Ladyruth’s Clickbank Pirate Blog

Author’s program note. Men, it’s time for your annual Valentine’s Day update and reminder. For, as you will recall, Valentine’s Day (along with her dog Pookie’s birthday) is the most important event of her year. If you get it right (or as right as any man can get this minefield) you’re in like Flynn for another year; your right to nookie safe and secure for another 365 glorious days.

But…

if you muff this, like you did last year and the year before that, you are in for another prolonged rough patch… and you know very well how rough that will be. To avoid this fate worse than death, extreme measures are required, and these extreme measures must be taken NOW! Men, have I got your full attention? Your Love Doctor is here for you… and OMG, you know you need it.

The Facts.

As we have discussed in prior years (and many of you have attended this critical training year after year, with, sad to say, spotty results) Valentine’s Day is a world-wide conspiracy. It first began as the brainchild of a highly paid consultant who was charged with the task of selling a particularly noxious chocolate with a vile, disgusting taste… That didn’t bother the consultant at all; it was the kind of challenge he lived for.

Even the fact that the chocolatier couldn’t pay him even a token amount up front didn’t bother our fearless consultant one iota. He still inked a contract that said he’d receive 25% of the gross on all new business stimulated by his best ideas. In other words, he would (in the best macho consultant tradition) forgo certain (albeit lower) payment in return for a whopping share of the gross… and so long as he could move the obnoxious chocolate that everybody loathed…. he’d be a big winner.

Frankly, the folks at the chocolate company (who pretty much loathed their product, too, and banned it from the company candy machine) thought they’d made the perfect deal. After all, they got the consultant to work for them for free… and gave away revenues that didn’t exist, would probably never exist. But before claiming a huge write-off and throwing the offending chocs in the garbage, they needed — so their accountant said — to gve it the Good Ol’ College Try.

His name was Valentine…

Now our audacious consultant sat down to business, and because he was a very clever fellow, the ideas flowed fast and furious. Thus after just a few days, the consultant was ready to see the CEO and present the all-important concept. As it turned out not only was this meeting important for the chocolate company; it was a crucial turning point in the relations of all men with their women… it thereby launched a movement creating millions of jobs and huge corporate profits worldwide.

The consultant’s name was Valentinos Kariotes… known as Val… and he is the man who set the high standards for Valentine’s Day…

Yes, it is because of this single man and his insight that the conjugal rights and ecstasies of millions of hapless guys are put at risk every single friggin’ year, to be reaffirmed by shelling out for chocolate, making ever richer the corporate smarty pants who dreamed up this baby.

Down to business.

Val, a straight talking, no nonsense, let’s stick to business kind of guy got right to the point. To sell the chocs everyone acknowledged as disgusting, they’d have to have a bigger idea, something huge, clever, larger than life…. here Val paused…. because he knew that his next words would not only sell chocolates nobody could abide, but get men by the millions to line up in front of the company’s packed stores to plunk down big bucks for a product they despised.

Before stating what would become his abiding claim to fame, Val paused, looked around the room, the better to get their attention and keep the memory of this supreme moment forever green in his mind. Then he said

To sell chocolates you must get women to tell men that the purchase of these chocolates and the size of the box will be construed by every gal on earth as an indication of how ardently they are desired, loved, and wanted. In short, the target for their advertising campaign would not be the men who would actually buy the chocolates… but the women who would ‘motivate’ them to do so, in EVERY way at their command. Yes, in EVERY way.

Val then unveiled his first ad, a classic soon destined for the Advertising Hall of Fame. It went like this:

The size of the box, it read, indicates how much he loves you.

The image showed two boxes of chocolate. The five-pound box had a big black X through it. The 20-pound box was circled in a bright, bright red heart with exclamation point.

Just awesome!

Val’s incredible idea at last gave women what they have always wanted, for thousands of years: a way to know, to measure, even weigh just how much their menfolk REALLY love them; the proof to be as easy to acquire as the simple purchase of chocolates.

Brilliant was the least of it.

In the lives of each of us, there come but a handful of moments of transcendence, moments of destiny, moments you are surpassingly glad to be alive. Our man Val knew such a moment this day… and as the astonished executives surged around him with their most ardent congratulations, they knew it, too. And immediately increased the box size and weight of their obnoxious product… for they knew at once that Val, their boy, was a genius. And so unanimously voted to create a day named for him — St. Valentine’s Day — a day worth billions to love capitalists worldwide. It was the least they could do

And so Val got filthy rich.

Every time a woman got a two-pound box of chocs from her beloved, she knew that the donor was dead meat, a cheap, two-timin’ low-life… who had then to go out and at once to get the 20 pound box… thereby passing the loved test… and making Val richer and richer still. Eureka!

Of course, other companies watched this phenomenon, this cornucopia of riches with the closest conceivable attention; Val ensured they did, for in due course, he made sweet deals with florists, pastry companies, every diamond purveyor in the land… always with the same awesome results.

