by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. Here is the most important four-letter word in
the entire English language: home. It conjures up and is connected to
every element of the well-lived life: spouse, family, peace, comfort,
security. Nothing can match its importance, nothing can duplicate its
significance. Nothing is more powerful than our memories of home and
their enduring pull, always tugging at our heart strings. Home and its
rhythms, its well remembered aspects, its secrets, its traditions, its
confidences, its ways so well known and carefully maintained… these have
a power over us that never fails, never pales, never wavers, never
diminishes, and are always clear, fresh, joyful, unforgettable,
bittersweet, haunting, the sweetest memories of our entire life.
This is an article on the moment that comes to each of us… when this
home, our very special, irreplaceable place, must be given up because
its proprietors can no longer maintain it, now needing particular care
themselves. This is an article about a moment poignant, sad, dreadful,
irrevocable. It is about the people who take this step first, our
parents… then about their children, us, who will trod the difficult
road, too, but not yet… and what they must do today, a day of emotional
turmoil, distress, a day for which all preparation is inadequate.
For this article I have selected the song “My Old Kentucky Home”
(1852) by America’s first great composer, Stephen Foster. It is one of
the most wistful, longing songs of our country… and whenever one hears
it one thinks, and tearful too, of one’s own home, now gone, far away,
never to be replaced, always to be remembered, the more so as the
destination you are now going to can never be a home like the one left
behind. Go now to any search engine. Find and play it at once. It is the
perfect accompaniment to this article.
The call.
The call we all fear, cannot bear thinking about, but must think
about — comes the day our aging parents first consider assisted living,
whether outwardly calm and willing, or fighting the hopeless battle to
avoid this fate, roiled by turbulent emotions deep within, so clearly
visible without.
Assisted living.
The words “assisted living” are two of the most frightening and
disturbing in our language. It is easy to see why. Assisted living is
mostly the province of the retired, the ill, the aging, geriatric
survivors of better times. As such it is a venue to be put off and
avoided whenever possible, for as long as possible; as much so as if
each assisted living facility had posted at its front door this
immemorial admonition from Dante’s “Inferno”: “Abandon all hope ye who
enter here.”
Such institutions are perceived as the final way station before
cosmic extinction; the place one enters unhappy, angry, misunderstood,
and which one leaves dead; the place for the irremediably old, those who
are past it, marginal, unconsidered, beyond the care and concern of
anyone other than those paid to care and be concerned; lonely people of
the Eleanor Rigby variety.
All of life…
Assisted living, with its implied inadequacies and dependence, is
always and often indignantly compared to the joy of independent living,
where you do what you want, when you want, with whom you want, in just
the way you want; in other words the kind of living each of us desires,
insists upon, and does everything possible to maintain. Assisted living,
of course, is widely perceived as the antithesis of the desired
independent living.
But this is wrong.
ALL living is assisted living. For unless you are rabidly antisocial
and determined to remain that way, alone, isolated, happy and contented
in your aloneness, you are assisted — every single day — by people whose
aim is to make you reasonably happy, reasonably content, and reasonably
comfortable. Thus, in truth, when one moves from living regarded as
independent to living regarded as assisted, one is evolving from one
kind of care to another kind of care; one is tweaking circumstances the
better to ensure the maximum continuation of your desired life style.
One is not undergoing metamorphosis, but comparative and necessary
improvement.
Sadly, most people undergoing this process are unable to see this, or
at least to state it to guilt-ridden relatives who are thus distressed
by the painful thought that Aunt Martha is being cast off rather than
moved to an appropriate level of care, concern, and consideration. Most
assisted living facilities these days resemble college campuses or
resorts; they know the grief, anger, recriminations and distress which
new residents bring and work hard to create an atmosphere that is at
once attractive, even beautiful; livable, practical, and serene, factors
which soothe the guilt of those recommending assisted living to those
near and dear but are often dismissed as inadequate or unimportant by
those being recommended into the facility.
Receiving the intelligence.
Twice in my life, so far, have I been a participant to greater or
lesser degree, in conversations surrounding the movement of one near and
beloved to assisted living. The first such conversations involved my
mother; the second set involved my father. These conversations could
hardly have been less similar — or more instructive about the principals
involved and affected.
My mother, student of Dylan Thomas that she was, did not, nor could
not, go gentle into this good night. She raged, raged against what she
was sure was the dying of the light. Despite weakening health and the
myriad of problems stemming therefrom my mother fought hard,
strenuously, vociferously, painfully against the notion of
“incarceration” in an assisted living facility, thereby branded as penal
institution, not comfortable necessity. Her transition from living
deemed independent to living deemed assisted was therefore protracted,
painful, packed with imprecations, denigrations, accusations,
maledictions which made Emile Zola’s famous declaration “J’accuse” look
sniveling.
My father handled the matter entirely different… and I suspect this
was partly because he will have with him his wife Ellie; to be alone at
life’s end is painful; to be partnered with a loved mate lessons the
pain while increasing the means to combat and to live with it.
Sad, wistful, practical, accepting.
When my father called yesterday to inform me that he and Ellie had
made arrangements to share their dwindling, most precious days together
in assisted living, I felt a lump in my throat. He extolled the grounds,
their private apartment, the food, the friendly residents… but whether
he believed all this as stated or was just trying out what would become
the stock reason or their move, I cannot say… for I was reflecting on a
few words that he had said.
Entering the dining room where they would find their daily meals, he
was surprised to find it peopled with the old, feeble, and infirm. Could
this be he at 86, Ellie at 87? Or had some mistake occurred? She,
knowing how difficult it had to be for him to transform his independent
life to one “assisted”, took his hand and reassured him that no mistake
was made; they were in the right place, which he would soon know, if he
did not know already. And thus these proud, fiercely independent souls,
more used to assisting others than being assisted, move into the next
phase of their lives, together, facts faced, practical decisions made,
gently, calmly, with love and care. And I admired my father so, not
merely as son to father, but as man to man. For he faced the difficult,
the fearful, the unpalatable, with grace, quietude, reserve, with good
judgement, good humor, and a good wife, well stocked and ready for the
journey ahead… which they will travel similarly and with kindness, above
all with kindless and the help of those glad to assist them, and with
kindness too.
