here.)

As a self-made man, a true-life, up-from-the-boot-straps Horatio Alger, my grandfather didn't have much patience for people who kvetched about their daily problems.

He preferred to get on with it. Solve the problem. Ignore it. But, most of all, stop complaining.

Here's How He Stopped Complainers.
Andy would simply hand them a small card. He had a stack of these printed, back when printing was a much more hands-on, more expensive activity.

They were business-card sized, but they were big enough to produce a laugh from everyone — and get the conversation back on track.

Of course, this was before the invention of the Complaint Desk.
It was before we were a service economy.

For Andy, the customer was always right. But not every complaint was worth the time it took to voice.

Summer School 2011

Today started beautifully, with a flat bicycle tire. A rear tire, which is the more difficult to change.

It really was beautiful, because a couple years ago — during summer school — I learned how to fix a flat tire on my bike. And, to the admiring amazement of my biking pal Gordon:

I disengaged the brake, pulled off the tire, used the tire tool to loosen it, flattened and removed the ruptured tube, checked the tire for any internal damage (which might ruin the new tube), partially inflated the new tube, put it on the rim (with care for the placement of the tube and valve), used the tire tool to reinsert the tire edge within the rim, finished inflating the tire, flipped the bike, and reengaged the brake.

It was very fun. I had all the tools, except a tire guage, which I will buy when I go back to my bike store tomorrow for a replacement tube.

Without summer school, I'd have had to walk home.
We were ten miles away on a hot, sunny, muggy day. It would have been a bummer.

I love summer school. The first summer school for me — in 1974 — taught me touch typing. I'm grateful to this day. It's my fundamental skill right here, right now, on Net Cotton Content.

What's for school?
A quick review of last year's curriculum suggests I was skipping a lot of class. Oh, well.

Here's what seems worth studying this summer:

1. How to sell. I've always wanted to be better at selling. I've applied to a one-week sales training course this summer. They made me take a test and they say (1) my buy cycle is too long and (2) I'm not a closer. "Is that trainable?" I asked. "Oh, yes." So, if I get admitted to sales class, I'm going. More on that later.
2. How to publish a book. I have three book projects underway right now. I really want to learn what it means to publish a book in this brave new world.
3. Geography. I am sick and tired of not knowing which countries (and U.S. states) are adjacent to others.
4. How to sing "Try To Remember" from The Fantasticks. I want to serenade my OSU Creativity Class at our first meeting in September. 
5. Memorize "Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same" by Robert Frost. The soul of creativity is in the air.

That's a short list.
Something else might get added. I think I will take another look at last year's list and try some of those again.

There's a longer list of things I understand how to do, but I need to drum up the motivation to do them. Write those books. Meditate. Exercise. Walk in the woods.

Just got to do them.

What do you want to learn — and do — this summer?

When Life Comes Together

It's the very meaning of "home game."

When you know the place, the people, the message. You are wearing the right clothing. Everything you know is displayed for all to see.

More Than That
No one else could do what you are doing. At least: not in the same way.

You are doing something that only you could do.

This just happened big for me.
Everything came together a couple weeks.

I was invited to speak to the Upper School — that's like "high school," but much more expensive — at my alma mater, The Columbus Academy.

So I faced several hundred of the most demanding citizens of central Ohio.

They were quite generous with me.
I'm glad.

Click here for the video. Happily, the school administration cut out the truly inappropriate parts.

Are you doing only those things that only you can do?

Behind You With Soup

Joe Blundo is so talented, so prolific, and such a nice guy. A mensch.

We had a chat at Katzinger's Delicatessen on Friday, before my last shift at my summer job. (Actually, it was more of a summer internship, because there was a vast gulf between my scant knowledge and the deep expertise of my co-workers.)

Anyway, we chatted. I showed Joe around. He stood around being Joe. I introduced him to my co-workers as my own summer intern. 

 (I regret that. Afterward, one co-worker said, swooning, "Hey, that was JOE BLUNDO! I love Joe Blundo!" I should have introduced Joe properly. I think I was awkward with embarrassment.)

Then, Joe put this story in his beloved "So To Speak" column in today's Columbus Dispatch: "Unusual Intern Savors Slice of Life at Deli."

Thank you so much, Joe. For what you wrote. And for what you omitted. 

(And for introducing me to Octavian Cantilli.)