Which is why you’ll live today like a cat on a hot tin roof, spending good money you don’t have to appease the little woman who controls your life. Be sure, too, to sing My Funny Valentine the right way, the feminist way, with the words about you, not her, for women have always hated this tune and its cock-eyed sentiment.

Thus, my looks are laughable, unphotographable…. because that’s what she wants you to say, just after she’s looked at the size of the box.

(You’ll find the inimitable My Funny Valentine, released 1940, in any search engine; music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Lorenz Hart. I prefer the original version — and the original words — by Frank Sinatra.)

About the Author

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.

About the Author

Author’s program note. In 1921, that sultry chanteuse with a silken voice seasoned with a touch of honky-tonk and life’s deflating experience — Ethel Waters (1896- 1977) — got up before the microphone one fine day and belted into history a little ditty by Billy Higgins and W. Benton Overstreet. It was a swinging song with attitude… and, it turned out, with legs, too; a song so potent in its magic that over 50 major recording artists couldn’t wait to get their vocal chords around it.

It was There’ll be some changes made, and it included the resonating line that made us all queasy… Nobody wants you when you’re old and gray… the line that justified an ocean or two of wild behavior, the wild oats you’d better indulge in when young and limber… before the Grim Reaper stamped your forehead with the iconic number 65 and measured you for eternity.

Go now to any search engine, review your recorded choices; then choose your poison as Grandpa Walt used to say… but, whoever you select, take time to pay homage to Miss Waters, for she was a game old bird and after all was the first to urge us to approach olde age with dignity, composed, resigned, withered hands folded gently in your lap, glass for your false teeth at the ready — not!

Oh, no, Miss Waters celebrated not just the you you were… but the you you could be with a few deft changes, tweaks and tucks… all necessary so that your golden years are even less demure (by a long shot) than your early days; that you don’t just read your Browning — the best is yet to be — but live him, with plenitude and a hey, look me over edge, your original and unique cocktail of defiance, insight, and allure.

Step-dad Jack and the chocolate box.

He was shrunken, smaller than he had been in life… in form that is, never in spirit. And he asked me –before forever took him — for chocolates. He craved them. I didn’t have to think twice about what to do. I was on the phone at once and ordered him an exuberant chocolate feast of Godiva’s best, the kind of assortment that a boy bent on the delights of love gives to the girl he wants to wash his shirts and cheat on for life. Yes, it was that big. And when I called to make sure he had the package… I was informed this man I hardly knew… had the box open, a few already nibbled, sampled, so he could make the best selection. And he was smiling…

But that’s only a part of this tale…

The instant she heard ol’ Jack talking to me, my mother, that force of nature and approved behavior, grabbed the phone and Let Me Have It. Jack was ill, she said; Jack was dying, she said; Jack could die at any moment, she said, and face his Maker, as quick as you could say Jack Robinson. What did I mean by giving him, and on his death bed, too, the rich seduction that was chocolate, a food that could not be found amidst his recommended dietary choices, unappetizing all. Why, didn’t I know that could kill him….? Moreover, there was no mention in Emily Post sanctioning death-bed chocolates… and thus they could not be approved, unfitting objects as they were for such an event and its high mysteries and profound enigmas.

But POM (Poor Old Mother), I said. His cancer is terminal, he could indeed die at any moment; every doctor said so, and at such a time if there’s a dance in the old galoot yet he ought to dance it… he ought to have what he wanted, the savor of life, not another moment of the semblance of life, measured out by tea spoons of this medicine, tablets of that. In short he wanted, with an insistence that comes when time is almost gone, one of life’s pleasures, not another indication and token of life’s finality.

… Jack died just hours later…

… POM became the Ice Queen to me for too long…

But I was the gainer here… for Jack had reaffirmed a profound truth we cannot hear and contemplate often enough… that life is for the living, that life must be lived, exulted, extolled, celebrated and savored… and that at the end, if you want chocolates, the very best chocolates (or their equivalent) no one — not even the well-meaning wife and scold — should be allowed even a moment of jeremiad, pontification, finger-pointing and condescension… Proper behavior be damned….

Easy to say, difficult to do.

Now, one can damn, and so easily, too, the bug-a-boo of proper behavior, but the truth of the matter, an independent course is difficult to pull off. Witness my darlin’ mama’s frosty reaction on the matter of chocolates an instant prior to demise. We geriatric life-savors need to face up to the shibboleths and prejudices of our rigid adversaries… and become as shrewd as we are aged.

Thus, start from the proposition that for the bulk of the world… but never for ones as wicked cool and winsome as we are, Age 65 is regarded as the gate through which one passes, inexorably, inevitably, slowly on account of rheumatism, arthritis and assembled other maladies attendant upon bigger and bigger birthdays; the gate through which we enter aging… through which we depart dead… truly an inviting scenario… if you’re into the macabre pictures of Hieronymus Bosch (1450-1516) and other mediaeval horrors. . But Hieronymus and his scarry ilk have never been my cup of tea, perhaps because of their unremitting focus on the darker side of life, its miseries, regrets, loneliness and angst about the eternity into which each of us must enter, like it or not. I am a creature of life and light… and aim to live my credo to the very last moment… for all that I may be able to do nothing more at that unique moment of finality than nibble a chocolate. Even that is enough to reaffirm my adamant belief in life, not life’s restrictions.

