The Father we Never Found

I number of years ago, I was sitting in the stands at the (old) Yankee stadium, third base side, with my good friend from early childhood, David Champa, who is an avid Yankees fan. It was a lovely, warm spring afternoon with the players stretching and sprinting on the green field while fans began to sprinkle in. The game was still about an hour away.

A few rows below us, a young father sat beside his little boy, enjoying the spectacle of the players preparing themselves for the task at hand. The dad watched in rapt attention as, no doubt, many of his contemporary heroes performed right before him. He kept pointing to various players and leaning in to explain to his small son their relative importance. The little boy sat excitedly (obviously his first baseball game), his cap tipped up and large baseball glove at the ready in his right hand. It was very pleasant--even peaceful--to watch them.

Suddenly, a large wasp began to hover around the little boy's head, as though looking for a particularly juicy victim. The wasp buzzed back and forth, then landed on the boy's hat as if to tease onlookers, then took to the air again. The boy and his dad continued in their reverie. Finally, the wasp with some deliberateness landed on the boy's shoulder and began to creep up toward his bare neck.

I instinctively motioned forward in hopes of shooing the wasp away. With concern and frustration I waved my hands back and forth in an attempt to get the wasp, though several yards below us. It was impossible to shout from our distance above them, so the waving and gesturing was the best I could do.

The moment felt like an eternity, and then the dad did an amazing thing--he put his right arm around the boy with a simple, sweet affection and the wasp flew off. It was as though the forces of evil were repelled by the forces of love (although I do know better than that).

I was unaware that David was watching the little drama, too. As I felt a small shudder of relief that the boy was spared the wasp's sting, he leaned over to me and said, "Now you know how God must feel..."

The Old Man Couldn't See

NOTE: Each year, the world famous Harry’s American
Bar & Grill of Venice, Italy petitions would-be authors all over the globe to take part in a unique writing competition, in which contestants must “produce one good page of bad Ernest Hemingway.” In other words, write a page of hokey prose in the style of the bar’s most famous patron. The creator of the best page of “bad Hemingway”wins fifteen minutes of fame, dazzling prizes, and a trip to Venice to eat and drink at Harry’s as Hemingway himself once did. Sounds good to me.
Herewith, your humble blogger, seeking to kill two birds with one stone,
submits his entry for your consideration:


He wasn’t really an old man, though he had begun to think of himself as old
or more precisely aged. He had lived a good, good life by mixing a little skill with a touch of charm and a bit of luck to make it good. But now he watched the candle
light flicker and cast dancing shadows over faces and dinner plates and glasses filled with red Chianti, tall shadows that stirred in him memories of those many carefree nights at Harry’s American Bar & Grill when his eyesight was better, and he came to understand that his luck had finally turned sour. He was forty-three years old.

“Does it hurt much, darling?” she said.
She reached across the red checkered table cloth to touch his hand with her
long, lacquered fingertips. The dim candle light made her face look dark and
somber.

“The marvelous thing is that it’s painless,” he said. “That’s how you really when it starts."

“Oh, Nick!” she said. She held back a small sob. He had run with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, and had fished for marlin off the coast of Cuba and had studied war in Italy. Here in New York City he studied a restaurant menu and continuously rubbed his eyes. It was the menu for Luigi’Trattoria and the Italian food was described in long, elegant Italian phrases many referring to the fricassee of small animals.

He loved dago food and especially loved Luigi’s place, which was small and
intimate and inviting and one of those places that strikes you as the perfect place to write a love sonnet or hatch a conspiracy. But he did not like the menu with itsfine, black print and this caused him to rub his eyes.

“Darling, I’d be happy to read the selections to you, “she said.

“No, no,” he said. He stretched his arms as far as they would reach, past the
bread basket and jug of Chianti, nearly into her plate. Still the print on the menu
swirled before his eyes and he squinted to try to bring it into focus. “I think I’ve just got it.”

