Net Cotton Content / On Life and Marketing, Creativity and Ethics

A Letter to the Cast and Crew of Our Town

Last night, after another great show, we gathered at Katzinger's for a private cast party. Diane Warren opened her deli for us late at night, and placed that bounty before us, because she so respects the work we have done — and our product, the gift we have given our neighbors. Diane (and Eric and Michelle) and the entire Katzinger's team told us in food and hospitality:

Please, eat like actors, where "eat like actors" doesn't mean starving artists, but rather the city's best pastrami and corned beef. And pickles. Oh, those pickles. As actors, especially in Our Town, we are teachers. And as teachers, we can so mistakenly be undervalued by society. Diane Warren joined the applause we hear every night, and the laughter, and the engaged silence, and the tears, by saying: "No. What you are doing is worthy. As worthy as the best my business can offer you." ("What'll you have?... What can I do for you?")

Of course, we all thanked the Katzinger's team. And we thanked each other.

But, you have taught me (under threat of Aran Carr) to follow the script, and I found myself thanking you without a script. I was simply not prepared for that moment.

Please accept these words, as another attempt at expressing my thanks to you:

You gave me such a beautiful photograph of the production. Thank you. I've been looking at it overnight. Of course, it's beautiful: it shows the faces of the actors with Ian, Aran and Matt. Our eyes are shining. And in those eyes, I can see reflected, in the larger photo in my heart, the beautiful faces of the entire crew, providing expert sound and light. And props. And pickles.

At Katzinger's, Sara Courtright asked me, just before you gave me that photo, "Has this experience been what you wanted? Did you get out of it what you had set out to get?" I told the folks at the table that I didn't know yet. ("Do I believe in it? I don't know. I suppose I do.")

Of course, I have no doubt that my answer is yes, but "yes" doesn't do justice to the experience. I will need many days, weeks, perhaps my lifetime, to fully weigh all the emotions and growth. To more fully appreciate just what all of us have done here. To measure the size of the gift we have given more than a thousand members of the audience. And the gifts we have given each other and ourselves.

Yes, it will take weeks for the swelling to go down. Not in my head. (My ego will never recover. I must now become a World Menace.) No, it's the swelling in my heart. Since the final week of rehearsals, when I started to see, like you started to see, the larger scope of just what we are doing here, my heart has been popping out of my chest.

For now: Yes, Sara. Yes. This experience has delivered on every wish I had, every wish I might have had, and every wish I didn't know I could have. Every star delivered. Friends were gathered. They came to support the production, but left with the meaning of life. Emily saw the truth. And Simon said it outright. ("Yes, now you know. Now you know.")

Last night, I said something to you that might have sounded outrageous, but I firmly maintain it here:

There has never been a better production of Our Town. As proof of this outlandish assertion, what would you change to improve our production?

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Except perhaps, I would raise and seat the congregation at the wedding on cue. I'm sorry to have created such a tradition. ("Sumep'n went wrong with the separator. Don't know what 'twas.")

Friends, truly, this is no ordinary Our Town. This is the very heart of Our Town. ("Once in a thousand times, it's interesting.") I don't mean to say we are such big shots, that we are Broadway. No, no, no, to the contrary: our Our Town reminds us (and our audiences) that sweetness and bittersweetness and life come in the smallest, most genuine moments. In a world where bigger is often mistakenly considered better, we are producing these fine little moments, like diamonds. (As Emily says about the patent device that waters the stock, "It's fine.")

During that long wait for the opening of the first act, I look at the stage and I see two tables covered with these diamonds. Or are they little pills? Yes, this drug comes in a tiny pill. Better sit down. There are some side effects.

We learned enormously, with Ian's extraordinary teaching — so generous, so effective, so precise, so dear. I hope that I carry into my classrooms and life what I have learned from Ian as a teacher. Of all your wonderful performances, none has so taken my breath away as his work on our stage. I hope I am forever changed by his role modeling.