Yet these restrictions are everywhere, built into the very heart of our youth-centered culture. Folks over 65 are lesser beings, unable to do this, incapable of doing that; past it in ways as diverse as eating corn on the cob or satisfying even the least demanding of lovers. Even more than a baby (which after all does not know better) we are held thrall to the do-nots, the should-nots, the could-nots, instead of enjoying the thrills and growth of the why-nots.

But we are not, we crew of 65 plus, babies to be protected and instructed. We are people who have lived life — and often riotously too — with gusto and a zest that only begins when you realize that the life force within you is not unlimited or inexhaustible. It is its very limitation that makes it precious… and which drives us to use it… all of it … never letting a drop of it… any of it… drip away unused and unregarded.

We know the pleasures of life… and intend to explore each and every one of them until the engine that drives our magnificent being can do absolutely nothing more.

That’s why I tell you this: Miss Waters sings her song not for you and me who seize and savor life. For we do not need to make changes…

Rather, these changes must be made by the folks — age-ists every one of them — who want us to stop living before our time, pushing us out of life, anxious to get what we have had. These folks are in the business of denial, living to block us, restrict us and chide us for ideas, thoughts and actions they deem unsuitable to our age and station… They are the ones who would remove us from life, not help us engage it.

It is for these folks and their disapproval and disdain that Miss Waters sings her song, for they cannot be reminded often and enough…

You’re here today and then tomorrow you’re gone …

Thus I shall live my life while there is a crumb yet to enjoy. And if that bothers you or anyone, get over it… and make the changes which must be made today… for you have far greater need for them than I do…

Envoy

Dr. Lant turns 65 February 16, 2012.

*** We invite your comments to this article.

About the Author

Author’s program note. One of Broadway’s happiest and most enduring musicals is How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying. Written by Frank Loesser; it was released in October, 1961 to immediate acclaim — and a Pulitzer Prize to boot. Most recently it was revived with Daniel Ratcliffe — famous for his eponymous role in the Harry Potter films — starring in the lead role originally done to mischievous perfection by Robert Morse, simultaneously menace and mastermind.

I have selected one of the lesser tunes from the production for the occasional music to this article. It’s called simply Coffee Break, and you should go to any search engine now to listen to it. It’s about how the absence of coffee — and therefore the coffee break — raises more anxiety and lamentation than a plague of locusts and completely stops the whole company, convinced that the end of the world as they know it is at hand. Oh, my! So much grief for one missed cuppa. However, the real shock is not that the coffee was late for the company coffee break, no indeed; the real shock is that more time, trouble, energy, irritation, and anger was expended on this event than on anything else that entire day… including the company’s business they were hired to transact…until the outrage about the coffee break was surpassed by certain stale items on the lunch menu… thereby diverting everyone’s outspoken attention to this even greater snafu.

The sad part is that this kind of ludicrous crisis and massive waste of time does not occur solely or exclusively on Madison Avenue or in Broadway shows… it is most likely the way you are running your business and why it doesn’t prosper.

That’s why today, I am going to put you and your business under the most minute scrutiny, the better to help you understand that your business, as you currently organize and run it — cannot make the desirable profits of your imagination… until such time as you rethink everything — absolutely everything — so that the focus of your energy and action every day is NOT the coffee break… but actually doing BUSINESS. And as this analysis develops right before your very eyes, you are most likely to be chagrined, embarrassed, and horrified – and that’s just for openers.

On the acute need to perceive what you are really doing every single day.

You say you are in business, correct? You say you want substantial, increasing profits, correct? You say you are a hard worker; indeed that the sun never sets on all the work you do, the tasks done, the challenges confronted, correct?

In short you are about as swift, intelligent, able and valuable a business person as business has ever seen and that your DNA should be donated to the nation so that generations yet to come may have the benefit of you and your unmatched business expertise and execution.

You, of course, are even now nodding your head in sage agreement with this flawless description of you and your business acumen. Modest though you are, you cannot but admit that you are the very paragon and model sketched above… just like Kansas City, you’ve gone about as far as you can go.

It is this proposition swallowed hook, line and sinker by the overwhelming majority of business owners of every kind that keeps you trapped in a business that doesn’t grow, expand, prosper and that does not make and will never make the profits you consistently and repeatedly say are the reason you are in business to get and enjoy.

YOU and your business under our microscope.

Now, it’s time to knuckle down to the important, sure-to-be-shocking analysis of what you do during your business hours… for you cannot improve your business until you know precisely what you do and precisely when you do it.