“Signore Nick,” said Luigi, “you’re holding the menu upside down.”
He had known Luigi briefly during the war in Italy when the two had been
ambulance drivers together. They were about to become friends back then but for
the assault of cannon that put his ambulance out of commission and put him in the hospital to nurse a bum leg. He had almost forgotten about Luigi until he walked into the Trattoria late one evening for a drink. Seeing each other, the two
immediately embraced and Luigi kissed him on both cheeks.

“You cannot read a menu upside down,” Luigi said. He took the menu from
his hands and turned it right side up.

“Oh, Nick,” she said, and the small sob caught again in her throat. “It’s true,
your eyes are going bad.”

“Not bad, really, kid,” he said offhandedly. “Just tired, I’m tired is all. It’s
what the French call Les Yeux Fatigue.”

“It worries me, Nick,” she said, “it worries me to see you this way.” Tears
welled in her eyes and dropped--plunk, plunk, plunk--onto the empty plate.

Luigi drew up a chair and joined them. He smoothed the ends of his long mustache with thumb and forefinger. “There is no need to worry,” he said. “It is a
condition, a simple condition of the eyes that comes with age, Signore.”


“Can it be...corrected?” he said. “Yes, Signore, si...it can be corrected easily,” Luigi said. “My cousin, Gianni, he is an optometrist. He is very good at correcting this condition.” Luigi reached into the small pocket of his red vest and drew out a calling card. “He is located here, in New York, not far from my restaurant.”

“An oculist, ‘eh,” he said, and squinted at the card in his hand.
“They call them optometrists now,” Luigi said. He stood up from the table
and bowed slightly and wished them both a good dinner.
“You won’t be disappointed,” he said.

“Darling, this will be so exciting,” she said. Her voice now was filled with
anticipation and some small delight and as the steaming food came and she
continued speaking her anticipation and delight became greater. “We’ll select a
wonderful pair of spectacles for you. Possibly one of those tiny, little pair made of
fine wire or possibly something in tortoise.”
-
“Yes, possibly,” he said. He scooped a large portion of steaming spaghetti into his bowl. He breathed deeply with relief. “Possibly a pair of tortoise spectacles would work out nicely.”

They ate and drank that night as they had not done for many nights before.

As the meal came to an end, Luigi joined them once more and they laughed and
joked and told stories of Italy and then Luigi broke out the grappa and coffee and
they concluded the evening in a fine way.

Tomorrow they would go to Gianni, the optometrist, and he would correct the condition with a pair of good spectacles and all the tears would be gone. And
tonight they would leave Luigi’s and walk home in the rain. (Originally published in February, 1996)

The Genius of Playboy

Playboy magazine was born just a few months before I was, and ultimately became a large part of my adolescence. In 1966, when I was twelve years old, Playboy was my pubescent companion--occupying a good amount of my leisure time.

Now lest you think that this entry will be nothing more than a the salacious recollections of a 57-year-old man, please remain calm. Yes, Playboy represented sex to us before we really knew what sex was. But I became captivated by the magazine itself.

Playboy was a groundbreaking example of what the magazine industry could be. It was a visual and intellectual playground, with a distinct personality, distinct point of view, a name and a face. Those last two qualities were provided by its creator, Hugh Marsten Hefner, a brilliant publisher who knew how to get his audience to become one with his product. At a time when magazines were as bland as skim milk and as general as typing paper, Playboy invented lifestyle publishing. That the lifestyle was built on fantasy was beside the point. Playboy made its (male) reader feel special, feel like he was part of a great, national fraternity that set him above the masses in some way.

Apart and aside from the pictures of naked women, the magazine achieved this end through its content. It featured leading authors in the tradition of Esquire in its heyday, and fabulous, thoughtful journalism. I learned more about American culture reading the Playboy Interview (generally a 5,000 word opus) than I did in social studies.

What also made Playboy special was that it was organic--it lived and breathed. A sociologist once pointed out that all great publications convey the idea of a metaphorical family; in the case of Playboy, Hefner was the father, the centerfold was the mother, the writers were the child-craftsmen and the advertisers were the child-clowns. And we, the readers, were the step-children, so wanting to be accepted as a genuine member of the family.