Photo credits: OCTAVIAN CANTILLI, Columbus Dispatch

Finding The Most Important Work Of Your Career

A few years ago, I let others plan my life (for 90 minutes).

Why?
There were several risks facing during my big, sudden, unplanned job transition.

My friends convinced me, however, that there was a bigger risk than my never finding employment. "You will find work, Artie," they said, convincingly.

The greater risk — greater than my having to search for the next employment for too long — is that I would find work too quickly, because I might choose mindlessly. 

"And then 18 years will pass," a teacher told me. "Your bosses or clients or students and their families will be happy. And 18 years will pass and you won't have done the most important work of your career."

"The most important work of your career."
Those words haunted me. They inspire me still.

That's why that brainstorm was so powerful for me. Because it lifted my head and eyes to more possibilities. And because it was others — friends who love me — thinking about me. They added their perspective (all that Artie might enjoy) to my panic (I gotta work).

I'm Not The Only One
Of course, there are so many friends who are between jobs. It's happening more often, to more people — and lasting longer. So there are more folks off base at any given time.

Recently, with a few friends between jobs, I've led similar brainstorms for them.

Here's how to play the home version of the game.
Amid all the networking and researching and informational interviews and LinkedIn work (which I've covered here), take a morning off for a brainstorm.

Find four to six friends to sit around a table in one of their homes. Recruit them by sending an email:

I'm at a crossroads and need your help.

In my current unemployment, I need to protect myself from taking the wrong job. Sure, I want a job — and now. But I also know that, thirty years from now, I'll look back on this transition. And I want it to be my best transition. One that led me into the most meaningful work of my career.

I'm concerned that I might jump at the first offer. (Who can blame me? My kids are addicted to food.)

So, I'd really appreciate it if you would sit with a few other friends of mine and brainstorm about what I'm good at, what I might most enjoy doing — what I should do for a living. I think that several friends might uncover in 90 minutes what I might miss during these anxious months.

Oh, and please accept this only if you can keep everything discussed confidential.

You can send them these brainstorming guidelines.

Game Day
Then, when they are around the table, say:

I'm going to attend the first 15 minutes and the last 30 minutes. I'll excuse myself for most of the meeting, so you can talk frankly about me in my absence.

Here's my story: my concerns, my goals, what I like. [Be prepared to state all this, clearly and concisely in four minutes. Practice it beforehand. Don't wing it.]

But you might know me better than I know myself, because you see me. So I want to hear your thinking on what I should do next. 

Any questions? [Each person gets to ask only one question. Keep your answers brief and to the point.]

Thank you for your time, for your love, and — as we all agreed beforehand — for keeping everything you discuss confidential.

Then leave them — leave the house, take a walk. Leave them with lots of blank paper and pens.

When you come back, listen.
Be completely open minded. Leave your fear at the door. Don't be defensive. Don't draw conclusions. Just listen. If you are asked a question, answer it in one short sentence. Listen.

It will be fascinating, because your friends are helping you author the most fascinating story you've ever considered: yours.

Thank them profusely. That will be easy. You will be stunned by their thinking and kindness.

Then spend several days letting it soak in. Keep listening.

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

If you are currently gainfully employed, offer to lead a brainstorm for a friend who isn't.

Thinking Of You

You know this. 

You know how people sometimes pop into your head. 

Perhaps you pass a landmark — maybe just an intersection — and it brings a specific person to mind. 

You think of the story he shared. Or maybe the insight she revealed.

A comment made in passing. Tossed off and, now, long forgotten. 

But it stayed with you. 
It keeps popping up. It's an automatic memory. It's indelible. 

It has become a part of a physical landmark on your daily way. Maybe it has become the stuff of your dreams at night.

You know that experience.

But you might not know this...

Others think of you, too.
I'm always surprised when I say, "Remember when you said...."

...and you reply, "I don't remember." 

I guess you weren't listening to your own words. Or maybe it just slipped out. You didn't think much of it.

I don't blame you for not remembering. You have the advantage of hearing your voice all day, every day. I get only moments with you. To me, each of your words is a pearl.

So I was listening. And I've been meditating on your words ever since.

That's been happening to me more and more lately. 

I've been thinking of what you said.
Even if you just tossed it off.

It stuck with me.

Thanks for that gift.

Let us measure our words like pearls.