** We invite you to post your comments to this article.
Showing posts with label jeffrey lant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jeffrey lant. Show all posts
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
I accuse you of doing everything you can to sabotage your online success…. and what you must do — at once — to change that and profit.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. In 1894 Captain Alfred Dreyfus, artillery captain for the General Staff of France, was charged with treason and espionage… thereby inaugurating one of the most outrageous and ignoble events in the entire history of France.
It was a story of lies… but not by Dreyfus.
It was the story of evidence made up… evidence tampered with… evidence destroyed… but not by Dreyfus.
It was the story of grave injustice… deliberately done and with malice… but not by Dreyfus.
It was the story of a man attacked, mauled, censored, imprisoned, humiliated, villified because of his religion… but not by Dreyfus.
And above all it is the story of how one man with brilliant, slashing language changed the entire debate… securing at long last freedom, restitution and justice for Dreyfus.
This man was celebrated novelist Emile Zola who took just two words and transformed them into the most powerful weapon on earth… two words that galvanized a nation, securing the attention and support of the good people of France who, because of Zola, were outraged by the terrible and enduring blot on the honor of France… and who joined their voices to his in the service of truth.
J’accuse!
These are the words — I accuse — which by making the outrages clear — began the healing process that saved France from ignominy and redeemed her. Now I intend to use the great model created by Zola and to save you from business ignominy… to redeem you… and enable you to profit online… for you have been doing everything possible to fail… and little or nothing to succeed.
To help you on your way I have selected the soaring 1937 score Max Steiner wrote for the Best Picture of the Year; “The Life of Emile Zola” starring Paul Muni. Such grand music must enable success… so go to any search engine now and play it. We are ready to begin the transforming process that starts with “I accuse…” and ends with “I salute…”, wafted on our way by the grandeur of Steiner’s composition.
I accuse you of not understanding what business is… of understanding that business is now and always will be about two things and two things only: the generation of prospect leads… and following up with each and every one of these leads to make offers and close business.
I accuse you of engaging in endless trivia every day, focusing on anything and everything instead of generating prospects… and calling these prospects, to work with them and begin the development of the business relationships necessary to secure success.
I accuse you of trying to run a business solely by email… trying that is to motivate people to buy without doing the most important thing to profit: picking up the phone, calling prospects, engaging prospects, building relations with prospects.
I accuse you of sloth, laziness, of sitting around and waiting for success, instead of doing what is necessary — everything that’s necessary — to build the business you say you want… but for which there is absolutely no evidence that you have ever done on its behalf any meaningful thing at all.
I accuse you of the sin of inertia… of waiting, waiting, waiting, for, what?, a sign from Heaven, an email from God? I accuse you of not knowing what needs to be done, of not educating yourself so that you know how to do it, and not doing the least thing to secure your success.
I accuse you of spending more time gossiping on the phone with people who cannot make you richer (your best friend, your bowling buddies, the chick you met bar hopping last week) instead of using the phone to do what it does so well… connecting with the people who can buy from you, buy now, and make you money every single day.
I accuse you of trying to build your online business alone, all by yourself, when all the evidence says this is not possible, is absolutely impossible, because there is too much to do…too many things to master… and insufficient time to learn them, then do them. You need a team… and you need it at once.
I accuse you of the sin of talking about success far more than doing the necessary deeds and actions that ensure success. You have become, thereby, a specialist in the endless rhetoric and bombastic language of success, while achieving nothing. It is time, therefore, past time, to cease and censure the flatulent babble and get on with the doing.
I accuse you of not staying at your post every day until you have achieved the financial objective you have set for yourself for this day, focusing, persisting until you have achieved this goal… every penny of this goal.
I accuse you of coddling yourself, of a too prompt tendency to forgive your inadequacies, overlook the negatives, whitewash your poor performances, rationalize your failings, pooh pooh each and every peccadillo, extol too greatly minor triumphs instead of pushing on to make the insignificant significant.
The words used by Zola to end his famous declamation to French president Felix Faure, January 13, 1898:
“I have but one passion: to enlighten those who have been kept in the dark, in the name of humanity which has suffered too much and is entitled to happiness. My fiery protest is simply the cry of my very soul.”
I couldn’t say it better myself, so won’t try. Zola’s letter changed the world… my hope is that this changes yours.
** We invite you to post your comments to this article below.
Author’s program note. In 1894 Captain Alfred Dreyfus, artillery captain for the General Staff of France, was charged with treason and espionage… thereby inaugurating one of the most outrageous and ignoble events in the entire history of France.
It was a story of lies… but not by Dreyfus.
It was the story of evidence made up… evidence tampered with… evidence destroyed… but not by Dreyfus.
It was the story of grave injustice… deliberately done and with malice… but not by Dreyfus.
It was the story of a man attacked, mauled, censored, imprisoned, humiliated, villified because of his religion… but not by Dreyfus.
And above all it is the story of how one man with brilliant, slashing language changed the entire debate… securing at long last freedom, restitution and justice for Dreyfus.
This man was celebrated novelist Emile Zola who took just two words and transformed them into the most powerful weapon on earth… two words that galvanized a nation, securing the attention and support of the good people of France who, because of Zola, were outraged by the terrible and enduring blot on the honor of France… and who joined their voices to his in the service of truth.
J’accuse!
These are the words — I accuse — which by making the outrages clear — began the healing process that saved France from ignominy and redeemed her. Now I intend to use the great model created by Zola and to save you from business ignominy… to redeem you… and enable you to profit online… for you have been doing everything possible to fail… and little or nothing to succeed.
To help you on your way I have selected the soaring 1937 score Max Steiner wrote for the Best Picture of the Year; “The Life of Emile Zola” starring Paul Muni. Such grand music must enable success… so go to any search engine now and play it. We are ready to begin the transforming process that starts with “I accuse…” and ends with “I salute…”, wafted on our way by the grandeur of Steiner’s composition.
I accuse you of not understanding what business is… of understanding that business is now and always will be about two things and two things only: the generation of prospect leads… and following up with each and every one of these leads to make offers and close business.
I accuse you of engaging in endless trivia every day, focusing on anything and everything instead of generating prospects… and calling these prospects, to work with them and begin the development of the business relationships necessary to secure success.