Hefner was (and is) a genius. I think, like Charles Foster Kane, time has passed him by. The great magazine appears to be a parody of itself now, although I've hardly more than glanced at an issue in years. Hefner himself looks like a doddering old fool when you see him on E! cavorting with 22-year-olds in his famous pajamas.

But there was something magical and exciting about his creation(s)--every issue, he brought you something of the expected and the surprising, the two most important ingredients for a successful publication.

I am, of course, far further down on the publishing food chain than Hefner was (is). But I take some small pride in integrating a little of his magic in the publishing that we do.

The Twilight Zone Moment

I was one of the fortunate few ("few" being a relative term) to have seen The Twilight Zone when it originally aired from 1959 to 1964. It aired on CBS on Friday nights at the late, late hour (for me) of 9pm EST. My Dad and I always watched it together and we always loved it--even though I would occasionally be so frightened by a particularly scary episode that I'd stay up the entire night (much to Dad's chagrin).

Back then, there really was such a thing as quality television. Rod Serling, The Twilight Zone's creator, came out of the "tele-drama as literature" generation that also produced Paddy Chayefsky and Dalton Trumbo. He proved that one could create a half-hour video "short story," with the elegance, rhythm and impact of the best short fiction. It's no surprise that some of the finest writers of the time--guys like Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison--were regular Twilight Zone contributors.

But what made The Twilight Zone truly special was how it would consistently surprise its audience with the unanticipated plot twist at every conclusion. Whether it was Burgess Meredith breaking his eyeglasses at the end of "Time Enough at Last," or the panicked face of the hapless hero in "To Serve Man," as he suddenly realizes he's going to be an alien's dinner, The Twilight Zone ending was always the show's defining moment.

I never miss a chance to watch The Twilight Zone when it pops up on TV (usually at odd hours of the early morning). But most importantly, at least in how I create products and services within my business, I always try to experience a "Twilight Zone Moment." In my creative process, I endeavor to reach a point where that sudden, unanticipated "left turn" happens, producing a much more unique and generally more valuable result.

Does the practice always work? Nope. But it makes thinking fun.

When Baseball was Amazin'

Around this time every year, as we contend with the snow and the cold here in the Great Northeast, I always warm my heart with the thought that pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training this week (and next). And I think back fondly to my favorite major league team of all time--the 1969 Mets.

Despite the problems they face both on and off the field now, the Mets of '69 were--for me, and I'm sure many others--a great heroes story, battling far more formidable foes with skill and dash and more than a little luck.

We had come upon the Mets because my Dad was an NY Giants fan, and the Mets of course take their DNA from the old Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers (if you look at the old photos of Christy Mathewson and John McGraw you'll notice that they wore what we now recognize as the Mets NY insignia). We were also from Long Island, and what better team to root for than the Long Island (okay, Queens) team? We certainly weren't going to the Bronx.

But of course as we all know the Mets were pretty much terrible for those first several years, when expansion teams were constructed with the cast-offs from the better, established franchises.

But 1969 was special! The saga captivated me throughout the entire summer (the way baseball is supposed to), and while the thought of a post-season appearance was not likely, even in August, we just know something magical was going to happen.

I'm not going to retell the story of the entire season--far more eloquent writers than I have done that many times over. But I do want to point out two things about that resonate with me even now, and which I apply in how I manage my business.

The Mets succeeded that season largely because they had great, young pitching and a lot of breaks. But they had these two qualities as well:

1. Everybody was a role player--there were no Marquee Players, just journeymen, each of whom knew his job and how that job made him part of a larger entity;

2. They didn't know they were supposed to fail, so they had no self-consciousness.

The second point has always been particularly meaningful to me because I remember reading an interview with Don Clendenon, the Mets' veteran first baseman, shortly after they won the Series. He was asked what he thought, as a vet player, made this team so special and Don said, "They're too young to realize that they're not supposed to win. And I wasn't gonna tell 'em... ."

