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

Once Upon a Time

This photograph arrived in the mail today, from Ann Klotz, the director of the 1981 production of Our Town.

First major story on Our Town

Today's New Standard, the central Ohio Jewish newspaper, has a wonderfully reported and written story on this month's production of Our Town.

In "Our Town: Isaac’s dream to revisit the production comes true," reporter Jennifer Hambrick ventures deeply into the backstory of the production. She calls sources in Texas and New York City finding new aspects of our motivation.

I am so grateful for this story. The theatre is so fleeting: up, down, gone forever.

This article will forever hang on my wall and in my heart.

Thank you, Jennifer.

Knowing what I know now.

Today, I get to give the fifth grade graduation speech at Dana Elementary. That's where I was the Principal for a Day last fall.

Here's the speech. I hope it is worthy.

(If you get to give a speech, feel free to use this one.)

Knowing What I Know Now
A speech for the graduating fifth graders
Dana Elementary, June 4, 2008

Thank you, Mr. K. I really admire you.

Hello, students. Graduating from fifth grade is a big deal.

I am here to congratulate you. You are moving forward. That’s great. Congratulations.

And I am here to congratulate your teachers and your parents. Your kids are growing up and going to school. Going to school is among the most important parts of growing up. Congratulations on helping these kids.

Someday you will be old. Maybe as old as I am. Maybe you will have gray hair and a bow tie.

I don’t wish this for you.

Sometimes people my age look at you and say, “Oh, I wish I were going into the sixth grade again.”

That’s what some old people say. “Oh, I wish I were graduating from the fifth grade.”

I think they mean it, but I think they are wrong.

They mean it because you are so wonderful, so full of pickles. You know what I mean by “full of pickles.” You wake up in the morning and you are determined to do something that is exciting, meaningful and fun. You want to climb that tree, swim in that pool, ride that bike. You are full of pickles. You are full of life.

From an older person’s perspective that looks great.

But, here’s what I think: when an older person wants to be 11 or 12 years old again, that older person is forgetting something.

The older person is forgetting that entering sixth grade is not carefree and happy-go-lucky.

The older person is forgetting that being 11 or 12 is really very difficult.

The older person is forgetting that, long ago, when the older person was 11 or 12, there were challenges. And those challenges were important. They certainly seemed important at the time.

The older person is also thinking, “I wish I were going into the sixth grade again, knowing what I know now.”

That’s an important phrase: “knowing what I know now.”

After all, image yourself going back to second grade and reliving it. Not just watching today’s second graders, but being one of them.

Second grade was good, but you don’t want to relive it. Unless, of course, you could relive it, knowing what you know now.

If you could do that, you would be the world’s best second grader. You would know more about reading and math. You would know better how to please the teacher. You would be on every winning team during recess.

Of course, you would have to explain to everyone every day, why you are about four years older — and four years bigger — than everyone else in the class.

It would be like me showing up for sixth grade.

You would look at me and ask: “What’s with the new kid in the bow tie? And, wait, he’s not a kid.”

My Parting Gift

When I left AT&T after a summer internship during business school, I was required to surrender my company identification card.

Sentimental, I asked to keep it. "I just want it for a souvenir."

"No, I'm sorry," said the HR representative. "That's not allowed."

"Please?" I begged.

"O.K. then," she said. "But first I have to invalidate it."

With that she took a tiny hole punch and punched two tiny holes in the ID card — on my eyes in the photograph. She punched out my eyes. Then she handed the card to me.

"No, thanks," I said. "I don't want it any more."

Big companies can be too creepy.

Barber Talk

With beloved Bobbie the Barber on sick leave, each day I look more like broccoli, rather than a proper sharpened pencil.

Recently, after years of cutting my hair, Bobbie mentioned some of his old customers who might have known my father in the old days.

Might have? It turns out that Bobbie cut all the heads that were nearest and dearest to my father.

And, like any good barber, he knew them well. "There was never a closer group of men, with more genuine affection for each other, than this group of World War II veterans," he told me. "They were rare and devoted to each other."

"And they were so funny," says Bobbie. They had highly refined, expert senses of humor. One day, a passer-by caught a glimpse of Harry Hofheimer in Bobbie's chair:

The passer-by said to Harry, "Hey, Willia—oh, sorry, I mistook you for an old friend of mine.... But, no, you couldn't be him. He's been dead for five years."