I accuse you of trying to run a business solely by email… trying that is to motivate people to buy without doing the most important thing to profit: picking up the phone, calling prospects, engaging prospects, building relations with prospects.
I accuse you of sloth, laziness, of sitting around and waiting for success, instead of doing what is necessary — everything that’s necessary — to build the business you say you want… but for which there is absolutely no evidence that you have ever done on its behalf any meaningful thing at all.
I accuse you of the sin of inertia… of waiting, waiting, waiting, for, what?, a sign from Heaven, an email from God? I accuse you of not knowing what needs to be done, of not educating yourself so that you know how to do it, and not doing the least thing to secure your success.
I accuse you of spending more time gossiping on the phone with people who cannot make you richer (your best friend, your bowling buddies, the chick you met bar hopping last week) instead of using the phone to do what it does so well… connecting with the people who can buy from you, buy now, and make you money every single day.
I accuse you of trying to build your online business alone, all by yourself, when all the evidence says this is not possible, is absolutely impossible, because there is too much to do…too many things to master… and insufficient time to learn them, then do them. You need a team… and you need it at once.
I accuse you of the sin of talking about success far more than doing the necessary deeds and actions that ensure success. You have become, thereby, a specialist in the endless rhetoric and bombastic language of success, while achieving nothing. It is time, therefore, past time, to cease and censure the flatulent babble and get on with the doing.
I accuse you of not staying at your post every day until you have achieved the financial objective you have set for yourself for this day, focusing, persisting until you have achieved this goal… every penny of this goal.
I accuse you of coddling yourself, of a too prompt tendency to forgive your inadequacies, overlook the negatives, whitewash your poor performances, rationalize your failings, pooh pooh each and every peccadillo, extol too greatly minor triumphs instead of pushing on to make the insignificant significant.
The words used by Zola to end his famous declamation to French president Felix Faure, January 13, 1898:
“I have but one passion: to enlighten those who have been kept in the dark, in the name of humanity which has suffered too much and is entitled to happiness. My fiery protest is simply the cry of my very soul.”
I couldn’t say it better myself, so won’t try. Zola’s letter changed the world… my hope is that this changes yours.
** We invite you to post your comments to this article below.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
‘Without the help and support of the woman I love.” Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson, love and scandal.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. In 1936 the world was transfixed by a story so big, so engrossing, so incredible that only the Second Coming could have topped it. It was the story of Edward VIII, King of England, Emperor of India… and a twice- married American lady from Baltimore, Maryland — Mrs. Simpson. It was billed as history’s greatest love affair… but, as this article unfolds… you may very well draw a very different conclusion.
But let’s start by playing the tune I’ve selected to accompany this article…. “Exactly Like You”. Go to any search engine to find this number. It was written in 1930 by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields. I swear by the rendition by Louis Armstrong. You won’t be able to get it out of your head; kind of like the king’s catastrophic obsession with his Wallis… for of all the women in the world who wanted him, he had to have her, the very worst choice imaginable.. to the consternation and disgust of the empire on which the sun never set.
The most important boy in the world.
When your great grandmother is Queen Victoria, ruler of half the world; when your grandfather is King Edward VII, called the Uncle of Europe, because his relations ruled over virtually everything; when your father is King George V and your mother is Queen Mary… your birth, life, and every single breath you take is an event… important, eagerly awaited, commented upon, chronicled. In short, it is life in the grandest fish bowl on Earth; for in return for unimaginable wealth, celestial status, and the adoration and veneration of untold millions… you give up any semblance of a personal life… any semblance of privacy. You belong not to yourself… but to your subjects, the people of England and of all the Dominions beyond the seas…
This was Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David, born in 1894, called David by his family and Your Royal Highness by everyone else. The world envied him… but his life was anything but enviable… his parents saw to that.
George (1865–1936) & Mary (1867-1953).
The argument for monarchy goes like this: in a turbulent, uncertain, unpredictable and therefore alarming world, a sovereign is eternal, stable, stalwart, an institution you can trust to be here tomorrow, because it was here yesterday and the day before that. A sovereign rises above the trivia of today, able to take the long view, high above the fray and the little concerns of little men. Having everything, wanting nothing, monarchs can be trusted with the concerns of the nation they exist to improve, to serve, to uplift and inspire.
This is all very well…. but where do you find such larger than life paragons? Certainly not in the lives of George and Mary, people frightened by their unceasing responsibilities and the constant burden of having to appear just so to a world which evaluated, and minutely too, every move they made, every action, every decision.
Most assuredly neither George nor Mary were such people… and therefore like so many people fearful of making a mistake (and being roundly criticized) they embraced rigid severity… and so sought to cover up their many inadequacies as people by a unceasingly stern and unapproachable demeanor. It looked good on ceremonial occasions… for then they were regal indeed… but life lived this way was tormenting to all concerned… especially for the two young princes Edward and Albert, future Edward VIII and George VI.
They were boys who needed love, tender care, affection… but were ignored by their colder than ice mother for whom a peck on the cheek was excessive… and constantly admonished by their father, a man who became king only because his elder brother died young thereby bequeathing the empire and his expected wife, Mary of Teck, to his younger brother Georgie, a man who rose far above his abilities, a man who knew nothing about human relations and thought that communication was nothing more than the business of barking orders and having them instantly complied with.
In such a world how could the little princes of Windsor emerge as anything other than flawed, wanting… and rebellious.
Prince of change.
All children go through a rebellious stage where “no!” is their favorite word. Do you want this? No! Do you want that? No! How about something else? No, again! But in the fullness of time even the most argumentative three year old comes out of this phase and starts growing up. But David of Windsor never did. Whatever was tried, true, traditional, standard… he wanted nothing to do with, wanted to change it, not slowly and unobtrusively but now in the most jarring and thoughtless of ways. He wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it… and as Prince of Wales from 1910… he was in a position to get it, especially as he came to understand how much the world loved and admired him.
Wobbly monarchy, high-flying adored prince.
