The Borging of America

[CLEVELAND - January 31, 2006] No less than six, including one who was allegedly helping a customer; that is the number of 21st Century Borgs encountered today. They are easy to see, impossible to ignore and a constant reminder that you are not nearly as important as the potential fiber optic/Radio Freq’d voice-propelled entity due any second, if not already arrived. Being a child of the gadget age – transistor radios and Mission Impossible miniature tape recorders – it should come as no shock to see these blue fanged gizmos protruding from the occasional ear. But no one is ever ready for an epidemic.

The too often repeated scene harkens back to a particularly riveting cliffhanger at the end of the fourth season of the Star Trek: The Next Generation. Captain Jean Luc Picard had been captured and apparently assimilated – futile resistance not withstanding – by the biped bumblebees, The Borg. This peculiar creation by the Rodenberry brain trust would fly around the galaxy in garbage barge cubes, sucking up races, planets, whole solar systems like voracious sharks. Once the species was captured, a feat perpetrated by nanobots in the bloodstream, there was nothing left but to deplete the natural resources and leave the place looking like an Ohio River Valley refinery at night. They were relentless in devouring everything in sight, including individuality. And that was their real horror. In the episode mentioned, Jean Luc, our diminutive starship master is staring into the camera (us) waving his temple-mounted laser and speaking those fateful words, “you will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.”

Energize forward, or backward if you have fully suspended disbelief, to 2006. Whadda ya know, the Borg have landed and cleverly compacted their post Tim Burton fashion sense to a small bit of blue light on or about the ear. At lunch recently a friend touched the tiny appendage and suddenly the restaurant was gone, the host was gone, the business at hand was gone and he was in the ether, voice on voice assimilating somewhere in the Verizon horizon. It was more than a little nauseating.

This afternoon at a gas stop, a Jerry Garcia – the later years – look-alike bounced from his Toyota pickup with this implant secured over his gold lobe loop. He managed to smile but was so engaged in misty conversation that he stepped up to the cashier, cutting right in front of the observer with the bag of chips and Diet Pepsi like there was no one there at all. It was more than a little infuriating.

Then there is the agent at the office; intense stare and thinning crown, he looks like there is a mission somewhere just waiting for his role to be completed and Jack Bauer can once again save the nation. But that is not what is happening. The blinking blue light is a clear indication: “don’t bother me, I’m conversating.”

In the fabled Star Trek, The Enterprise, Voyager, even the brave men and women and whatever on DS-9 worked tirelessly to prevent these humanoid cockroaches from infesting decent folk. Little did they know, the hive mentality is far more cunning and far more insidious than to invade in caddisworm craft from across the quadrant.

Resistance is indeed futile when it comes with free incoming calls and unlimited anytime minutes for just $59.99 a month. Jean Luc, where are you when we need you?

Picnic Chicken

Monika makes the best fried chicken in the world! This is not an opinion, this is fact. She is Hungarian married to an African American and took the best of the Polk family's Bluegrass country recipes and the spicy, tasty sensibilities of Central Europe. The result is so good that we have to ration it. Once every six weeks, that’s all, or suits will cinch.

She is away this week; seeing Omi and Danny as they settle comfortably in their twilight. Danny is 96 and Omi is his trophy wife, a mere 80 years old. They need looking in on almost as often as their daughter and step daughter fries her famous chicken.

It is the type of dish that makes eating outside fun again; stopping at a Tennessee rest stop and event; and missing her a little less painful. (She left a big box of the delicacy in the refrigerator before she flew away).

While she is away, the new work continues. This week is opposition therapy to the writer’s life. Out there the characters are real and the stories represent emotions and consequences that are as vivid as a hot match head on skin. The pain floats in the bottom lids and lace their words, no matter how hard they try to hide the fear. It is becoming a great job. The little blue rectangle on a sharp lapel brings more potential business. Yet it is still a shadow existence. At times we become characters in a new story and the narrative flows as though written by someone else. There are scripts, of course, but that is not what is happening. No one can perform in front of that kind of live audience without sounding fake. So the monologue centers on a purpose, but the conversation is about people. This can yield some surprising results.

We have no secrets, so it seems. When comfortable enough and trusting enough most will tell almost all, especially coupled and sitting together in a quiet restaurant. One might be tempted to ask about intimate details of the bedroom if not for decorum.