Business is about two things and two things only…

Quick! Can you guess what they are? The correct answer is 1) the generation of qualified prospects and 2) contacting these prospects, making them the most lavish, persuasive offer ever, then closing the deal forthwith. This is the two- step dance that keeps you in business, expands your business, and leads to money, money, money… yours, all yours.

Now let’s see just what percentage of your average day focuses on these two key points… and what percentage of your business day goes to anything but these two essential tasks.

You’ll need a pad, a watch, and total honesty.

To make this crucial scrutiny work, you will need to be clear about what you do, when you do it, and how long it takes to do it. In other words, you must start by creating a detailed picture of your average business day… and why it either works to produce the prospect leads and orders you need… or why it doesn’t. Give this essential project which can launch the most profitable epoch for your business your fullest attention. Nothing will come of this project unless you are careful, thorough, and complete.

Your first task is to list all the things you do during your average business day. These will include but will certainly not be limited to

* all breaks, kind and duration;

* non-business related telephone and other communications;

* time spent surfing the Web, especially at sites unsuitable for visits during business hours;

* gossip with friends and co-workers;

* writing ad copy;

* creating offers that make sales;

* time on the telephone etc where you connect with prospects, and either upgrade them to be qualified prospects, or close them by making sales.

Get the picture? What you’re trying to do is this: show yourself in unanswerable detail what you do on the average day that has absolutely nothing to do with the identification and closing of prospects… and how much time and effort you expend generating prospects and closing them.

Reforms must follow identification of what you are doing wrong, over and over again.

Chances are, you will be shocked and abashed by what you discover, for instance now seeing that you spend far more time surfing the Web and gossiping on the phone than you do on that same phone contacting prospects and closing deals. Such pernicious reality must be dealt with at once, for it is costing you money every single day.

Start today.

Do you care whether your business succeeds or fails? Do you care whether you make more money than less? Do you care whether the limited time you have on this planet is transformed into the maximum amount of coin of the realm, and so serenity, security, satisfaction?

That is why you must do this necessary exercise, and do it today. For you see, succeeding in business without really trying makes a dandy theme for a witty musical… but can in no way be regarded as a truth to build your ever more prosperous business by. That truth will be vividly apparent to you as you implement the recommendations of this important article.

*** We invite you to post your comments to this article below.

About the Author

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? We invite you to post your comments below.

About the Author

Author’s program note. In 1970 Erich Segal began his international best seller Love Story with this line: What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died? The world shed copious, cleansing tears to find out. It was fiction in the cinemascope manner.

But my story is not fiction, it is fact, and answers this question: What can you say about a twelve-year-old girl who died? Plenty! And every word of it uplifting! Courageous! Inspirational!

For this is the story of Jessica Joy Rees, now taken from the world which valued her and rooted for her every minute, every single minute, of her too brief life.

And for this story, I have selected a bouncy tune from Annie the 1977 Broadway musical based on the popular Harold Gray comic strip; music by Charles Strouse, lyrics by Martin Charnin, and the book by Thomas Meehan. The particular tune I have selected is, of course, Tomorrow, a song of such unfettered, irresistible hope that we can easily imagine it bears the sure and certain touch of God Himself, who we are assured calls all such innocents unto Himself, the better to traverse eternity in love and security.

About Jessica.

While other 12-year-old girls were texting friends with the latest gossip, fashion tips, and, of course, pivotal intelligence worthy of the CIA about boyz, Jessica Joy Rees, for all that she wasn’t even a teen-ager, had far weightier things on her young mind. This Rancho Santa Margarita, California lass was wresting with the great questions of human life, riddles and perplexities even the most insightful approach with awe, trepidation and humility:

Who am I? Why am I here? Why am I who has hurt no one so afflicted?

Why me, O Lord, why me?

In her world of hurt, surrounded by adults who all wished to help, there were no sure answers to these questions… and so this slight 12-year-old girl, in constant, increasing pain, amidst a plethora of confusions and bafflements, braved her present struggle and the unknown future with an incandescent smile so radiant it might illuminate all the ages to come. And so this slip of a girl, so very young, came to know, far too soon, that the answers to these queries are in each of us… if only you look. And this young girl did look.. and found comfort aplenty, not just for herself but for the many others wresting with these great queries, as she was. Thus did Jessica Joy Rees, of just 12 winters, find her path, to care, to be a friend, to give solace, to share love… and above all to NEVER EVER GIVE UP, NEGU, the profound acronym that became her defiant, empowering, world-famous online sign off code and raison d’etre.

It was a sentiment that came to define the girl, why she was here, and what she could do… and would do… for all that she was only a seventh-grader.

Cancer.

In the ideal world of our imagining — but sadly not in ours — no 12-year-old child would come to define her world and entire existence by disease, any disease. But while our politicians posture and pose, engaging in endless forays into the trivial and insignificant, thousands of these children sicken daily; governments like ours of the Great Republic preferring the creation and use of deadly weapons to sure victories over and complete eradication of deadly disease.