World War I saw the demise of the great imperial dynasties of Europe, the Habsburgs of Austria, the Hohenzollerns of Germany, the Romanovs of Russia… all swept away. The only major dynasty left was in England, and it was headed by the uninspiring, unimaginative, fretful George V who was majesty in nothing but name. The dynasty needed youth… glamor… connection to the restive peoples of the empire. And for this role there was only one man available… David, now Prince of Wales… a man who shed glamor and allure on the Roaring Twenties. His world tours (from 1919) made him a world celebrity… and lonely.
He tried women, he tried booze, he tried drugs… but because he could have everything, nothing made him happy. Nothing that is except the thrills and freedoms of the Great Republic, particularly its greatest city, New York. Only there were there sufficient dissipations and indiscretions. Besides, just stepping foot in America enraged both his parents, and that made these trips delicious.
Then he met Wallis Warfield Simpson, a woman with a sordid past and two living husbands… a past that could outrage every convention and agitate the world he was destined to rule… a world that bored and annoyed him. Wallis offered him what he truly craved: submission for that was her secret… she gave the man everyone kow-towed to the gift of abasement…. the power to get the man to whom all knelt to kneel to her….
She, of course, despised him, but using him as he wanted her to use him would make her a world figure, maybe even Queen-Empress. She was ill-advised on this point, and so overplayed her cards. Instead of a boyish sovereign over whom she could rule, she got after his abdication in 1936 a semblance of a man whom she systematically and publicly humiliated for the rest of his life. He cried… he sobbed… he adored. It was the perfect relationship, exactly what he wanted. And, after all, isn’t that what love is for?
For as Louis Armstrong sings,
“I know why I’ve waited Know why I’ve been blue I’ve been waiting each day For someone exactly like you… You make me feel so grand I wanna give this world to you…”
… and he almost did.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Author’s program note. In 1936 the world was transfixed by a story so big, so engrossing, so incredible that only the Second Coming could have topped it. It was the story of Edward VIII, King of England, Emperor of India… and a twice- married American lady from Baltimore, Maryland — Mrs. Simpson. It was billed as history’s greatest love affair… but, as this article unfolds… you may very well draw a very different conclusion.
But let’s start by playing the tune I’ve selected to accompany this article…. “Exactly Like You”. Go to any search engine to find this number. It was written in 1930 by Jimmy McHugh and Dorothy Fields. I swear by the rendition by Louis Armstrong. You won’t be able to get it out of your head; kind of like the king’s catastrophic obsession with his Wallis… for of all the women in the world who wanted him, he had to have her, the very worst choice imaginable.. to the consternation and disgust of the empire on which the sun never set.
The most important boy in the world.
When your great grandmother is Queen Victoria, ruler of half the world; when your grandfather is King Edward VII, called the Uncle of Europe, because his relations ruled over virtually everything; when your father is King George V and your mother is Queen Mary… your birth, life, and every single breath you take is an event… important, eagerly awaited, commented upon, chronicled. In short, it is life in the grandest fish bowl on Earth; for in return for unimaginable wealth, celestial status, and the adoration and veneration of untold millions… you give up any semblance of a personal life… any semblance of privacy. You belong not to yourself… but to your subjects, the people of England and of all the Dominions beyond the seas…
This was Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David, born in 1894, called David by his family and Your Royal Highness by everyone else. The world envied him… but his life was anything but enviable… his parents saw to that.
George (1865–1936) & Mary (1867-1953).
The argument for monarchy goes like this: in a turbulent, uncertain, unpredictable and therefore alarming world, a sovereign is eternal, stable, stalwart, an institution you can trust to be here tomorrow, because it was here yesterday and the day before that. A sovereign rises above the trivia of today, able to take the long view, high above the fray and the little concerns of little men. Having everything, wanting nothing, monarchs can be trusted with the concerns of the nation they exist to improve, to serve, to uplift and inspire.
This is all very well…. but where do you find such larger than life paragons? Certainly not in the lives of George and Mary, people frightened by their unceasing responsibilities and the constant burden of having to appear just so to a world which evaluated, and minutely too, every move they made, every action, every decision.
Most assuredly neither George nor Mary were such people… and therefore like so many people fearful of making a mistake (and being roundly criticized) they embraced rigid severity… and so sought to cover up their many inadequacies as people by a unceasingly stern and unapproachable demeanor. It looked good on ceremonial occasions… for then they were regal indeed… but life lived this way was tormenting to all concerned… especially for the two young princes Edward and Albert, future Edward VIII and George VI.
They were boys who needed love, tender care, affection… but were ignored by their colder than ice mother for whom a peck on the cheek was excessive… and constantly admonished by their father, a man who became king only because his elder brother died young thereby bequeathing the empire and his expected wife, Mary of Teck, to his younger brother Georgie, a man who rose far above his abilities, a man who knew nothing about human relations and thought that communication was nothing more than the business of barking orders and having them instantly complied with.
In such a world how could the little princes of Windsor emerge as anything other than flawed, wanting… and rebellious.
Prince of change.
All children go through a rebellious stage where “no!” is their favorite word. Do you want this? No! Do you want that? No! How about something else? No, again! But in the fullness of time even the most argumentative three year old comes out of this phase and starts growing up. But David of Windsor never did. Whatever was tried, true, traditional, standard… he wanted nothing to do with, wanted to change it, not slowly and unobtrusively but now in the most jarring and thoughtless of ways. He wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it… and as Prince of Wales from 1910… he was in a position to get it, especially as he came to understand how much the world loved and admired him.
Wobbly monarchy, high-flying adored prince.
World War I saw the demise of the great imperial dynasties of Europe, the Habsburgs of Austria, the Hohenzollerns of Germany, the Romanovs of Russia… all swept away. The only major dynasty left was in England, and it was headed by the uninspiring, unimaginative, fretful George V who was majesty in nothing but name. The dynasty needed youth… glamor… connection to the restive peoples of the empire. And for this role there was only one man available… David, now Prince of Wales… a man who shed glamor and allure on the Roaring Twenties. His world tours (from 1919) made him a world celebrity… and lonely.
He tried women, he tried booze, he tried drugs… but because he could have everything, nothing made him happy. Nothing that is except the thrills and freedoms of the Great Republic, particularly its greatest city, New York. Only there were there sufficient dissipations and indiscretions. Besides, just stepping foot in America enraged both his parents, and that made these trips delicious.
