Nary Christmas

It wasn't a very satisfying Christmas. Work was a major distraction. We didn't have a very spiritual Christmas Eve. And our family struggled to gather together at one time. But I think I could have gotten over all of those things were it not for the one missing ingredient: I didn't serve. Oh, we tried to do a few things. I bought a couple of gifts, but never really got into it. Lanee and I made almond bark, and the family visited some families to pass out the candy and do a little presentation. I bought a recent widow a book of poetry. And that was it. No real sacrifice. No sustained effort. Not much interest in brightening lives. And a Christmas virtually lost.

It is easy to decry the destructive forces of commercialism in Christmas. It's obvious that we have completely lost the meanings of the symbols we take from the attic every December to decorate our houses. And it's all too convenient to complain about the hustle and bustle every year, and Christmas sneaking up on us, like it does to everyone, every year.

It's easy to sing the carols without being touched. To wrap the gifts as a matter of course. To substitute funny Christmas movies for thoughtful ones.

But the one act that overpowers them all is when we give of ourselves for the sake of others; when our hearts are filled with love and compassion, and our hands are busy trying to make a difference. That is Christmas pure and undefiled, and without it nothing else matters.

It would be painful to have to wait until next year for redemption. Fortunately, only the holiday is confined to December. With that thought, I'm hanging a lovely Christmas ornament in my closet that I will see every morning and every night, to remind me that giving is also a beautiful thing, and that the spirit of Christmas can be all year long, even without the bells and tinsel.

Cha-Ching!

After a month of soliciting and selling, convincing and cajoling, presenting and pleading, and grunting and groveling, we put our financing in place for our retail expansion. Money was wired to us yeterday, and we wired it out to display manufacturers, who wired it to China, who probably started parsing it out to the millions of workers who make stuff over there, to the tune of a few dollars a day.

I suppose I should celebrate, but I never do. It is both a blessing and curse. I breathe deeply for a few minutes, smile about a milestone reached, then immediately begin worrying about what needs to be done next to ward off disaster. I've never been able to enjoy any success for very long. But the bitterness of my failures is a taste that lingers on forever. As a result, I'm not driven by the trappings of success, but rather by the fear of failure.

We're all driven by different things. I've grown comfortable with my motivations and doubt that they will change. I wear them like an old pair of shoes--scuffed tops and worn heels, but they are comfortable and fit me well.

Merritt James

Our second grandchild announced himself to the world this morning. Mom, Sam and I were in the waiting room while Merritt and Stacie finished a long night of labor. He is a handsome little guy (6 lbs. 14 oz.) with lots of dark hair. They named him Merritt James, but plan to call him James.

There is something very mellowing about the birth of a new child--at least, once the birth is concluded! Everyone is softened. We dim the lights and speak in hushed tones. And we gently pass the child from person to person, and stand in line to get our touch of love, as if something magical will rub off on us.

Merritt and Stacie will be wonderful parents and I look forward to watching young James explore this brave new world, and the strange creatures in it. Yesterday I only had one grandchild, who I love with all my heart. But today I have a second who I love just as much. That's the thing about love--you can give all you want without running out.

Christmas Ditty

Last night we visited families in our neighborhood with this message:

'Twas a week before Christmas
And all through our Stake
We thought we'd find out
Just who was awake.

Perhaps you were nestled
All snug in your bed;
And the sound of the doorbell
Brought nothing but dread.

And when you discretely
Glanced from the curtain
And saw it was us,
Well you groaned, I am certain.

Maybe our visit here
Should be explained.
Don't think for a minute
You'll be entertained.

We had visions of caroling--
Our own little choir.
But calling us singers
Would make you a liar.

We considered performing
A play in three acts.
But as thespians go
We're a sad bunch of hacks.

It's not like we're visiting
The entire ward--
Just those that we thought
Might be home and be bored.

So let's get to the point,
Let's get right to the facts:
We wanted to come by
And bring you some snacks.

'Cause a week before Christmas
is a time that is right
To give you our love
On this cold snowy night.

And to bring you some sweets
And a bit of good cheer;
And wish Merry Christmas
And Happy New Year!

Money-Raising Part III

It's not that I'm obsessed with money-raising, but it's been such a big part of my life recently. Today I went to a Speed-Pitching Luncheon, and presented our business to 10 different angel investor groups in rapid succession. There's something a little bit demeaning about summing up your business in five minutes, a little like an obituary, except no one asks nasty questions after you are dead.