For these people, who waste every resource and cannot see the error of their costly, misguided, pointless ways, Jessica Joy Rees came as an unanswerable, challenging, and completely clear voice: for thousands of years Mankind has chosen war, mayhem, chaos and misery over the healing arts and sciences. Is it not time, honorable citizens, to try a different approach, raising the banner of health… not that of enmity, catastrophe, hatred, and destruction? Will you not join those who improve, protect and affirm life… instead of those who destroy it?

Jessica’s blog.

Jessica, who should have been hanging at the mall and eviscerating the miscues and misconstructions of fashionistas, had instead a very different agenda, an agenda that would have challenged most any adult, but which to this child was child’s play indeed. Time, fleeting for us all, racing even faster for young Jessica, had its urgent necessities… and so while she did what physicians advised in order to extend life, she lived what little she had, day by day, hour by hour, outreach by outreach, idea by idea, empathy by empathy… making progress and igniting the world as her few days dwindled.

With a wisdom far in advance of her years, Jessica set up a blog… a blog where she shared the considerable insights, knowledges and realizations of her situation; transforming mere personal history into a wealth of useful information for others who shared similar burdens or worse… people who found comfort and some peace, too… in the postings as good, weighty and true as those of Anne Frank. Jessica was empathy pure and simple… empathy graced by the smile of recognition, insight, and comfort; and a work ethic all her own.

With the bittersweet assistance of her father, Pastor Erik Rees, she started a foundation to raise money for pediatric cancer research, again reaching beyond herself for the amelioration of others.

Too, she devised Joy Jars. Buyers got a t-shirt and filled them with Joy for others. These proceeds also went for research which would, she knew, find a cure… but too late for her. That did not signify, did not depress, or dismay her. Her work was to do; others would come, she was sure, to complete her important tasks.

And so a gallant girl, who might so reasonably and justifiably have chosen a very different course for her short time with us, chose instead to use what she had, and in such ample measure, to touch, improve, uplift and soothe the lives of the multitudes, from every corner of Earth, who benefited and will benefit from what she did… and will never forget Jessica Joy Rees, her struggle, her care, her kindness and the humanity which defined her, every day of her life. And this was why at her death, tens of thousands gathered at her Facebook site, gathering for far more than to mark her demise; rather celebrating the heroine and inspiration she was and would always remain. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Amen.

** Your comments on this article are invited below.

About the Author

Author’s program note. In 1911 Shelton Brooks wrote and composed a tune that became the signature song for the Last of the Red-Hot Mamas, Sophie Tucker. There wasn’t a woman alive (not a girl, mind, but a card-carrying woman) who didn’t love Tucker for getting up off her backside and singing it like it is… about the woman who gave so much, only to be discarded and spurned by her man… the man who thereby let you know he was on his way to other places, other people. And so as Sophie got up and belted out the words, you knew she was singing for you…

Some of these days. You’re gonna miss me honey/ Some of these days. You’re gonna feel so lonely.

And no matter how demur and sweet you were, when Sophie sang this strident song, a declaration of intent, you got up and sang it with her, yeah even if you were an arthritic 88… because you were angry about that no good man; because you were hurtin’… because you needed to make it clear you were still here, still desirable, still alive… and that your best days were not in the past… but just around the corner.

Sophie’s song was liberating, cathartic, a soul-lifter, helping you get through the lonely days and even lonelier nights… so you could get up and keep going.

If only the elephants had a defender like Sophie Tucker… and a tune like this one.which you’ll easily find in any search engine)… maybe they wouldn’t be facing extinction by 2020. But they don’t… and that’s just one more reason for despair….

2011 a catastrophic year for the endangered African elephants.

Let’s be clear about something: specialists have known for some time, and have regularly reported, that the end of the elephants is at hand unless radical action is taken and taken NOW. One of the greatest creatures on our Third Rock from the Sun, the elephant, is about to go the way of all flesh… only a comparative handful of bullets now stand between them and total, complete, irrevocable extinction. The latest installment of this tragedy is being reported now.

On December 29, 2011, for instance, Tom Milliken, an elephant and rhino specialist for the wildlife trade monitoring network TRAFFIC said, 2011 has truly been a horrible year for elephants. Why? For the usual reason: ivory. 2011 was the worst year on record since ivory sales were banned in 1989, so bad that the world is just 8 short years away from being present when the last great elephant is shot… thereby demonstrating yet again how unfit we humans are for the task of saving this planet and its creatures, wiped out one by one because of our proven ineptitude and malfeasance.

It’s all about the ivory.

Milliken is clear and emphatic about the problem: In 23 years of compiling ivory seizure data… 2011 is the worst year ever for large ivory seizures. As many as 3000 elephants were killed by poachers in the last year, a figure of horror… pushing these elephants, bullet by bullet… into a future without their majesty and wonder,

In one case in early December, Malaysian authorities seized hundreds of African elephant tusks valued at $1.3 million that were being shipped to Cambodia. The ivory was hidden in containers of Kenyan handicrafts. Per usual, avarice was in the driver’s seat. Particularly in Asia….