Then he met Wallis Warfield Simpson, a woman with a sordid past and two living husbands… a past that could outrage every convention and agitate the world he was destined to rule… a world that bored and annoyed him. Wallis offered him what he truly craved: submission for that was her secret… she gave the man everyone kow-towed to the gift of abasement…. the power to get the man to whom all knelt to kneel to her….
She, of course, despised him, but using him as he wanted her to use him would make her a world figure, maybe even Queen-Empress. She was ill-advised on this point, and so overplayed her cards. Instead of a boyish sovereign over whom she could rule, she got after his abdication in 1936 a semblance of a man whom she systematically and publicly humiliated for the rest of his life. He cried… he sobbed… he adored. It was the perfect relationship, exactly what he wanted. And, after all, isn’t that what love is for?
For as Louis Armstrong sings,
“I know why I’ve waited Know why I’ve been blue I’ve been waiting each day For someone exactly like you… You make me feel so grand I wanna give this world to you…”
… and he almost did.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Monday, January 30, 2012
The personal ad you’d love to post… but don’t have the guts!
Author’s program note. As far as I can tell, everyone in the world
has either run a personal ad (mostly online), is running one at this
moment… or will run one before you can say “Jack Robinson.” This means
you. The question is not whether you will use personal ads… but whether
they’ll deliver the exact person you are seeking. Sadly, the vast
majority of personal ads cannot deliver the bacon (or the cheese cake or
the beef cake). They just don’t provide enough detail and so are quite
capable of delivering the Wrong Prospects. Witness the personal ad
celebrated by Jimmy Buffet in the tune that made Pina Coladas mandatory
Happy Hour fare as you bar hopped in pursuit of nirvana.
Start by going to any search engine and listen to Buffet’s anthem. It was written by Rupert Holmes and recorded in 1979. It’s official title is “Escape” but hardly anyone knows that except Buffet who became with each insouciant word the recognized master of la dolce far niente… or, since most of you know no Eye-talian, the art of doing absolutely nothing… and doing it with the utmost style and grace, but without ever breaking a sweat.
Buffet’s tune makes it clear why personals as currently structured are silly, pointless, absolutely certain to deliver people you wouldn’t be seen dead with. I mean, who doesn’t like getting caught in the rain (given the right person on your arm)… who doesn’t hate yoga…. and is hardly into health foods… but insists on champagne? Add long walks on a beach, making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape, and holding hands at the cinema… and you’ve got the personal ad in all its banal insipidity.
The wonder is not that they don’t work for most people investing hope, time and money in them; the wonder is that they work for anyone at all… but then there are people (one hopes not you) who can be fully described with a few generic phrases. Avoid them like the plague.
Time for rethinking the personal ad.
In the olden days when personals appeared solely in newspapers and a few progressive publications like the alumni magazine for Harvard and such finicky folk as insisted on making known their preference for classical composers, stock brokers, and obscure holiday destinations; in those days one paid by the word and through the nose. Publishers counted on your desperation and longing to fill their coffers. Even the august Times of London cleaned up with such ads, universally called the agony column and always run on Page 1: “Should the fine lady in the blue mantle with yellow sleeves exiting the horse cars at Grosvenor Square Thursday last at 10:59 a.m. desire the acquaintance of a gentleman of means…”, but you get the picture.
When writing such ads, where each word raised the cost, it was necessary to cultivate the virtues of laconic language, short, sweet, clipped. The objective was always to meet the person ardently desired but spend pennies, not pounds. As a result, it was understandable, even excusable when advertisers slashed words; robust clarity at all times was desirable… but unaffordable.
Enter the Internet.
The very first thing I learned about the ‘net was that it’s boundless, inexhaustible, absolutely unlimited. Thus, it can hold, maintain and preserve infinity. The implications of this fact are fathomless, too… not least on the matter of creating personal ads that get you the long-awaited apple of your eye. For now, since we have an infinity of space, there can be absolutely no excuse for writing and posting ads which are at once jejune, inadequate, and platitudinous in the extreme. They don’t work, can never work, and must be abandoned, jettisoned, abjured, forsaken and, in case you miss the point, tossed into the dustbin of history at once.
Now you can write this all-important ad without being hobbled and restricted. You are at last permitted, nay empowered and directed to write what must be written, the ad, the whole ad, and nothing but the ad.
… but this will take careful thought and planning, for it is doubtful ere now that even one personal advertiser has written the magnificent advertisement you are about to write, edit, post, and benefit from for a lifetime. As such the most scrupulous planning is de rigueur and cannot be stinted.
Two people, two parts.
A good personal ad, which is to say an ad that accomplishes the desired objective, must be divided into two parts: half about who you are; half about what you desire in the person you wish to present the key to your (probably much bruised) heart.
Brainstorming, musing, total honesty.
Now, we all know that everyone, absolutely everyone lies in their personal ads. Excess pounds disappear as if by magic; years are thrust in the dresser drawer; educational degrees are now cited from institutions which scorned the pleasure of your company; financial net worth up, all manner of imperfections down; spouses of decades unmentioned, and the eight darling children, too. This is the nature of the beast… until now. Now you have the space to tell everything… and complete details on the extenuating circumstances. Yes, you were flunked out of Alma Mater, but it was most assuredly not your fault… and you insist upon making the full dossier available right here and now. You have the space; honesty is desirable; and your bringing up the subject at all proves what a gem you are.
Thus instead of lying about the pounds you haven’t lost, cite the reasons why. Honestly own up to the fact that your dietary habits are lax; list all your favorite foods… and the rate you consume them. List your last month’s worth of dinner menus… and be scrupulous, entirely above board with everything you consumed, the kind of dishes on which you served the repast, and exactly what you did with the left-overs. You want your soon-to-be beloved to know you, fully, completely and so ardently; for after all, honesty is the bedrock of every meaningful relationship, don’t you agree?
The desired one.
Once you have gathered all the critical intelligence about yourself, proceed at once to Part 2 of your ad, the absolutely crucial verbiage about the person to whom you wish to extend the glorious honor of sharing bed and board. Your complete and total focus is required. Again, brainstorm every desirable point, giving equal attention to what you do not want and cannot abide, and what you must have, a deal killer if not readily available, and in the desired quantity, too.