Ours is a small business, but the folks who work here do so with passion, team cooperation and that feeling that anything is possible. And I'm not gonna tell 'em otherwise.

A Great, Big, Beautiful Tomorrow

Forty-five years ago, the World's Fair came to New York City. As a ten-year-old, I remember well the bubbling excitement and anticipation that the promise of the Fair held for us. This was stoked primarily by my Dad, who remembered his own excitement as a ten-year-old at the 1939 World's Fair.

It was clear that my Father was still in awe over his Fair ('39), and wanted earnestly to share that experience, or a reasonable facsimile, with us kids here in '64. I remember him talking about stuff like the Heinz Pickle pins they gave out in '39, and the iconic symbols of that Fair, which he referred to as the Ball and Spear (actually called the Trylon and Perisphere). the '64 Fair lived up to its promise and more. A multi-acre tribute to American ingenuity (and, admittedly, American arrogance), the World's Fair was an exilharating triumph. I remember distinctly feeling that anything was possible when we walked through those gates (which we did as a family about a dozen times over the Fair's two-year run).

It's ironic that many of the most dramatic attractions--like General Motors' Futurama--were sponsored by behemoth companies whose fortunes have faded so over these last four decades (no one saw that coming at Futurama). But dramatic they were--depicting vacation paradises under the sea, and communities on the Moon, or even life before humans existed in the age of the dinosaur. I remember waiting for what seemed like hours to catch a glimpse of Michael Angelo's Pieta, and my Mother reacting as though she'd seen Christ himself. And Abraham Lincoln brought back to life by the animatronic magic of Walt Disney. And getting copies of newspaper front pages commemorating our birthdays at the New York Times pavilion.

For me, and I'm sure others like me at time, the Fair was particularly meaningful because it allowed you to believe that your imagination, ingeniuty and resourcefulness alone could be applied to create an incredible future.

It's amazing to realize how powerful a force that is--that no matter what you understand intellectually, at the root of your being you believe that anything is possible to a willing heart. It's sheer luck that we had the World's Fair to nourish us young, optimistic entrepreneurs.
We can only hope our children get to experience such a tremendous cultural catalyst.

Tropical Paradise

Watching the Mets on SNY with my oldest (9-year-old) daughter (who's not really interested in baseball). A pitching change is made and they cut to commercials. Now, my kids rarely watch anything but Disney Channel and so rarely see commercials, much less commercials designed expressly for adults, or for that matter older adults.

Then one of the new series of Viagra commercials comes on...the ones where the middle-aged couple is eating breakfast together, reading on the couch together, basically going through life in parallel and clearly unconnected private worlds. Suddenly the old guy sees a an ad on a bus for an exotic, tropical vacation spot and his eyebrow arches. The music swells and the singers croon "Viva Viagra!" We see the couple, now very energized and reconnected, on their secluded tropical island getting ready to adjourn to their bungalow in the middle of a sweltering Caribbean day. I look at my daugher, not sure how she's going to react to all of this.

"Daddy, let's go there...Let's go to Viagra," she says emphatically. "But not like those guys...all they want to do is stay in the house."

While I was somewhat flummoxed, I was grateful that she was distracted from the part of the commercial where the announcer mentions erections lasting more than four hours.

Of course, I've told this story a bunch of times, and it always gets laughs. But after further analysis, I recognized that the scene gets right at the heart of what advertising is all about--selling possibilities, selling state-of-mind, selling sizzle. My daughter got it, even though she didn't know what the literal product was.

That's what good marketing does.