Experts agree that most of the outrages nowadays involve ivory being smuggled from Africa into Asia, where growing wealth has fed the desire for Ivory ornaments and for rhino horn that is used in traditional medicine, though scientists proved long ago that it has no medicinal value whatsoever. And so African elephants die to provide gimcrackery for the nouveau riche and fake medicine for the credulous and duped. Yes, for such trivial causes do these great elephants die…

TRAFFIC said Asian crime syndicates are increasingly involved in poaching and the illegal ivory trade across Africa, a trend that coincides with growing Asian investment on the continent. From his headquarters in Zimbabwe Milliken said, The escalation in ivory trade and elephant and rhino killing is being driven by the Asian syndicates that are now firmly enmeshed within African societies.There are more Asians than ever before in the history of the continent, and this is one of the repercussions. Tom Milliken is a brave man; these syndicates cannot like these words… and it is easy, so easy, to shoot one bullet in the night into an elephant — or into the good people like Milliken who try to protect them and so notify the world about what’s going on.

Fewer elephants every single day and less hope for the future.

By the end of this day another 25 elephants will die… and with their passing there will be even less chance to preserve the survivors. The problem is acute in Congo, northern Kenya, southern Tanzania, and northern Mozambique… and most of all, in Chad where the elephant population is at crisis level, worsening with every passing day as their dwindling numbers make clear.

For instance, in the 1980’s experts estimated the total population of African elephants around 1 million, with 70,000 elephants being killed a year. Now, at the commencement of 2012, their numbers are less than 470,000 with poachers more ardent and determined as elephants move closer to extinction. Poachers sense they must act now… or never. Thus, authorities seized at least 13 large seizures in 2011… compared to 6 in 2010.

And as the elephant goes, so go all the creatures dependent on it.

Earth is a series of interlocking networks; we are all dependent on others who, in turn, are dependent on us. Thus as the elephants die, their essential work of opening habitats for other species is diminished; and so the fate of one becomes the fate of many until there is crisis and extinction for all.

The African elephant is at the crucial tipping point where, soon, it will be too late to change the course of events. We are close, so very close to this moment, but the important thing is that we are not there yet. We can still, just now, make a difference by…

* Writing to the President of the United States and urging his immediate action.

* Sending a few bucks to TRAFFIC and the International Fund for Animal Welfare.

* Asking your Congressman and Senator to introduce resolutions on the matter.

* Getting the kids in your school to sign a petition, then sending it to your mayor and asking for a Save the Elephants Day.

Get the picture?. We must not allow what could now so easily happen, allowing the African elephant to go gentle into this good-night. We must fight, fight against the waning of the light, like Dylan Thomas wrote…. and as Sophie Tucker sang…

for when you leave me, I know it will grieve me You’ll miss your little baby Yes, some of these days.

Let’s all do our bit at once so we never have to grieve, in these or any other days…

About the Author

Author’s program note. It was the work of an instant to select the music to accompany this article. It had to be Rocky Balboa’s theme song, Gonna Fly Now (released 1977). It’s perfect for people who must work, really work, to grab victory. Rocky Balboa, Sylvester Stallone’s alter ego, was that kind of person. His life was a mess… and what he knew about winning wouldn’t even fill a thimble. He had to learn it, commit to it, do it… through every body-stretching, painful movement. But he wanted victory, he needed victory, he had to know what being a champion was all about… and so he did what he had to do, the more so on the many days he felt like throwing in the towel, giving up, because giving up was so easy to do.

And, therefore, completely unacceptable.

He ran and he ran, up the famous steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art… he ran…. he stumbled… he sweated like a horse… and he fell. And that’s when a remarkable thing happened…

First one person jumped to his feet in the cinema and pounded the air with his clenched first… Rocky was running for this boy now… and the boy knew it… and shouted…

And then there was growing pandemonium in the theatre, as whole rows of people, men and women, old age pensioners now and even hitherto demur women of a certain age… graduate students, physicians, kids from the neighborhood and retired has-beens with no lifetime victories at all… we were all on our feet, screaming for Rocky…. because we knew what he was going through… and we wanted to help him… and re-ignite our own lives.

It was primal…. it was cathartic… it was magnificent.

Go now then to any search engine and find this music. Play it loud, proud, often… it is the theme song for people who have known only too well what being an underdog is all about… and what sweet victory demands of them… and their willingness to do whatever is necessary to get it… because this kind of victory demands the best of you, everything of you and will never accept less.

Have you ever given all of yourself in this way, to show the world — and yourself — just what you’re made of? Because you will never understand the pure exhilaration that life can be until you have put yourself, every particle of yourself on the line, victory or death, torpedoes be damned, full speed ahead.

Well, meet one woman who has… a grandmother from California. Her name is Linda Elze, and she is a champ of champs.