When I first realized that it was time again for Our Town, my friend Emily Rhodes suggested I seek advice from Matt Slaybaugh. You know how it is when you receive a new name. It sounds funny. You imagine the experience, but it is just a flat image of the unmet moment. ("You're just a little bit crazy.") We met for an ice cream (after finding the coffee shops too noisy) and I told him my tale, why I was compelled to do Our Town. He patiently listened. We chatted about theatre.

At the end of our ice creams, he said, "I like your reasons for doing this show. I'm willing to produce it. I want to produce it."

Months later, still wrestling with the presumption and preposterousness of precasting myself as the Stage Manger, I mentioned to Acacia that I felt awkward about claiming the role without an audition. She smiled: "Oh, but you did audition. When you met Matt over the ice cream cone, you were auditioning. Whenever he meets someone, he's watching, figuring out where on the stage they should go and in what role. You auditioned. And you passed the audition. If you hadn't, Matt would have simply finished his ice cream cone and that would have been that."

In the program, Matt writes of agape-love. I first read "agape" as when your eyes and mouth are open, and your eyebrows are high enough to pick up Cleveland. I could understand that. I've been agape with love. But Alisa said, no, Matt is writing of "agape," spelled the same, but from the Greek, and I had to visit the dictionary to understand. It's a love that is brotherly, divine, unconditional, self-sacrificing, active, volitional, and thoughtful. Yes, I came to Our Town and I got more than this lousy tee shirt. I learned a new kind of love.

Here we are for this brilliant moment together, living life in its fullest. ("Saints and poets, maybe. They do some.") What does it feel like for you? For me, it is scary. I am thrilled seeing life for what it can be. Hearing each night's audience of friends beyond the curtain between acts, glancing at them as I sweep the stage, still separated from us, like in Plato's cave, but closer to the truth than I've ever heard. And Mrs. Webb's eyes, when she fixes on Emily, and so nearly sees her, and yet, alas, just misses her — or, perhaps, not? Perhaps she does see. Perhaps we really do see each other just fine.

A friend, who came to the show from the east coast, told me this weekend that Wilder didn't want to answer any questions for us. ("Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it — every, every minute?") Wilder dodges the answer. He wants us to live in the question, my friend teaches, because life is found in the question, not the answer. In Wilder's text, "yes" isn't really better than "no." What's better is asking the question. ("What do you say, folks? What do you think?")

For Wilder, and for me, the answer isn't the goal. The search is the goal. That's why I'm straining away. And glad about it.

I've had Our Town for more than 25 years. Now it's yours, too, especially for those of you living in Our Town for the first time. Welcome to Our Town. May Wilder's themes and his wonderful words haunt all of us forever.

All along, I've tried to understand, "The morning star gets wonderful bright the minute before it has to go."

And now here we are, facing our final performance, wonderfully bright the minute before we have to go.

Again, yet again, let's light up the sky.

"Stay loose and play tight."

Here's a beautiful message, reprinted with permission, I received this morning from Parker MacDonell.

A weekend recording artist and entertainer, weeknight music publisher, and the official banker for Our Town, Parker is a member of the Old Bohemians, the presenting sponsor of this evening's opening night performance of Our Town.

Parker is a role model for both business and artistic sides of life. Read his words, please, because they apply to you, too, if you are exploring the outer reaches of your ability:

Artie - tomorrow is your debut (at least in this century) as Stage Manager in Our Town. Tonight you are going to have dress rehearsal, then you will go home and practice your lines one more time with Alisa. Then you will try to go to sleep, and my wish for you is that sleep comes easily so that you are as alive and aware as possible tomorrow. We are very much looking forward to being there with you tomorrow night.

"Stay loose and play tight" is now my standard exhortation to myself and those with whom I am about to go on stage. I heard it for the first time in 1978. I was playing in a band called Sonora (that name alone should help you get to sleep tonight) in Los Angeles. One of the guys in the band, Dave Sheils, had an older brother who was an agent with the William Morris Agency. Big stuff, that agency. So Dave was always bugging his brother Peter to help our band.