It is perhaps why we love stories so much; the more bizarre and the farther away the better. It is common to enhance personal tales, even for near strangers. As writers we are often closed-off, entertained by our thoughts, the constant plot line and running subtext that is as compelling as a riptide. We add to that stream, taking bits and pieces from everyone we meet. It is the writer who meets few, or who holds others in contempt, that finds his work growing stale and unenlightened.

It should be a requirement that all fiction writers do a year or two as a sales people. It would feed the creative till to overflow. The faces and feelings would fractionate wells of new characters and added dimensions of realism. It is as though a massive picnic is happening all around, and all one need do is drift from this spot to the next. Listen in and join in and soon you are part of the family. Better. You hear things some would never tell the family.

Two things make a picnic a success: plenty of cold beer and picnic fried chicken. Life’s little pleasures doled out in small helpings seem to keep the conversation going and the defenses lowered. That just might be the secret. Offer up a little of Monika’s fried chicken, metaphorically speaking of course. It’s is hard to refuse, and impossible to dislike or distrust anyone who presents the perfect complement to a few shared moments...alfresco.

The Girl in the Middle

[CLEVELAND - January 24, 2006] It starts with a smile. Then a laugh and suddenly you feel like this person genuinely cares about you. Truth is: she does!

Froggy is an extraordinary person. She must be mad. She seems to love everyone!

Joann is a friend like no other. Never forgets a birthday and making this effort for nearly everyone she knows; this is huge because if Froggy sat down and counted everyone she knows the numbers would be in the thousands. It would be a fool’s bet to suggest that any of those people don’t love her. A small hero, she just makes everyone who comes into contact with her feel good.

It was nearly thirty years ago that the remarkable sphere of this powerful little woman stepped into a man’s world. An engineer and artist, a producer and innovative technician, she made sure that she pulled her weight. No, she is ant-like in that her five-foot-two, 107 pounds pulled nearly twice her weight in some of the biggest jobs in radio and TV.

“Never lose a friend, never burn a bridge.” That would be a perfect motto for this bundle of energy. Froggy raises two active boys, helps her husband in the family business, built a home – one suspects she wields a mean hammer – teaches skiing and sits on at least two charity boards; all the while working in a very competitive television environment. You could say she is a Cirque Du Soleil of one: always moving and making you feel good about yourself.

This week she is joining her friends at the Arthritis Foundation in an event that has become a major fundraiser in the area. During a conversation intended to set up a working lunch, she convinced a friend to donate some prized possessions for the silent auction. Convinced is not the right word, Froggy makes you want to help. She even made the wine and food tasting event sound appealing, to the tune of a $60 ticket, to a recovering alcoholic. A Diet Pepsi shall remain in hand as this new people-professional makes friends. Glad to do it!

Change jobs today. Take on a position where the main task is talking to people one-on-one, one-by-one, about their lives, their hopes and their dreams. Among your first questions might be, “where do I find these people, and how do I make them want to talk to me?” Silly when you think about it. The world is filled with people, and the way you find out about them is to ask. It is easy, pleasant and for some frightening. Then, there is Froggy. Given the choice she would do that all day long and remember each conversation in such detail that she could put it in a birthday card every year.

We should all be more like Joann. We should make a point of asking, listening and caring. There is no learning curve on being open to others. We had such talents on the day we were born. For most of us, sadly, it has been bred out of us, replaced by suspicion and selfishness. One lesson leaned and put to good use by being a friend of Froggy’s is that those two attributes lead nowhere; and that it is so much easier to be open and welcoming. If you are lucky enough to meet her, to know her, the one thing you will remember is perhaps the most important thing she has to offer. And it all starts with a smile.

Fear is Easy

There is a switch that we all flip on (or off) in the morning. It is seldom noticed, but it is there and it is perhaps the most important thing we do all day. No real energy is required, yet this action, taken sometime before we are fully awake, can set the course of things for the next twelve to sixteen hours. It is the mood switch and it informs everything.

In a given day many things can and do happen. Most are not under our control. It’s much like the training undertaken recently in preparation for a new career. This is not a first choice, mind you. Living off the concocted tales of mystery and the unlikely fortunes of a clever and misguided radio host is certainly the preferred mode of survival. But as we all know that takes time and a degree of luck. In the meantime learning to contact people and providing a vital service seems reasonable. During this extensive instruction we learn this: that we cannot control what people say, we cannot control if they will even meet with us, but we can control how many opportunities we give them to say yes! That simply means the number of times one dials a phone, or walks into a business or turns a stranger into an acquaintance. It is that simple.