And it is my great privilege to introduce her to you, her and the mindset and the unrelenting determination that has turned her into a role model, an inspiration, a champion.

Champs know only one direction: up; know only one position: first!

I have known many champions in my almost 65 years… and one thing they all share is an adamant commitment to reaching the top. They know that that is where their true fulfillment is to be found… and that fulfillment is worth every obstacle, every impediment, every challenge and every crushing set-back… for make no mistake about it: there has never been, nor will there ever be, a champion who has not been mangled, crushed, cast down…. Overcoming such situations is not only necessary to becoming a champion… but it is because such situations have been overcome that gives victory its unique savor and bliss.

Champions commit, without any guarantees.

What does life offer each of us? Some wag said, just death and taxes; but champions can add pain to that, with absolutely no assurance of victory. Thus they face the certainty of work… of pain… of obstacles… without the smallest guarantee that they’ll achieve their objective.

100% work…. 0% guarantee of victory. This is the formula every champion lives by… and from this they must draw everything they’ll need for victory… and they must do this most of all on days when every sinew of their bodies is asking for, no demanding, rest… comfort… release; the very thing champions, of all people, must use spariingly, for these are the impediments to victory.

Champions face — then grapple with and overcome — their imperfections.

One thing you can bet on with champions is this: each and every one of them was born imperfect. Each champion had, at one time or several, to face this reality with complete honesty and candor. Integrity begins with a knowledge of just who you are, and most particularly what imperfections you have. Then having perceived and enumerated them… you must work to overcome them. For perfection can only be achieved through the stark recognition and assiduous overcoming of imperfection.

Champions maintain an acute realization of time… and learn how to use this perishable commodity to maximum effect.

Benjamin Franklin told us that time is money… but even more than that, time is the process that defines and limits us. No know knows better than an aspiring champion just how finite and intractable time really it… and therefore approaches each and every day with humility, respect, and total commitment, no excuses, no hesitations, and no regrets… because regrets imply that you didn’t do enough or in the right way. However, champions retire each day comforted by the knowledge, the certainty that they did what was necessary — everything that was necessary — to make this day the best it could be.

Out of surfeit, generosity.

And one more thing. Champions give. Because they have, because they can, because they must. All champions are defined by their generosity… they have so much by virtue of their victories… and each desires to share it.

…. and of such givers Linda Elze is the queen, as people worldwide can attest; good people becoming even better from the infusions of this single woman; often tired, sometimes ill, yet never without a smile, a kind word, a tip, a helping hand.

And so today, we do not just salute and acknowledge the champion… but the woman who became the champion, and who has given so much to launch and assist others so they become champions, too.

This is her hour, her day, not an end, but a new beginning. For she has so many victories to come, so many to help, and each gives her what champions need most of all, and grateful, love. It is our privilege to give… her privilege to take. God speed, Linda Elze, on your triumphant way. We are all so very proud of you, not just for your victories, but for your heart and the love that defines you.

** We invite you to submit your comments below.

About the Author

Author’s program note. I’ve got this day all planned. First, I’ll finish this article and get it out to the awaiting world; then I’ll finish my Christmas shopping. I’ve been well organized about it. So far, so good; even the help at the other end of the telephone line, the people who take the orders, seem better and friendlier this year. Maybe they’re glad to have a job, even a seasonal one, with so many unemployed and likely to remain so.

I’ve got an objective that keeps me focused today… and that objective is to help myself to some good old, home-baked Christmas cookies… and not just one or two either. Diabetes be damned; Christmas and its cookies come but once a year…. and tonight I’ll translate that into some serious munching.

One guy you may know who’ll be helping me get in the mood is George Strait. He’s called the King of Country, his brand of music a toe-tapping mixture of western swing, bar-room ballads, honky-tonk style and fresh yet traditional Country. He seems a genuinely nice fellow, the kind of man who in real life would give you a big smile, a strong hand shake, and a tip of his over sized cowboy hat. Under the right circumstances, I could be persuaded to give him one of my Christmas cookies… but not more, no matter how nice he is.

In 1999 Strait recorded a peppy little number by Aaron Barker called Christmas Cookies. It’s got the necessary gosh, ma’am twang factor and an infectious beat that’ll follow you around the house like your favorite dawg, I sure do like those Christmas cookies, sugar. The tune is about how he wolfs them down before his sugar babe even finishes the sprinkles and the icing…. his good woman outwardly chiding, but inwardly glad she has this big overgrown boy around the house; women like a little boy in their man… at Christmas and watching them down those cookies at record speed constitutes proof positive that she’s got one. Ah, shucks, babe, I didn’t mean to eat them all…. but they were so good I couldn’t help myself. What woman, and especially at Christmas, could take offense at that?

No cookies, no Christmas.

Christmas for me means many, many things. Of the school pageant where my Midwestern school fellows shuffled through the first Noel all gawky embarrassment and barely suppressed giggles.