One day Peter calls me — I was the business manager of said band as well as the bass player — and said, "I got you guys a gig. Any time that Chuck Berry or Bo Diddley play in California, you guys will be on stage as their back up band." Wow! All we had to do was join the union. No problem.

But get to rehearse with these 50's rock stairs before the show? We did not. Instead, we were told to learn every song from Chuck Berry's "Golden Hits" album, which we dutifully did, and be prepared to think quickly on stage.

Our first gig with Sir Chuck was at Knott's Berry Farm, a poor man's Disney Land in Orange County, CA. The show was scheduled for 8 p.m., so we were there and set up far in advance.  Maybe we thought we'd get a little rehearsal at the sound check. No such luck. Instead, as the crowd was starting to chant "Chuck, Chuck, Chuck" at 7:55 with the curtain still down, we looked around and said, "Where is he?" At exactly 7:58, the back door to the stage opened, and there he was, guitar in hand, all alone.

He walked over to his amp, plugged in his guitar, turned all the knobs up to 10 — I swear this was before Spinal Tap — and played an out-of-tune E chord. The crowd stirred, sensing that the Great One was in the building. He walked up to the mic, turned it 180 degrees so that he was facing us with his back to the stage curtain, and said, "Have I ever played with you guys before?" 

"No sir, Mr. Berry, sir, we have never played with you."   

"Okay, I want you to watch my right foot. When I put that foot down, you start to play. When I lift it up, you stop playing.  Down is start, up is stop. You got that? Okay, I want you guys to stay loose and play tight."

With that he launched into "Johnny B. Goode" as the curtain went up and the crowd went crazy. There was only one problem. On his record, he played the song in B flat. (One of the little secrets to his unusual sound was that he played in the flat keys instead of the usual guitar keys of E, A, G and D.) But because he was at least 50 years old at the time of this story, he had decided to play this song in a lower key to make it easier to sing. So while he was playing in A flat, we were in B flat or some other key unrelated to A flat. It sounded a little like that piece that Charles Ives composed for two marching bands who were to march past each other playing the same tune in two keys that were as far apart as two keys could be (a flatted fifth from each other). What worked as 20th century atonal music for Charles Ives did not work so well for the song that NASA chose to put on the Voyager spacecraft as a representation of earthly rock 'n roll for any extraterrestrials who might find the Voyager.

Finally, our piano player Jim King yelled out the correct key and we got into the groove with Chuck. He played this song and two others with his back to the audience to tumultuous applause. Then he turned his mic stand around and said to the audience, "Thank you. With your permission, we will now begin our performance."

You will be great. You, unlike my friends in Sonora and Chuck Berry have rehearsed your work with each other. So, my friend, my wish for you tomorrow and the rest of this week is that you stay loose and play tight.

Peace,

Parker

Thank you, Parker, my friend.

Let's dance our way into dress rehearsal. Here's Sir Chuck and some crazy kids with all the latest moves...

Letting Others Plan Your Life

Nobody cares more than you do about how you spend your life. (If others do care more than you do about your life, then you have a problem.)

But sometimes I feel so close to my own life that I might overlook the possibilities.

Do you feel the same way?
Well, what if you described your biggest challenge to seven smart people who know you well...

...and then you left the room...

...so they could brainstorm your options...

...while you waited out of earshot?

That's what I did two weeks ago.

Tigers Talk
I've mentioned my EO Forum before. We are entrepreneurs who meet monthly for a polite sharing of diverse experiences — experiences with business, with love, with the mirror.

This intimate group, called the Tiger Forum, listened carefully to my challenge:

As I plan the next chapter of my life, I don't want to jump too quickly.

And I don't want to overlook options that might be great for me, but simply might not come to mind.

You know me well, friends: what do you think I should do with the next ten years?

They asked thoughtful questions: how important is money? what motivates me? what are the constraints?

Then I left the room.