In the course of making these attempts at contact, we can anticipate one of two outcomes: Yes or no. Later is also a possible answer, but in reality that is a delayed yes if handled properly. If this is a choice, then why not bring the most positive consideration to the encounter? If this is your day and that is your switch, why not make a small effort to flip on a positive outlook?

And if it is so simple, then why do some many people choose the alternative?

Fear is easy. Fear has a certain comfort and its own special tingle. The central location for fear is nearer the genitals that almost any other sensation, other than sex. Even good sex involves a degree of fear. Will he like me after? Can I hold out long enough? Will I catch a STD? Will my wife find out? The cascading style sheet that is sex is sometimes based on fear – certainly the potential is there. Think of it this way: what other action other than ten years of advanced medical training allows one human being to safely impale another? No mater the instrument, in a purely mechanical sense that is exactly what is happening. So there is fear. And we like fear in mild doses. We welcome it, work for it, sacrifice for it, and sometimes even pay for it. We love it!

Fear also takes the controls from our hands and puts them into the soft unknown, taking personal responsibility along with it. Courage is not the opposite of fear; it is not even the conquering of it. It is the knowledge that we have a choice. The greatest fear is the fear of the future and that is the one thing that is completely out of human control. The courageous know this and forge ahead with good plans, determination and the notion that, “if the future is disastrous it will get no help from me!”

The next greatest fear is the fear of being the outsider. That is perhaps the shortest-lived fear because it can be dissolved with a simple, “hi.” There is the fear of chaos, as though somehow all the laws of nature will be suddenly repealed and the whole thing goes spinning out of control. And there is the fear that we really are insignificant. As writers we know this well. With every rejection letter, every day that goes buy without an offer or praise, we feel less and less important.

All that can change with a simple maneuver first thing in the morning. The day is not about to reveal its secrets. Like it or not, time is linear and nothing we can do will change that. So while you have the chance, take charge of the one thing that really is in our hands. Start with a positive outlook. As hokey as it sounds, it really does work.

Dear Son,

First of all, I want you to know it’s not so cold here. It’s warmer underground than most think, if they think of it at all. But what’s most important is that I don’t stay here much. Just come back now and then to get my bearings. Some things stay with you, stay with your body, even after we’re gone. And that’s what I wanted to tell you. We don’t stay here much.

At first it was hard to leave. You know me, never was very active. It took Elmer or a doctor or you and Monika to get me to walk around. I love to dance, though. Didn’t take any arguing to get me to dance. And that’s how Elmer got me to step up from this nice white box (thank Fooley Mae for helping you get the metal one. It is very nice). Elmer was here almost before I was gone from the world. He told me not to be afraid and then he said, “when you’re ready, we’ll go dancing.” This is not like sleep, Chucky. This is very different. You don’t get tired, you just listen and after a while you can see, too! You can listen to all the things people are saying, sometimes what they are thinking. It took Elmer to show me the difference. I can hear you talk about the last few moments we were together. My sweet boy. I am sure glad I had you. Stop that crying. I’m trying to tell you I’m all right!

You left my watch with me. That was very nice, kind of a surprise, too. Elmer laughed and laughed when he saw that. It was the gold one he gave me for our thirtieth anniversary. You didn’t know that, but it was nice. Time is very different here. It’s hard to explain, but no one pays any attention to it. I asked Lena once what time it was and she said, “what time do you want it to be?” You remember Aunt Lena. I know you do. She’s looking good. Got her whole family here and they all are like when we used to visit in Lexington. Most of the time we are all in Lexington, or the house on Pasadena, except there are no bad people, no arguments and plenty of chances to dance and laugh.

Lena still smokes! If you can believe that. But it doesn’t bother me; I guess it wasn’t the smoke that bothered me before, just knowing it was going to shorten her life. No need to worry about that now.

I was telling you how your father got me to get up to see all there is to see. I mean that. I can see everything, and not just in your world but worlds no one ever imagined. I know you loved those strange stories, science fiction and all. The real universe is like nothing on those shows. I can’t begin to explain. You’ll just have to see for yourself. You and Monika.