Harry responded, without missing a beat, "You're right. I couldn't be him. I've been dead for only three years."

Get well, Bobbie. And bring your hedge trimmers.

A Day Trip To Toronto

Enjoying The Visitor last night at the Drexel reminded me of my own experience with the INS.

It was on a day trip to Toronto to visit some clients with my long-standing colleague Michael, a native Canadian.

After the day's meetings, we were on our way back to the airport. We were hours early, so we stopped at a pub and had a couple beers. Michael paid. He didn't have to. It was a formality. He would submit the receipts the next day and be reimbursed. I could have paid, but Michael said, "Let me get it."

At the Toronto airport, we passed through Immigration (back into the United States) before going to our gate. It's done on the Canadian side.

Michael, ever gracious, insisted that I go first.

I stood at the white box with the Immigration agent and showed my passport. I was waved on. I turned to wait for Michael.

He was gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be seen.

I stepped back to the white box and asked, "Where is my colleague? Where did he go?"

"He's in that room," said the agent, pointing to a door on the Canadian side of the immigration room.

"What's going on in that room?" I asked.

"I don't know and can't tell you," replied the agent. "The little sign on the door says only, 'Meeting in Progress.'" Further questions yielded no answers.

After some time waiting, I thought I should go to the gate and try to hold the plane.

Are you Arthur Isaac?
At the departure gate, I asked the gate agent to hold the plane.

"We'll do what we can, but we can't wait too long," she said. Looking at my ticket she said, "We have two Arthur Isaacs on this flight."

"No, my colleague is Michael," I advised. "It must be a mistake in the reservation. Our flights were reserved together."

"No," she corrected. "We have Michael here, too. There is another Arthur Isaac. He's already on the flight."

"You don't say," I did say. "He's already on the plane? May I be seated next to him?"

"Sure," she said, typing like an airline gate agent. "You're now in 2B."

I boarded and looked at the man in 2A. He didn't quite look like me, but it's safe to say that he looked more like me than anyone else on the plane.

I sat down. "Are you Arthur Isaac?" I asked.

He looked a little surprised, wondering if he knew me. "Yes, I am."

"So am I," I said, handing him my business card.

We sat silently as he thoughtfully considered my business card. At first, he might have wondered, "What sort of criminal preys only on people named 'Arthur Isaac'?" It's not a common name. (It's probably just a freak coincidence that it was also the name of my father and grandfather.)

We chatted and found out, of course, that our ancestors emigrated during the 1800s from the same town in southwestern Germany, Darmstadt in Hesse. Otherwise, we'd both lived in Columbus, Ohio, unaware of the other's existence. Distant cousins, no doubt.

As we chatted, Michael did not board. The flight took off without him. The next day, back in Columbus, he told me that he was released in nearly enough time to catch the flight, except that he first had to pay a fee of $50. But, since he'd bought our drinks at the pub in the late afternoon, he was out of cash and the trip to the ATM caused him to miss our flight.

Here's to Arthur Isaac and Michael, wherever you are.

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.)

Keep your pants on.

I've been thinking a lot about pants.

I just saw a young woman shivering in the grocery store. It's pretty cold in there, presumably because the food must be kept fresh.

But she was shivering and seemed to not understand why. (She wore a face that said, "Why am I so cold inside this store.") I could have told her why: Her pants were falling down.

But I did not tell her why. Because, if I had told her why, I would have been judged:

1. A fashion idiot. Pants are supposed to be falling down. Everyone knows that.
2. A criminal. A jury of my peers would send me to the Big House for such harassment.

Please pull up your pants.
At the risk of encroaching on your right to sag, I invite you to keep your drawers up around your waist.

I know, I know: it's cool to have your pants falling down. But it's also stupid. If you have to keep pulling up your pants, you might pause to wonder, "Is there something more important on which I might concentrate?"

May I introduce you to the belt? It's the greatest invention since the belt loop.

Cool is cool. Cool and stupid is, really, just stupid.

Perhaps, it's all in how you put them on.
Check out this video. Ryan tells me that it was made by a company that does not even work for Levi Strauss.

They just made the video — and now it's been enjoyed nearly 3.5 million times on YouTube.

Wish I'd thought to make this:

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.