Of the all important trip to the car lot where one of those trees was ours… and no matter that it wasn’t quite symmetrical and never, ever of decorator quality. Our trees were mauled by love and had, from the very first moment, a family look… that became pure Currier and Ives when we tossed on the tinsel; (we were too impatient to put it on piece by piece; clumps were more our style). And when my father put the star on the top of the tree (and it was always the job of my father to do so), we all agreed, with our dog Missy reaffirming with her strident barks and capers, that this was the best tree yet. And so it was… every single year.

Christmas was all about tradition… and no one was more traditional than the three children in our home…. and woe if such and such a thing done a certain way the year before should, by an unthinking adult, be done differently this year. It was done that way before; it must be done that way now. This adamancy makes me smile when I think of it now. No army officer of ancient regiment could have been more devoted to the old ways and true than we were.

And this, of course, is where Christmas cookies come in. We were most dedicated to and unyielding about them, and not just because we always had the best cookies in the world baking in who’s ever kitchen we found ourselves. Quite simply, certain cookies with their unmistakable contours, tastes, and looks meant Christmas, and there would have been no Christmas at all without them.

The minute Thanksgiving was over…

I was born in Illinois in 1947, in February, so I was almost a year old when my first Christmas came along. There were just three of us for that first Christmas, two young parents in their mid-twenties… and me, the apple of every eye with consequences still playing themselves out over 60 years later. The first cookie story I remember is so good I have to insert it here… even though it’s not about Christmas, but says everything about my mother and her unceasing concern about my welfare and place in the world.

When I was about three or four POM (Poor Old Mother) was so anxious that I have lots of friends and assured position at our neighborhood park, that she sent me into that park alone (whilst she watched anxiously from a distance), a backpack strapped to me and a big package of Oreo cookies filling that pack. So accoutered I became the bait that would ensure my popularity and social advance. There was a certain crazy logic to the scheme… and whilst I do not remember the incident itself, POM told me years later, I was mobbed by moppets who were not about to turn down free cookies, whatever the strings attached. And so my charismatic career was well and truly launched…

… thus was the importance of cookies made clear… so much so, that I can never recall even a short period of my life when I was cookie-less, and certainly never at Christmas.

Klotschkis

My grandmother was of English descent; my grandfather’s was German. Yet neither English nor German cookies were favorites. That was the klotschkis which truly symbolized the holidays. Needless to say as a boy I cared nothing for the proper description, where it came from, even how they were made. I was simply mad for this one cookie, the cookie we only got at Christmas and ate wildly, regardless of its astronomic sugar content and stratospheric calories. And I was not alone in this. Klotschkis were everybody’s favorite… and so my English-born grandmother bearing the name of the great queen who died the year she was born, was kept baking what we all craved… and knew too well would be gone soon, severely to test our patience before returning.

This year thanks to Sharon Oshatz and fast Internet searches, I got the low-down on the klotschkis, everything but the taste; that I had never forgotten and needed absolutely no assistance to recall.

Klotschkis are simple Polish butter cookies festooned by various jams… particularly strawberry, and the ones I remember best… apricot and prune. My grandmother always finished them with white confectioner’s sugar. She knew the importance of tradition, particularly but not exclusively to her youngest relations; she never tampered with what she knew we wanted, expected, and would have been disappointed, dismayed and distraught had even the smallest particular concerning these cookies been neglected or overlooked. And in her kitchen they never were. Though common sense was.

The problem with traditions is that they all have the feeling of forever about them; that what one celebrates today will necessarily be here to be celebrated tomorrow. Nothing could be less true… for every tradition (like everything in the human condition) is doomed to fade, become uncertain and inaccurate, and pass on; and we humans are careless about such matters. We believe in forever; when we should be working instead to ensure that forever, by working hard to avoid forgetfulness and oblivion. And as a species we are just horrid at this.

Thus, in this year of our Lord 2011, I shall not have the joy of klotschkis, either the memory or the richness of flavor. My grandmother Victoria, as stolid and certain as Queen Victoria herself, would never be anything but forever; that’s the way we acted… only to be upended by the predictable death that turns forever into a macabre joke. No recipe written; no recipe transmitted to her daughters, then to me and mine. If only she had said such and such amount of butter, so many dozens of eggs, blended in a bowl and baked for so many minutes. For without these simple directions, this cookie, made magic by Grammie, becomes the task of historians and archeologists.

Still this evening I shall do my best to recreate perfection, recipe in hand, high standard daunting but not inhibiting. For I was there to sample this perfection in the first place… and I must try to recapture it before I, too, cannot do so. I owe it to Grammie… my mother and siblings et al. And I owe it to myself, too, because you see

I sure do like those Christmas cookies, sugar I sure do like those Christmas cookies, babe.

Dedicated to Sharon Oshatz, colleague, friend, cook, on the occasion of her birthday. I didn’t ask how many, because I know she’s just getting better and especially appreciate the help she’s given to make me better, too.

About the Author