Starting this list is easy, almost effortless. You either want a smoker… or you don’t. You either can accept pets (even the most exotic)… or you can’t. But make it a point to move beyond these obvious points. Consider such matters as the odor you desire in a mate; how many showers per day; the kind, frequency and intensity of bodily hygiene. Honesty is required, and so honesty there must be. And if the length of your ad grows long and weighty, what of it? What you are doing here impacts the curvature of two lives, so no apology is necessary.
Post at once, reap your reward.
First, you are to be congratulated. You are a pioneer, a model of integrity and rectitude. Now it’s time to reap the inevitable rewards which must come with posting. Mind, it may take a little time to get the single response this ad is meant to generate, for so thorough have you been that there can only be one response… from that extraordinary person daft enough to put up with you…and love you anyway.
*** We invite you to post your comments to this article below.
Start by going to any search engine and listen to Buffet’s anthem. It was written by Rupert Holmes and recorded in 1979. It’s official title is “Escape” but hardly anyone knows that except Buffet who became with each insouciant word the recognized master of la dolce far niente… or, since most of you know no Eye-talian, the art of doing absolutely nothing… and doing it with the utmost style and grace, but without ever breaking a sweat.
Buffet’s tune makes it clear why personals as currently structured are silly, pointless, absolutely certain to deliver people you wouldn’t be seen dead with. I mean, who doesn’t like getting caught in the rain (given the right person on your arm)… who doesn’t hate yoga…. and is hardly into health foods… but insists on champagne? Add long walks on a beach, making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape, and holding hands at the cinema… and you’ve got the personal ad in all its banal insipidity.
The wonder is not that they don’t work for most people investing hope, time and money in them; the wonder is that they work for anyone at all… but then there are people (one hopes not you) who can be fully described with a few generic phrases. Avoid them like the plague.
Time for rethinking the personal ad.
In the olden days when personals appeared solely in newspapers and a few progressive publications like the alumni magazine for Harvard and such finicky folk as insisted on making known their preference for classical composers, stock brokers, and obscure holiday destinations; in those days one paid by the word and through the nose. Publishers counted on your desperation and longing to fill their coffers. Even the august Times of London cleaned up with such ads, universally called the agony column and always run on Page 1: “Should the fine lady in the blue mantle with yellow sleeves exiting the horse cars at Grosvenor Square Thursday last at 10:59 a.m. desire the acquaintance of a gentleman of means…”, but you get the picture.
When writing such ads, where each word raised the cost, it was necessary to cultivate the virtues of laconic language, short, sweet, clipped. The objective was always to meet the person ardently desired but spend pennies, not pounds. As a result, it was understandable, even excusable when advertisers slashed words; robust clarity at all times was desirable… but unaffordable.
Enter the Internet.
The very first thing I learned about the ‘net was that it’s boundless, inexhaustible, absolutely unlimited. Thus, it can hold, maintain and preserve infinity. The implications of this fact are fathomless, too… not least on the matter of creating personal ads that get you the long-awaited apple of your eye. For now, since we have an infinity of space, there can be absolutely no excuse for writing and posting ads which are at once jejune, inadequate, and platitudinous in the extreme. They don’t work, can never work, and must be abandoned, jettisoned, abjured, forsaken and, in case you miss the point, tossed into the dustbin of history at once.
Now you can write this all-important ad without being hobbled and restricted. You are at last permitted, nay empowered and directed to write what must be written, the ad, the whole ad, and nothing but the ad.
… but this will take careful thought and planning, for it is doubtful ere now that even one personal advertiser has written the magnificent advertisement you are about to write, edit, post, and benefit from for a lifetime. As such the most scrupulous planning is de rigueur and cannot be stinted.
Two people, two parts.
A good personal ad, which is to say an ad that accomplishes the desired objective, must be divided into two parts: half about who you are; half about what you desire in the person you wish to present the key to your (probably much bruised) heart.
Brainstorming, musing, total honesty.
Now, we all know that everyone, absolutely everyone lies in their personal ads. Excess pounds disappear as if by magic; years are thrust in the dresser drawer; educational degrees are now cited from institutions which scorned the pleasure of your company; financial net worth up, all manner of imperfections down; spouses of decades unmentioned, and the eight darling children, too. This is the nature of the beast… until now. Now you have the space to tell everything… and complete details on the extenuating circumstances. Yes, you were flunked out of Alma Mater, but it was most assuredly not your fault… and you insist upon making the full dossier available right here and now. You have the space; honesty is desirable; and your bringing up the subject at all proves what a gem you are.
Thus instead of lying about the pounds you haven’t lost, cite the reasons why. Honestly own up to the fact that your dietary habits are lax; list all your favorite foods… and the rate you consume them. List your last month’s worth of dinner menus… and be scrupulous, entirely above board with everything you consumed, the kind of dishes on which you served the repast, and exactly what you did with the left-overs. You want your soon-to-be beloved to know you, fully, completely and so ardently; for after all, honesty is the bedrock of every meaningful relationship, don’t you agree?
The desired one.
Once you have gathered all the critical intelligence about yourself, proceed at once to Part 2 of your ad, the absolutely crucial verbiage about the person to whom you wish to extend the glorious honor of sharing bed and board. Your complete and total focus is required. Again, brainstorm every desirable point, giving equal attention to what you do not want and cannot abide, and what you must have, a deal killer if not readily available, and in the desired quantity, too.
Starting this list is easy, almost effortless. You either want a smoker… or you don’t. You either can accept pets (even the most exotic)… or you can’t. But make it a point to move beyond these obvious points. Consider such matters as the odor you desire in a mate; how many showers per day; the kind, frequency and intensity of bodily hygiene. Honesty is required, and so honesty there must be. And if the length of your ad grows long and weighty, what of it? What you are doing here impacts the curvature of two lives, so no apology is necessary.
Post at once, reap your reward.
First, you are to be congratulated. You are a pioneer, a model of integrity and rectitude. Now it’s time to reap the inevitable rewards which must come with posting. Mind, it may take a little time to get the single response this ad is meant to generate, for so thorough have you been that there can only be one response… from that extraordinary person daft enough to put up with you…and love you anyway.