Sitting Out is Strange
It's odd to be excluded from an important conversation about my life.

It felt like the time — during my single days — when a former girlfriend came to a party in my apartment in New York. As soon as she met my then current girlfriend, they agreed that they needed to have a substantial talk about me. They disappeared into the bedroom (of all places) for way too long.

In time, they emerged, with knowing smiles. Smiling, no doubt, about how The Beautiful Jury Of Two had judged me a half-formed adult, if that.

(Guilty as accused. But the defendant has made limited progress in the intervening years. He's nearly 80% of a fully formed adult.)

Tigers Report
After 45 minutes, our forum moderator invited me back into the room for the report.

The findings were helpful and interesting:

Beyond the specific ideas for what to do next, the process is important. They strongly recommended that I sample (or even just observe) a variety of vocations, each one for not more than a week or two. Then, after each sampling, I should spend a week reflecting on the experience: how did I like it, how did I feel about it.

The specific ideas can be separated into five buckets:

1. Some confirmed what I've always suspected. Examples: write books, teach, continue in marketing strategy and creative.
2. Some were creative ambitions. Examples: develop a radio show, act, stand-up comedy.
3. Some would help me clear my mind after 18 years of focus. Examples: bartender, comedy writer.
4. Some were community minded. Examples: work with children, dive into the challenges currently faced by our soon-to-be-closed Columbus Symphony Orchestra.
5. Some were surprises.
   Example: coach executives, helping them lever humor, soul, and wit in life.

There were many more ideas. From the far-fetched to the nearly-fetched. All were quite fetching because they expanded my mind.

What Then?
So, I'm taking the results of the brainstorm to heart.

During the past two weeks, amid all the other business of the days, I taught high school for two hours each day. Now I'll begin a week of reflection. (And, surely, inflict it on you, dear reader.)

Play The Home Version Of Our Game
In the meantime, feel free to suggest other ideas. I'm all eyes.

And what ideas would you wish might be suggested for your next steps?

*****************
Two notes about EO. All EO forum conversations are protected by the strictest standards for confidentiality. I trust that this post, because it reveals only my issue, does not violate that confidentiality. Also, EO forums, as a matter of protocol, do not give advice. In this case, we made an exception. (I'm grateful.)

Excuse me.

"Through the years, I have learned that there is no harm in charging oneself up with delusions between moments of valid inspiration."

This gem comes from Steve Martin, from his "Personal History: In The Bird Cage" in The New Yorker.

Here's a beautiful example:

The Job Offer

The phone rang.

My father didn't call often. He was full of respect, the kind of fellow who didn't want to put you out.

Making you answer the phone might interrupt something important.

What if you were doing something important? And he called? And you had to stop what you were doing? That would be terrible.

So, when I answered the phone and it was Dad, I knew this was important.

He launched right in: "Have you ever thought about becoming a stockbroker?"

I was 25, working in investor relations in New York, helping companies reach Wall Street. Dad had been a stockbroker since I was born. He was pretty good at it, but quiet about it.

The call was so out of the blue. I asked, "Why are you asking?" 

"Well, I'm planning to retire in a few years," he explained. "And rather than simply turning my accounts over to Bill here, I thought I could transfer them to you. It's a hard business to break into, years of cold calling, but it could be pretty easy for you to take over my book of business. Would that interest you?"

I'd never thought much about becoming a stockbroker. My father had done admirably, but we'd never chatted about The Son Taking Over The Father's Business. It was not an ambition of mine.

"Let me ask you a couple questions," I said. "First, do you like it? Do you like the work?"

"No," he answered quickly. "Not a day of it."

"Oh," I said. That confirmed my longtime suspicion about my father's job satisfaction. "Well, then, my second question is: do you think I'd be good at it?"

"No," he said gently. "I don't. I don't think this is the sort of work you'd be any good at."

My father was not a critical man. He certainly judged my performance, but didn't like to tell me what he thought. He was even awkwardly sparing with praise. (Giving you praise might interrupt something you were doing, something important.) So answering "no" to the second question was telling.