Disney

Wake up! Wake up! Mommy, Daddy. It's time, It's time! Ugh...coffee? No time, gotta get car service to airport. Jesus, a 6am flight! C'mon, c'mon get on line. now go through security. No! you can't carry your DS through the machine...Don't worry they won't steal it.  Okay, now you sit by the window...Well you both can't sit by the window so someone's going to have to...Now, stop it!  Be nice!  People are trying to sleep...Play your DS.  I know you're bored...I'm bored.  We'll be there soon...C'mon, c'mon off the plane.  Okay, you wait on line for the Disney Magic tickets and I'll watch these two...Please do not lay down on the dirty airport carpet!  Okay...get on the bus...She sat by the window on the plane, you sit by the window on the bus.  YOU CAN'T BOTH SIT BY THE WINDOW!  Let's check into the hotel first...yes, we'll go to the park after we check in.  After we check in!!  AFTER WE CHECK IN!!! We can't go to the pool AND the park...You've got to choose.  No, I'm not going to the pool with you while Mommy goes to the park with her.  First we'll do what she wants, then we'll do what you want...Because she's older, that's why.  Tomorrow is Younger gets First Pick Day...Please, we've got to go somewhere--let's make a choice!  Good...no, we've got to take the bus...There it is!  The Magic Kingdom.  We'll do Hollywood Studios tomorrow.  I said tomorrow! BECAUSE THE BUS ONLY GOES TO THE MAGIC KINGDOM!!  C'mon, off the bus...Yeah, there's Mickey.  You don't like Mickey anymore? Or the princesses?  No, iCarly is another TV Network.  Because it's not a Disney Show, that's why.  Wait!  Wait!  Don't run all over the place...We'll get there.  Mom wants to go to It's a Small World.  Yeah, yeah we'll go on the better rides after that. We're buying one thing for each of you so you have to make your choice well....Please get out of that store...No, one thing each.  ONE THING EACH!  BECAUSE IT'S ALL JUNK ANYWAY!!!   Can you believe we have to wait 40 minutes for It's a Small World?  The thing's been around for 50 years--what's the appeal?  Yes, I know you enjoy it...we're going for you, right?  Yes, I'm sure they'll enjoy it too.  Splash Mountain?  Okay...but remember, we get wet.  Jesus, another 40 minute wait...and we thought it wasn't going to be crowded this week.  Yes, I'm getting hot too.  So put your hat on!  If you want to go on this ride, we have to wait...Well, we didn't get a FastPass, sorry.  Okay, okay...hold tight now...there are a couple of drrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooooooooppppppppppppppppppps! Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!  I'm totally soaked...even my underwear is wet!  No, I don't wanna do it again.  Haunted Mansion?  Yeah, at least it's not a water ride...Oy!  Now look at this line...at least we're under this awning. Okay, you come with me and you go with Mom.  Nooo, it's really not scary, more silly than anything else.  Ooooh, Ghosts!  Ya gotta hand it to that Disney, he knew how to make a buck.  Is it a coincidence that every ride lets you out in a gift shop?  Yes, yes, I'm tired too.  It's been a long day and we'll have many, many more.  I just hope this vacation doesn't kill me.

Crap & Junk

A couple weeks ago, I returned from one of our industry's major trade shows around dinner time on a Sunday night. I sat at the table, somewhat wiped out, but still a bit exhilarated by the events of the previous three days. As I started to relate the events of trade show '09, I noticed that my oldest daughter (soon to be nine), was truly interested. She kept asking questions about different employees, different clients, the overall tenor of the show, etc. I was really impressed, and with a small tear in my eye, asked, "Would you like to run Daddy's business someday?"

"Oh, no," she said. It could have easily been "Shit! No!" After a short beat for emphasis, she said, "I'm gonna open a store called Crap & Junk."

My wife and I laughed like hell. Who would expect a nine-year-old kid to come up with that in such short order? But the unfunny part of this interlude is that she was serious. "So what are you going to sell at Crap & Junk?" I asked. "What difference does it make," she answered. "It's a really good name...I'll think of something."

And she was right. It really doesn't matter what you sell anymore; it only matters how you market it. When I returned to work the following day, I told this story to every employee in my company (that's the great thing about owning a business, you can indulge yourself that way.)