Linda is here and so is Lee. They were the first to say hi, aside from Elmer. Hard to say what they look like. I see them in all ages, from little babies to strong adults. They know how things are going for their folks there. And here’s a little secret: they help, too! I’m not sure how it works, but everybody here sees after you’all. It’s not like they are going to give you the Trifecta or tell you what to do next. It’s more like editing the story a little bit, just so things don't get too bad to handle. I know you understand what I mean by editing. You are so good at that sort of thing. You have to live your life, make the decisions you make and learn. We are always learning, even here. But don’t ever worry that things are going to get so bad that you can’t make it. That’s where we come in. That’s when we do a little editing.

I know you think about me all the time. I see you in the room up there, the big room you and Monika gave me in your new house. You have that wonderful picture of me in all my stages of life up on the wall. I like that picture. Sometimes I would stare at that picture and remember all the wonderful things we did, Elmer and me. The kids, too. You and Barbie and Al Jr. He’s here, too. We see him when we need to. Has a whole different crowd he likes to be around. I’m still not sure how it works here. Always learning. So three things you need to remember: we’re doing fine, we can and do look after you and you never stop learning.

Don’t you worry, don’t you ever worry.

Making Assumptions: Everybody Loses

Wal-Mart 'heartsick' over DVD grouping

No. 1 retailer apologizes for bizarre racial combinations on Web site

NEW YORK (CNNMoney.com) - Wal-Mart is ringing in the New Year with a pair of snafus.The retail giant apologized Thursday after its Web site directed buyers of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and "Planet of the Apes" DVDs to consider DVDs with African American themes. (complete article)

CLEVELAND [January 15, 2006] -- This item was sent by a beloved Wal-Mart detractor. She repels at most notions of the ordinary and the unfair. To her, Wal-Mart is the epitome of such sludge-like American values. That is the real beauty of being an American: we know our faults and flaws and try everyday to keep the good ones just a little ahead of the bad (they are in equal measure). Here, our favorite retailer failed with glaring efficiency.

It is not difficult to imagine what happened. Marketing has become a pseudo science in the extreme. Trends and forecasts are determined by the latest pronouncements from the successful pattern recognizers and pop-culture bestsellers. Even the attempt at tracking human behavior using accepted scientific methods are inherently flawed because the x-factor is the uniquely unpredictable human spirit. It is the ultimate Band Wagon, the Tipping Point, the phenomenon in physics that changes the outcome merely by the act of observation. Humans will resist categorization. So marketing is far from a constant. It is as fluid as water flowing over a levy. Yet there are breaks in the fog and marketers have an “ah ha” moment. That is when we are pigeonholed and spoon-fed and every other cliché imaginable that means, “we know what you want and here it is!”

So Wal-Mart screwed up and put black people in the box with Planet of the Apes and Home Alone. Perhaps the purchase of movies starring Queen Latifah or Ice Cube might prompt any reasonable ad-person to believe that the shopper is fond of sophomoric humor and bad re-makes. It is really hard to tell. Perhaps they had a special running on the newer Monkey movie and included it in all their marketing. Charlie, after all, had just come out and why not push the products?

But somewhere, somehow someone claiming to represent the minds of African-Americans saw a link, a devious and thinly veiled hint of racism. So we chocolate, huh? Is that what you sayin’? We like apes? You callin’ us gorillas? And that stupid kid, whatever his name is, why? Cause he like ta' hang with Michael Jackson? Y’all ain’t foolin’ nobody! Y’all just a bunch of racists.

It is truly criminal what Wal-Mart in their callous marketing has done: raised the specter of America’s ugliest side and injected it into our most treasured right. We have to shop. We need Wal-Mart. This little quirk in the system is more to the delight of the CNN’s, the New York Times and the Charlie Rangels, and not to any significant consternation of most black folks. We don’t care. Racism is like dirt, it is everywhere if you look for it, but that does not mean you can’t wash your hands. This is the wisdom of generations of Americans who have developed a pretty good filter for what is and is not important.

If Wal-Mart thinks we might want to try Home Alone because we bought Ice Cube’s “Are We There Yet?” maybe it is an attempt to dramatically raise our standards in entertainment.

A Plot Against Art

CLEVELAND [January 13, 2006] -- This is how a mystery writer’s mind works. With apologies to a great broadcaster, and with sincere sympathies for his loss, there is an opening here for a plot. Risky? Yes. But writers take risks every time a noun and verb are paired.