"Well, I've given your answers a lot of consideration," I said immediately, not needing to think about them for more than three seconds. "I'd like to thank you for this kind and generous offer, but I must decline."

Inheriting the Family Business
He'd made the call he had to make. He couldn't just give his book of business to the fellow who had long sat next to him without offering it first to his son.

A man of an earlier generation, my father didn't call my sisters with the same offer. (Maybe he figured they were really doing something important, something that shouldn't be interrupted?)

I think my father thought I might be nearly as good as he was at the business. But, as the brokerage business became ever more technical, technological and institutional, I think he increasingly doubted his own ability. He didn't want me jumping into the business when it was turning into a Big Business.

Moreover, I think my father simply didn't want to have me inherit his life. He didn't want the frustrations of his work life to be transferred to me. Some clients held him responsible for the occasional losing investment. That hurt his feelings.

He had once inherited his own father's business — a furniture store — and it had been a nightmare. They had pioneered easy credit, but had not pioneered collections. My father had the indelicate job of shuttering the place. He didn't want me to inherit his mess, even if it wasn't a mess at all.

Whatever his motivations, the call was over. "That sounds good," he said. "I'll start sending these accounts over to Bill."

I've always thought he was right to make the call. And right in determining its outcome.

One Learning Down, Eight To Go

A few days ago, I described the nine things I want to learn this summer.

One of them was how to fix a flat tire on a bicycle. Problem is: you can't fix a tire that isn't flat. It's a lesson of opportunity.

Opportunity Achieved
Yesterday, I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Found my way downstairs and had a cup. And looking up, I noticed I was late. (Huh, huh, huh, huh.)

Another day in the life. Ready to ride my bike downtown – and my rear tire was flat as could be. It made that sad, little squeaky noise, like when one mistakenly wears one's rubber soled shoes in the shower. Silly one.

Normally, I would have been disappointed to have a flat tire. It did scratch my ride during one of the prettiest days of the year.

But, since learning to fix a flat bicycle tire was on my List Of Nine Things To Learn This Summer, the flat tire seemed like a fully inflated opportunity.

I'm Pumped
During my last flat tire repair six months ago – at B1 Bicycles at 124 East Long Street, Downtown Columbus – my former CCAD student Sally taught me how to fix a flat.

I remembered how. As the pedagogy says: watch once, do it once, teach it once. (I still need to teach it once. If you get a flat tire, call me. Really. I'd love to tu-u-u-u-u-rn ... yo-o-o-o-u ... o-o-o-o-n.)

I had bought the materials from Sally last year – and patiently waited to ride over glass.

Did I ride over glass on purpose a couple days ago? No. That would be stupid. It wasn't stupidity; it was serendipity. It's funny how teachable moments happen when you ask for them.

Eight more lessons and I'll be ready for the leaves to change.
 

"Do anything long enough and it will end badly."

Martin Saperstein, market research Ph.D., founder of Saperstein Associates, and an uncommon advocate for the humble knish said it again yesterday.

"Do anything long enough and it will end badly."

Marty had said it before to me: 18 years ago, when we met, and then a couple times along the way. It often comes in the course of a conversation about long-term planning for an entrepreneurial business.

He offers this troubling thought with perfect diction and a matter-of-fact sunniness: "Well. The way I see it is: do anything long enough and it will end badly."

"What about marriage?"
So, yesterday, our mutual friend Robin leans in and asks: "What about marriage?"

"Oh, marriage," answers Marty, who is so happily and well married. "In the best case, you are perfectly married to the most wonderful person for many, many years. Then one of you dies."

From my perspective, this isn't pessimism. It's a realism that says, "Carpe diem. Don't defer satisfaction until the bitter end. Because, well, the end will be bitter."

Have a nice day.

No more Jay-Biking

Doug Morgan is right.