To a person, everybody said that they not only agreed with my daughter's choice (Crap & Junk vs. Dad's Company), they said they'd be very willing customers. "But she doesn't even know what she's going to sell," I protested. "So what," they collectively replied. "It's a great name and she'll probably come up with some swell crap and junk."

Which brings me to a Carrie Bradshawesque question: Does it matter what you sell as long as your marketing and branding is really good? Or is it really just about branding and marketing anyway?

Where was the Internet When I was a Kid?

When I was attending college back a century or so ago, and my high school friends were scattered hither and yon at other temples of higher learning, we communicated largely by letters and postcards. Long distance phone calls were too expensive.

Then one of us got the bright idea to send audio cassettes back and forth so that we could, at least, hear each others' voices. Swell! Quickly, this form of communication within our small, closed audience became something of an art form, as one or the other of us would try for more audio "special effects," surprises, clips from songs, etc. It became commonplace to receive a tape back with snippets of your own previously sent tape included, juxtaposed with music clips, Cheech & Chong or Firesign Theatre excerpts and other such silliness.

It was great fun, and became almost a hobby for some of us. The process, when done right, could take hours (or even days) as one crafted a tape using nothing more than a little cassette recorder, a microphone and a record player with a some sort of pause mechanism. A lotta work!
While we were doing all this, I thought there must be a business opportunity here somewhere (the same instinct that I apply to most everything today). However, there was never enough time, or focus, to pursue it.

The other day, I came across ijustine.com, which is piloted by a young lady name Justine Ezarik out on the West Coast. I must be the last person on the planet to have tripped over her stuff, because she's prolific. she twitters, blogs, makes cute movies that she shows on YouTube...also apparently she does some modeling (and with good reason as she's very pretty). The point of all this is that a creative 24-year-old woman has been able to nuture an enterprise through her own self-generated entertainment. And it ain't hard....anybody with the ability to learn and the drive can do the same thing and garner Andy Warhol's 15 minutes of fame. And all we had were tape recorders and the U.S. mail.

Oh, where are the Snowdens of yesteryear?

Why are we here?

Hello all...I started this blog to express ideas about business and creativity that I felt I couldn't do in the context of my current business.

My Egore. The name came from an important childhood event--the creation of Egore--a cardboard robot I built in 1965 out of old supermarket boxes, random toy parts, and my imagination. Egore himself wasn't much to look at. He basically just sat there. But I was able to create a living character out of him, and wrote about his adventures in our elementary school paper (including illustrations). It was great! It was 1965 and I was 11 years old.

Egore went back in time in one episode; he was an "007" spy in another...he always "got the girl," if you will. Kids liked to read about Egore, and I enjoyed giving them what they wanted. As Egore became more popular, his franchise grew and we needed to construct new venues to accomodate his popularity (Disneyesque, you say?) Egore actually got to participate in a school Halloween pageant! We dressed him like the Great Pumpkin. He was a media sensation.

Then we (my friend, David, and I) got the idea to hold "Egore Fairs" where kids could come and spend money to see Egore, take a picture with him, yadayada.... We set up an Egore gift shoppe, sold treats (Egore cookies) from mobile carts (red wagons, as this all took place in David's backyard). We employed our siblings to run the various concessions. It was grand! I think we made anywhere from $5-$6 per fair, and paid our sibilings about fifty cents each.

As with Huck Finn, Egore came to an inauspicious end. David's mother threw him out one miserable February afternoon when she'd simply had enough of this sagging, cardboard toy lying around the house.

Years later, I was talking about Egore to a college friend (under the right circumstances, conversations could go that way back in the 70s). She said, "Do you think the name Egore really represented EGO?" Believe or not, I hadn't.

Everything I've done since--with the exception of following the dictates of sundry employers--has sprung from the place that made Egore.

I now run a business-to-business communications company that I started in 2000, and I enjoy it enormously. I've started this blog to explore these two variables--creativity and small business--and would appreciate sharing ideas with others who can identify with what I'm saying here.

Gimme a call and tell me about Your Egore....Frank G.