This man had it all; millions of fans and millions of dollars. He was able to work from his home surrounded by things he loves. 25 acres of “high desert” were his, bought and paid for. He owned a commercial radio station and had erected a big enough loop of short-wave antenna to talk to the world at will. Talking to the world had not been a problem for him for many years. His late-night talk show was a franchise in the theoretical sciences, science fiction, the conspiracy theories and the lunatic fringe, all in equal proportions. It was his; the audience knew it and more importantly the syndicator and affiliates knew it. With that power he could and did appoint his replacement when working five nights a week was just too much effort. When he grew bored he made a call and returned to the air on his terms, working at first weekends and then a few Sundays a month. Still they flocked to the opposite end of his microphone, doubling the listeners over times he was not on the air.

At the age of sixty all of his dreams had come true. Then on the morning of January 4th his life was shattered.

It was time for a little break. Art and his wife of fourteen years, Ramona, were at one of their favorite luxury spas in Laughlin. Nevada. It was a quiet place, reserved for the recognizable who value their privacy, so it was necessarily out-of-the-way. The Bells drove the heavily equipped RV beyond the high fence and climbed aboard the stretch golf cart. Ramona threw her face to the sun and smiled that familiar wide smile that Art and many of his listeners had come to know and love. Born in a small village near Manila, Ramona Bell considered herself the luckiest woman in the world. She had the perfect marriage with a man whose devotion to her outweighed an almost obsessive love for all things radio. He was lonely before her, and now he was happy. He was doing okay financially before her – Art paid more attention to his toys than his finances – and now he was wildly wealthy; selling part of his famous format for more than twenty million dollars with consulting rights amounting to another ten million over ten years.

But Art was not enjoying the trip, at least not as much as his bride. Ramona’s mother was vocalizing in the second seat of the golf cart. It was a strange expression of overwhelming joy that is uttered only by older women of the Philippines; kind of a swirl and guttural rondo of an ancient voice, signifying unyielding glee. He had heard Ramona make the same sound. It was hard to differentiate it from one of her devastating and dangerous asthma attacks. Yet this intrusion on the oddly irrigated low desert - with its swaying palms and thick Bermuda grass, its low hacienda shelters opened to the almost always perfect temperature of 82 degrees, and the sprawling elegance of the main spa with its sandstone and terra cotta accents that seem to catch the sun and distribute it in gems of colored light to every visitor - this piercing sound did not isolate him from the last prediction of the night. Neither luxury nor annoyance offered any reprieve from the torment of the message, delivered in Poe-like verse on his computer screen as the yearly prediction show’s closing theme rolled:

It was, like many things on his late-night exploration into the macabre and the unlikely, a warning cloaked in just enough Orphism to plague his consciousness. Art could not place it in the huge bin along with the rest of the uttering of the unstable. Like an errant eyelash, it nagged at him through dinner and onto bedtime.

Perhaps it was the drive, the excitement transmitted by his wife and her mother, but the usual night owl was exhausted by midnight and the couple turned in early. A man can tell when he sleeps alone. There is an oppressive closeness to the walls and a sullen dampness to the darkness. But when he is with his wife, the sound of her breathing and the warmth of her being seem to keep the demons away. Art woke with a start, as if pulled from one nightmare and into another. There was weight, but no sound, heat, but no warmth. The body next to him was no longer his beloved Ramona. It was a shell, her remains. Her breath was robed forever in the dark. She was gone.

The pain was nearly unbearable, but accosting his wounded psyche more was the haunting verse, delivered late and outside of the normal channels. This poet did not want the requisite airtime, or the flinching moment of fame the 129 other predictors wanted. He had a message, a warning and though it was not clear in the beginning, it was so now. The crossing of the Rubicon, the anniversary of Gaius Julius Caesar declaring Rome for his own, minus five days, minus two thousand and fifty-five years; the die is cast.

It was no medical emergency, masked by sleep that stole his most precious. This was a Frightful Cost, but he would not pay it alone. He was not sure how, but the host of a show dealing almost exclusively with the strange had heard enough to know. This was murder and Art Bell was going to find the poet, the predictor. He was going to find the killer.