*** We invite you to post your comments to this article below.
Friday, January 20, 2012
New biography of Mitt Romney claims to deliver ‘The Real Romney’… but will anyone really care?
Last night, January 19, 2012, The Boston Globe, the biggest and most influential newspaper in New England, pulled out all the stops for two of their best and brightest reporters; Michael Kranish, deputy chief of the Washington bureau of The Boston Globe and Scott Helman, staff writer at The Boston Globe. The occasion was the release of their new biography of former Massachusetts governor Mitt Romney, the likely Republican presidential nominee.
First, my compliments to The Boston Globe. The special reception before a panel on der Mittster was nicely done and gave us all the opportunity to meet the authors and chat with them. The helpers were all efficient, polite, unobtrusive. Perfect.
It looked like a long evening until….
I sought out Michael Kranish first; he seemed like the senior member of the team and I try to get what I need for my article out of the way as soon as possible, so that I can sit back and enjoy the event. I told Kranish I had three brief questions for him.
First, would Romney ever be president? His unpromising answer: “It’s possible. It could happen.” This was not the incisive, insightful comment I was looking for… and suggested the possibility of a very long evening in the making, one to be ditched as soon as I’d eaten more of their fine brie.
Question 2: will Mormonism be an issue in the campaign? “In some places it could be,” he answered. OMG! It was indeed going to be a very long evening.
But I said I wanted to ask him three questions… and it wasn’t over until it was over. I ventured my third query. “What was the most unexpected thing about Romney you discovered in your research”? Then the intriguing answer, “What happened at Stanford University” when he was a student there during the Vietnam War, the war that derailed his father’s presidential campaign. Ok, this was something promising… at last.
Of father brainwashed and campaign imploded.
Mitt Romney (born 1947) had as his dad a human dynamo called George Romney, celebrated as the rescuer of American Motors (which gave me my push button Rambler in high school), governor of Michigan, member of the Nixon cabinet; a man who rightly thought he had a superb shot at being president of the Great Republic… until…
… he went to Vietnam, where he got star treatment and massive misinformation about how the war was going, how we’d win, how the people loved us, and enough manure to fertilize Connecticut. He came back to America feeling like a fool; then shot himself through the head when he claimed the military had “brainwashed” him. His presidential campaign ended the minute the words were out of his mouth. Nobody wanted as president a man who could be controlled by the military or anyone else. And so George Romney’s career ended… providing his son with a lifetime of lessons about what not to do… including the vital necessity to avoid the media whenever possible.
On his way back from Vietnam, Pere Romney stopped to visit Mitt at Stanford… where this devoted son got the opportunity to talk to his father about Life, War, God… of winning, losing, what’s important and what isn’t. It’s the kind of conversation one has with a parent once in a lifetime… and Mitt took it all in and to heart. He would, he vowed, revenge what had happened to his father… being sure to derive all the proper lessons from this seminal event, including the absolute need in his life for God, the God of the Mormons…
God.
To understand Mitt Romney, you must appreciate the importance and influence of his Mormon faith. It has provided the sinews of his life while isolating him from other people; people who often disdained his religion, calling it a “cult” and worse. Mitt learned to be private, very private, about his religion…letting very few people into that side of himself. Privacy, particularly privacy about his faith, became an obsession… something that may have connected him with God… but most assuredly estranged him from his fellow men, the people he’d need if he was ever to run for president.
Money.
What further separated him from the run of mankind was money… he made awesome amounts of it, largely through what are called leveraged buy-outs. This is a practice whereby investors buy a company, with the intention of doing everything they can to make it as profitable as possible, as quickly as possible; so they can sell the whole or its parts, often for staggering return on investment. This almost always involves the firing of employees in an attempt to decrease expenses and increase efficiency. Here Mitt Romney was king; a paragon who knew the delights that come when making only millions in a day was “bad” compared to the brilliant days, and plenty of them, when you made tens, even hundreds of millions lickety-split. Such days did absolutely nothing to connect him with mere mortals… and presented a problem he has still not been able to solve. Every time he got richer, Mitt got more disconnected… and less electable.
So, here we’ve got a candidate with a perfect marriage, 5 sons made by Disney, nary a scandal to be had… richer that God Himself… super bright… the hardest worker on the planet… but a loser for all that, because he just cannot connect with people and their everyday concerns to save his life.
Thus as I roamed the thin crowd talking with people, who were very keen to be asked their opinion about Mitt and his prospects, the temperature never rose above “tepid.” Yes, right smack dab in the middle of Boston, capital of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts that Mitt had reigned over as governor (2003-2007), he couldn’t have thrown off less heat. And so, the people whom he needed so desperately to make him president evinced absolutely no excitement at all, much less any abiding glow.
And you could see this puzzled authors Kranish and Helman because their unauthorized biography (without a single interview with Mitt), into which they had poured time, life and commitment could only go as far as its subject, and not an inch more. If he sailed into the White House, their book (which I made sure they both autographed) would have the legs most political books never do, but if the world was as lukewarm as the folks in their audience, their $30 book (praised though it was by the usual East Coast media suspects) was DOA…
That’s why they came back to this point several times: awkward and disconnected as Mitt was in public, he was in private something of a cut-up (of the wonk variety), a man who could tell a story, give a hug, engage… even (and this arrested my attention for sure) moon walk while singing tunes from the Grateful Dead, tunes like “There’s Whiskey In The Jug”, an odd favorite for a tea-totalling Mormon:
“Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da Whack for my daddy-o. Whack for my daddy-o There’s whiskey in the jar.”
But this, though it made me smile and nod my head in wonderment was not the highlight of the evening. That was the rapt attention and joy in Aime Joseph. You see Mr. Joseph is my driver, a Haitian by birth, obsessed with American politics, always quizzing me about political people and their measures. He dressed up for this event, and imbibed every word with the utmost focus and concentration. “We have nothing like this in Haiti,” he said as I gave him the present of a lifetime, an autographed copy of the book. And when he saw me about to drop it, he grabbed it from my hand, the better to ensure it did not fall; chiding me for lack of care with this valuable artifact.
And I saw so clearly what was the best part of all: the fact that this kind of forum, this kind of book, this kind of open dialogue and honest conversation still was foreign to most of the world… and the thing we should be most proud of, our gift to the world and our collective future.