Doug is my rolling role model, my two-wheeling muse, my eco-physio-communal inspiration. Doug bikes to work most every day. (Once, I biked with him, but disliked the taste of my own blood.)

Doug is right.

He observed me riding a bicycle in traffic and saw me take unlawful advantage of being on a bike: when there was no moving traffic, I zipped through a red light.

It's not normal behavior for me. I'm pretty strict about adhering to the law. Of all my fears, a top five fear is going to jail.

The Jay-Biker's Rationalization
Running a red light on a bike is so available and so juicy when there's no crossing traffic in any direction and, really, who expects a bicycle to wait at a traffic light when there is no cross traffic?

Plus, it's safer for the bicyclist to cross a big intersection when there is no traffic flowing from any direction. Similarly, I've read that jaywalkers are safer crossing in the middle of a block (where there is only cross traffic) than lawful pedestrians crossing at an intersection (where traffic is flowing in various directions and turning). If safety is our goal, then I should be a jay-biker.

Doug's Argument
Doug gently admonished me. "Please don't do that," he said. He went on...

"There is such tension between automobile drivers and bicyclists. The tension — and the danger it produces — could be resolved if: (1) each automobile driver would recognize each bike rider's right to a safe share of the road; and (2) each bike rider would obey the laws of the road."

Ever the lawyer-citizen, Doug added this gem:

"Every time someone breaks a law, even a small infraction, I think that democracy dies a little bit."

My Pledge
Now, today, in the Columbus Dispatch, comes a front-page story of the tension between bicyclists and drivers. 

Today, I renounce jay-biking. I will uphold the law.

Now, egad, my self-righteousness is complete. Run for your lives.

"You have my permission."

Several years ago, I returned from a mind-expanding trip.

Not that kind of "trip."

This trip included a real airplane.

It was mind- and heart-expanding, but I didn't realize it. Something must have changed in me. But I just didn't see it. I didn't realize the impact on me of what I'd learned.

Education can be that way. Travel is certainly that way. At the time, it's just plain: fun and challenging.

Then, later, it hits you.

Here's When It Hit Me
I was sitting, back at Young Isaac, chatting with a friend, colleague and teacher, Rachel Hillman.

(Rachel's the one who taught me about the effect of stress on my health.)

Anyway, Rachel hears me describe my trip and says quietly to me:

Sounds like you're ready to change your life. Do you want to change your life? Is that what you're saying?

I didn't realize I was saying this. I hadn't thought about changing my life. I mumbled the usual defense of the status quo.

So she adds these priceless words:

If you are waiting for someone's permission to change your life, I give you my permission.

I mean, it's not as if you need my permission to change your life. But now you have it.

These words have rung in my ears for more than five years. About two years ago, they started ringing in my heart.

Do You Need Permission?
So, allow me to give you some permission.

As Rachel said to me: If you are waiting for someone's permission to change your life, I give you my permission.

I mean, it's not as if you need my permission to change your life. But now you have it.

Now that you have my permission, what change will you permit in your own life?

The Mousetrap

Careful. This is a mousetrap.

And I can see that I am one of the mice.

Here is The Story of Stuff by Annie Leonard. It's a 20-minute, fast-paced video that explains how we turn the environment into stuff — and then how we get rid of the stuff. And some of the hidden – "externalized" – cost of it all.

I admire the simple design of this presentation and think the overall message is valid. Still, I faced some obstacles while watching it:

It's presented in a friendly voice, but it's disturbing. It works like satire, trapping the viewer.

It might offend your politics. For me, that happened when Annie asks, "Isn't the government supposed to take care of us?" I'm all for being taken care of, but even I don't think that's the government's promise. (But let's not ignore Annie's entire message because of a few individual words. When I feel insulted, I remember how Robert Frost defined being educated.)

It might arouse your healthy skepticism. That's good.

If you are like me, it will certainly catch you in the mousetrap.

Thanks to our teacher and neighbor, Inbar Kerper-Saranovitz, for bringing this story to my attention.