A Close-in War

CLEVELAND [January 10, 2006] -- Not since 1970 has this face appeared. It is everywhere, on young men of different nationalities and different circumstances. Some may have no affiliation at all and some are bound by duty. But the face is the same. Take away the different nuance of features, the skin tone and size and you have an equality of remainder: “I have seen death, I have known fear and I have delivered horror. I have seen war.”

It was in the most American and innocuous place a city can offer: Walgreen’s. The men were fast paced and determined. They wanted cigars, but not just any back-wall brands, stale American tobacco without a hint of humidification or even so much as a vacuum pack. This would not do. The man in the black outer coat and suit watched them as they patrolled the front of the store, waiting for eye contact so that he could convey…gratitude. It was genuine and the men had seen it, too, in all forms. Most insincere, some supported by curiosity and a desire for war stories. But this was real and the E-7, the Sergeant First Class knew it was so. He did not smile, exactly, but he had more of a convivial face than the red-headed Staff Sergeant who accompanied him – dutifully a pace behind. In his was weariness, still honed from the battles and untrusting of this reality. The men had campaign ribbons, again not seen in such abundance since Vietnam. “Been in a few skirmishes, I see?” the non-veteran offered.

“Been around. We buried a friend back at the big church just today.” It was the senior non-commissioned officer of the Army Special Operations Command who dealt with the well-meaning civilian. The red patches against the dress green brought blood to mind – Green Berets with Ranger special designation banners above. It is not clear why, the color comparison. “The community was great. Cops stopped the traffic and there were about…at least a couple of hundred of us there to say goodbye.” Their berets are sand-colored now.

“Killed in Iraq?” It was a given, but the sergeant nodded as though the question took him back to Kirkuk, Ramadi, Mosul or Baghdad. These were places that held odd attractions, like freedom with a weapon. A stranger paradise where boredom and terror shared the same mental confusion; it was a high, one young marine said, that never lets you sleep. Not really sleep. That is why the warrior sleeps, sometimes for days after returning home. They want to make love and reconnect, but all they can do, at least in the beginning is sleep.

The men were not happy with the Walgreen cigar selection, and who could blame them. This was a moment to share with each other for their fallen pal. They wanted to recapture the moments after battles when the men would light up Army issue and gifts from home. The cigars, the victory cigars had come to mean more. The men were no longer so hard, no longer so keyed for the fight, but the eyes did not change. The eyes will never change.

A generation of war is here, once again, after nearly two without it. There is no doubt the young men and women who wear the uniform were, are ready for whatever their country asks of them. It is the close-in war that makes them wonder; the debate, the wisdom or the need that we discuss around them, and sometimes over their graves.

Many might dispute this, but it has never been easy for this country to go to war. Never. It is not today. But when it happens there is a great price to pay. When some of us, roughly half of us see the uniform our thoughts go to death and destruction, not the struggle for freedom and the protection of our shores, our families. Some of us look into the eyes of those young people and look for a reason, a story to support our feelings about things. But their eyes do not change. That part of the men and women that went to war will not change. We can only hope that the experience, as horrible as it is, might give us another Great Generation. They are the Brave, without question, and because of them we are the Free.

Malcolm, Kenna and the Power of Books

CLEVELAND [January 6, 2006] -- Not long ago a question was put to a fellow PM member – a top blogger with double disciplines in the internal workings of marketing and the book business – “Are product placements in novels real? Imagined? Effective?” She wrote back and made it clear that as an advertising executive the last place she would spend a client’s money was in content product placement – that is making the product a part of the set in order to send a subliminal message to the viewer. She was not keen on the practice in movies nor the new phenomenon of placements in top TV shows. But in novels, she insisted, the impact is less than negligible.

She is correct. As a creator of audio advertising it was difficult enough to get the product overtly placed in the mind of the consumer – the listener – by beating them over the head with snappy jingles and memorable wordplay. But doing so subtly, using what is known as rapid cognition to force the impression, one must trust the experts. In this field there are few and most are subjugated by the rules of scientific research and academic pursuits. In other words, they are expensive and there is no guarantee that the context of the placement will match the evidence of effectiveness found in the lab. Thus most mundane market research is still done the old fashion way: ask the potential consumer to compare and share. For many products this usually yields enough information to base an investment of time and money; if you are marketing potato chips or office chairs that might be enough.

But for things that rely on the emotional responses of your target, the simple question – which do you like better? – might not be good enough. There is a fair chance such direct polling could generate the exact opposite of the ultimate truth as defined by time and the eventual embrace of the heretofore unfamiliar.