Now, go to any search engine and find “Whiskey in the jug,” and imagine Mitt moon walking to it… If there’s enough whiskey in the jug, that should be no problem.
*** What do you think? I invite you to post your comments below.
First, my compliments to The Boston Globe. The special reception before a panel on der Mittster was nicely done and gave us all the opportunity to meet the authors and chat with them. The helpers were all efficient, polite, unobtrusive. Perfect.
It looked like a long evening until….
I sought out Michael Kranish first; he seemed like the senior member of the team and I try to get what I need for my article out of the way as soon as possible, so that I can sit back and enjoy the event. I told Kranish I had three brief questions for him.
First, would Romney ever be president? His unpromising answer: “It’s possible. It could happen.” This was not the incisive, insightful comment I was looking for… and suggested the possibility of a very long evening in the making, one to be ditched as soon as I’d eaten more of their fine brie.
Question 2: will Mormonism be an issue in the campaign? “In some places it could be,” he answered. OMG! It was indeed going to be a very long evening.
But I said I wanted to ask him three questions… and it wasn’t over until it was over. I ventured my third query. “What was the most unexpected thing about Romney you discovered in your research”? Then the intriguing answer, “What happened at Stanford University” when he was a student there during the Vietnam War, the war that derailed his father’s presidential campaign. Ok, this was something promising… at last.
Of father brainwashed and campaign imploded.
Mitt Romney (born 1947) had as his dad a human dynamo called George Romney, celebrated as the rescuer of American Motors (which gave me my push button Rambler in high school), governor of Michigan, member of the Nixon cabinet; a man who rightly thought he had a superb shot at being president of the Great Republic… until…
… he went to Vietnam, where he got star treatment and massive misinformation about how the war was going, how we’d win, how the people loved us, and enough manure to fertilize Connecticut. He came back to America feeling like a fool; then shot himself through the head when he claimed the military had “brainwashed” him. His presidential campaign ended the minute the words were out of his mouth. Nobody wanted as president a man who could be controlled by the military or anyone else. And so George Romney’s career ended… providing his son with a lifetime of lessons about what not to do… including the vital necessity to avoid the media whenever possible.
On his way back from Vietnam, Pere Romney stopped to visit Mitt at Stanford… where this devoted son got the opportunity to talk to his father about Life, War, God… of winning, losing, what’s important and what isn’t. It’s the kind of conversation one has with a parent once in a lifetime… and Mitt took it all in and to heart. He would, he vowed, revenge what had happened to his father… being sure to derive all the proper lessons from this seminal event, including the absolute need in his life for God, the God of the Mormons…
God.
To understand Mitt Romney, you must appreciate the importance and influence of his Mormon faith. It has provided the sinews of his life while isolating him from other people; people who often disdained his religion, calling it a “cult” and worse. Mitt learned to be private, very private, about his religion…letting very few people into that side of himself. Privacy, particularly privacy about his faith, became an obsession… something that may have connected him with God… but most assuredly estranged him from his fellow men, the people he’d need if he was ever to run for president.
Money.
What further separated him from the run of mankind was money… he made awesome amounts of it, largely through what are called leveraged buy-outs. This is a practice whereby investors buy a company, with the intention of doing everything they can to make it as profitable as possible, as quickly as possible; so they can sell the whole or its parts, often for staggering return on investment. This almost always involves the firing of employees in an attempt to decrease expenses and increase efficiency. Here Mitt Romney was king; a paragon who knew the delights that come when making only millions in a day was “bad” compared to the brilliant days, and plenty of them, when you made tens, even hundreds of millions lickety-split. Such days did absolutely nothing to connect him with mere mortals… and presented a problem he has still not been able to solve. Every time he got richer, Mitt got more disconnected… and less electable.
So, here we’ve got a candidate with a perfect marriage, 5 sons made by Disney, nary a scandal to be had… richer that God Himself… super bright… the hardest worker on the planet… but a loser for all that, because he just cannot connect with people and their everyday concerns to save his life.
Thus as I roamed the thin crowd talking with people, who were very keen to be asked their opinion about Mitt and his prospects, the temperature never rose above “tepid.” Yes, right smack dab in the middle of Boston, capital of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts that Mitt had reigned over as governor (2003-2007), he couldn’t have thrown off less heat. And so, the people whom he needed so desperately to make him president evinced absolutely no excitement at all, much less any abiding glow.
And you could see this puzzled authors Kranish and Helman because their unauthorized biography (without a single interview with Mitt), into which they had poured time, life and commitment could only go as far as its subject, and not an inch more. If he sailed into the White House, their book (which I made sure they both autographed) would have the legs most political books never do, but if the world was as lukewarm as the folks in their audience, their $30 book (praised though it was by the usual East Coast media suspects) was DOA…
That’s why they came back to this point several times: awkward and disconnected as Mitt was in public, he was in private something of a cut-up (of the wonk variety), a man who could tell a story, give a hug, engage… even (and this arrested my attention for sure) moon walk while singing tunes from the Grateful Dead, tunes like “There’s Whiskey In The Jug”, an odd favorite for a tea-totalling Mormon:
“Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da Whack for my daddy-o. Whack for my daddy-o There’s whiskey in the jar.”
But this, though it made me smile and nod my head in wonderment was not the highlight of the evening. That was the rapt attention and joy in Aime Joseph. You see Mr. Joseph is my driver, a Haitian by birth, obsessed with American politics, always quizzing me about political people and their measures. He dressed up for this event, and imbibed every word with the utmost focus and concentration. “We have nothing like this in Haiti,” he said as I gave him the present of a lifetime, an autographed copy of the book. And when he saw me about to drop it, he grabbed it from my hand, the better to ensure it did not fall; chiding me for lack of care with this valuable artifact.
And I saw so clearly what was the best part of all: the fact that this kind of forum, this kind of book, this kind of open dialogue and honest conversation still was foreign to most of the world… and the thing we should be most proud of, our gift to the world and our collective future.
Now, go to any search engine and find “Whiskey in the jug,” and imagine Mitt moon walking to it… If there’s enough whiskey in the jug, that should be no problem.
*** What do you think? I invite you to post your comments below.
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