Imagine a bridge from the physical world to the nuanced and foggy universe of human emotions. Malcolm Gladwell, in his bestseller “Blink – The Power of Thinking Without Thinking,” discusses at length the way emotions dictate actions. And that these emotions are as plain as the nose on our faces, literally. We cannot hide our true feelings from the trained observer. If we learn to trust our senses, we all have this power of observation and we receive these signals in an instant.

Music also demands crossing that emotional bridge. And the one receiving that stimuli, be it pleasure or pain, has little control over the reason for the reaction. We just know when we like something and when we don’t. But when asked to explain the reasons for those feelings we tend to rely on the comfortable descriptive terms that guide our lives. This almost always forces us to reject the unusual and conform to the familiar.

That, my friends, is why music heard on the radio all fits into the same box of blandness and repetition. Yet in Mr. Gladwell’s book there is an artist that he, the author, certainly enjoys. He is Kenna, and his music is very good – this coming from an admitted expert. But the market research relied upon by the recording industry does not know how to test the potential of such a new an innovative artist. As explained in Blink, Kenna was embraced by such luminaries as the head of Atlantic Records and nearly every executive on his staff, Limp Bizkit’s manager and lead singer Fred Durst, U2’s manager and band members and many others including attendees at most of his concerts. College Radio loves him, which is often, but not always, a harbinger of musically trends. And even though he finally obtained a record deal, the same research methods that held him down so long virtually doomed him. Kenna could not get past go in The Radio Game. Phone surveys, internet tests and even mailed CD’s of his work could not generate the responses radio likes to see before committing to a single.

Yet Malcolm Gladwell prominently features Kenna in most glowing terms as one example of his thesis on rapid cognition and its counterpart, TMI: Too Much Information. He made no attempt to cover his love for the music and the man. So the question remains: can the power of a bestseller break through the retainer walls of conventional music and radio testing?

Music is one of the most difficult things to change in a society. Think about what it took to change the music American youth has embraced over the last three generations. There was literally upheaval in the streets in some cases and internal combustion in others. Many still consider the Twentieth Century far too modern and intellectually wanting to produce any serious composition. If Kenna sees a spike in popularity, if there is a surge in acceptance, in downloading his interesting mix of 80’s electronica with a soulful backdrop and rock attitude, then we will know, without question that a wildly popular book can influence the way we act; the way we think.

At least the way we think we think.

Three Men You Might Meet on Earth

CLEVELAND [January 3, 2006] -- There was a pride, a something that bubbled up from the professional courtesy. He cared about the guest, waiting to pay a bill, but he had more behind the stylish glasses and gentle southern tones. There was melancholy in the greatest sense of the word. Asked how long he had been the general manager of the jewelry store, he said “just about half a year,” as though stretching the time; putting distance between him and the horrible reality that brought him to the cold north. “I was at our New Orleans store for many years.” He looked out over the clean counters and shiny items under glass. “…One of the stores. The entire operation was wiped out.” The role was never compromised. He was the manager and there to make the guest feel very important. It worked.

There was more to the story. A few exchanges and, near the watch counter where oddly enough an unintended sale was underway, he mentioned his two-year old son. That was enough to move the sadness and fear, the devastation and uncertainty surrounding his former home; that was enough to set it all aside for the time being. At fifty-one, he finally had his prayers answered. It was not easy, he said, they had tried and like so many couples the alternatives were nearly exhausted before the miracle happened. Before departing the store he showed the guest – one is not a customer in this business model, all are guests – a proud array of photos with a handsome toddler, ready and able to steal any heart. It was a pleasure meeting this gentleman. He will find his new home inviting and warm, even as the snow flies and the winds bite. It may not be the balmy bayou, but it will be home for as long as he needs it.

Eighteen years; that was how long the second man was in a tough business: landscaping. Many of us barely notice the hard working young men as they mow, blow, rake and trim the lawns of those wealthy enough, or busy enough to afford the service. Few cut through the brush of skilled, but often unschooled small business people. Chip is different. He and his wife have generated a clientele that remains loyal, even if they cannot afford the services. This is a first-hand observation. His crews are no different from the rest. His machines perform the same tasks. It is Chip’s attentiveness that makes the difference. He calls after every job to make sure the client is happy and if there was any problem, the person responsible will come out and personally make things right. Chip says he has not always had good years. That the nature of the business means making bad calls and riding out the lean times. But he found a specialty and he is moving forward. There was never a hint of quit in his voice. It was his business and he was going to make it thrive.

Tom is a retired insurance man. He once said of a young man wandering around the enshrined home of the co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous, “he looks like loose change looking for a pocket.” Tom provided that pocket and more. He never had answers, just a way of turning questions back on themselves, taking the mystery out of everyday life. For that young man, those many years ago, the mysteries seemed as large and profound as the Ages. But it was just life, and a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. It is that simple with Tom. Nineteen years later he still says “I love you,” and ends each call with, “God bless you.” He means it.

In 2006 we all need a little more honest simplicity. We all need balance and courage, too, as shown in the other men met one day on earth. It is very easy if we take the time to notice. It is a constant theme in these Personal Notes: everyone has a story if we only take the attention away from our tale and pay attention to vital narration happening all the time, and all around.

But First, Are You (an) Experience?

The forty-year old managing partner was humble as he directed his dark eyes straight ahead. The downward gaze – manufactured by a slight bow at the neck - landed just below that of the seated audience. Standing at the head of the square of tables, it was a sign of respect given to the group. Of course he knew more, earned more than most in the room could imagine, studied more and perhaps even thought more deeply about things that motivate people. But he was not about to show it. This was not about him. He was all about making us feel good about ourselves. It was the emotional bridge that he commanded and all lanes were headed in the same direction: from him to us.

Showing us the Experience Economy first hand was his goal. Who would get it, his method? All would have the effect, but who would understand what he was doing to communicate that feeling? Cleveland was his new deployment, and he had little time to turn the thinking around; to make these men and women confidantes to the wealthy, while not yet being wealthy themselves.

“We serve successful people. We want to talk to them and no one else. That’s where the competition will not go and that is where we will stay.”

Everybody’s a dreamer…everybody’s a star. In a blink the cynical song lyric has become our model for success. And it works!

Cirque Du Soleil, Starbucks, Walt Disneyworld, and a handful of other places set out to provide a service once restricted to family and love. It is good sex, a plaque of recognition, a golf tournament named after you, a wing to a hospital in your honor: things that make you feel good about yourself, if only while in the experience and maybe - if it is well done, if it is carefully crafted - an afterglow lasting some time. This is the only way to win!

Linkin Park is one of the top earning music acts in the last few years. Their lyrics speak to the young men of America with a single message: we are better than this! They just signed a $16 million advance for one album. This after trashing the record label, Warner, and making them look (feel) like shit. Point made, they cut the check. Howard Stern gets on the radio and sounds like the guy who sets the agenda for your high school crew. Not really the leader, but the one with the best ideas, the funniest stunts; the master boredom-killer. He makes about 20 million listeners feel like they are part of the club, like they get it and they can’t wait to share it with other members as the day wears on. For this bit of talent and hard work – never doubt that Howard Stern is one of the hardest working men in entertainment – he is paid roughly $100 million a year for 5 years. Half a billion dollars to literally and single-handedly move a new media into the mainstream. He will succeed. Sirius Satellite Radio jumped by two million subscribers signing up just to hear Howard Uncensored. More will follow once they realize that the subscription service is the only way to get a fix on their long cultivated addiction. They won’t feel the same without him in the morning. They won’t feel good about themselves.

Simon Cowell makes us feel good by making others look and feel badly. He would say that he is just saying what America is thinking and usually he is correct. But in the process it conveys a clear message: aren’t you lucky you are not up there? For this Cowell makes an estimated $20 million a year.

Radio’s Paul Harvey signed a 10 year, 100 million dollar contract at age 80! Paul is a serious addiction for more listeners than Stern and he is the real thing, calculating every word to make you feel as though he searched the world for news just for you.

Yankees new centerfielder Johnny Damon ($52 million over four years), Donald Trump (more than $100 million over two years from NBC), and Jerry Bruckheimer, the creator of CSI and a dozen other successful TV shows and movies makes more money than God. They all succeed because they are selling an experience. It has been more than 30 years since Jimi left the scene, and we are just now getting it: it’s the experience that we value. It is the world from the inside out. Give someone an experience that makes him or her feel good, feel better about life, and you have a customer for life.