The concept was modeled after Speed-Dating gatherings, which have become quite the rage of late. But they did not exist when I was in season. We had Bridgemans, which served great chocolate malts, and a roller skating rink and big parks and hockey games and a five-mile stretch of beach called Park Point. If you couldn't meet a girl in one of these places, you were probably better off single. I doubt that I would have been a good speed dater. I think I'm more of an acquired taste.

Today's Observation: There is nothing more dangerous than a venture capitalist that made money as an entrepreneur selling a business. Now he thinks he's an expert at everything. He was probably awfully lucky, but is convinced it's because he was smarter than everyone else. Do not let these people on your board!

Today's Commitment: If I ever make enough money to be an angel investor I will not be a jerk and will treat people with respect.

Today's Conclusion: Still broke.

All Night Long

I pulled an all-nighter last night. It's been a while since I've done that, and I'm not exactly sure why I did. Maybe to try to trick myself into believing that I'm still young. But I was working at the office and experiencing this highly productive surge of energy and the night grew long and my to-do list grew short and then it was morning. So I grabbed some breakfast, worked out and came home to start my day normally, except for the fact my body kept reminding me that something very strange was going on. And my mind kept deserting me. And all of this has dashed my delusions of the limitless energy of an eternal youth.

Nevertheless, I like the idea of working all night. It screams of passion and dedication. It waves a flag of commitment above and beyond mortals who have chosen paths normal and sane. Yet there is a foolishness to the proposition that can only be attributed to a thirst for excellence, and a hunger for more better faster. There is a chaos in the act that appeals to the anarchist in me, as I pose chin-out in counter-cyclical defiance to the laws of commerce or physics.

I won't be young forever, even in my own mind. But if I am nimble old age can not creep up on me. And then one day I will pass that portal, with a bowed head and creaking knees, in the middle of the night, while the watchman sleeps.

Money Raising: Part II

So there we were, Lee, Matt and me, having an investment discussion with a guy who has made quite a bit of money, and is now in the business of giving short-term loans at usurious interest rates. It's not pretty, but it may be our best option to fund our retail deal.

But here's the thing--this guy likes us and believes in our product. He wants to help. But he knows how onerous his terms are. So he doesn't really want us to take it. He's like a friendly loan shark.

And here's the other thing--he looked miserable. He's making lots of money, but agonizes over possibly making a deal that might not be more lucrative than the last. He looks pained, like a man wrestling with his conscience. We all may be broke and sacrificing paychecks, but I think we sleep well, and we were smiling and comfortable. We all commented that it looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

Investing in us is a moral decision for him. He's known that for some time, as he almost invested a year ago. It doesn't matter nearly as much to us as it does to him, because he is wracked with guilt over choosing money over his desire to help.

Everything in life has a price tag. But wealth is often the worst value.

Raising Money

There are few things so inherently demeaning as raising money. Oh, it's one thing when times are good (OK, like they are now) and you have a great story to tell (I thought we did). Then it's shooting ducks on the pond, as we used to say. But generally the process of fund-raising is a relentless task, filled with endless rejections and excruciating frustration.

One annoying reality is that most people with money to invest think they are brilliant. They made their money because they were smarter than the other guys. And now, in 45 minutes, they can drill down to the very essence of your business and understand the secrets which have eluded the principals for the five years they have labored long and hard to build it. Their reasons for investing in A or rejecting B often can't stand up to any scrutiny but their own. But frankly, they are absolutely entitled to their opinion. It's their money, and how they evaluate investments is their inalienable right.

We have been out pounding on doors now for over a month. We are doubling our volume organically, have a major retail account in hand for 2007 (that will give us another 600% growth), very good momentum, no more legal entanglements and a management team that has, by most accounts, pulled off the seemingly impossible. And we haven't been able to put the cash together to fund the retail expansion.

Admittedly it's not all glitter and fairy dust. Our balance sheet suffered from litigation expenses and we have very tight timing on the raise. (I'm convinced that if we didn't need the money now, we could put together a very nice VC round in March or April.) We're stuck as a "tweener." We don't have time to raise an institutional round, but we need more money than private investors are typically comfortable with.

This is a long sob story, recorded for posterity perhaps. But it is what it is. I have become an organ grinder, playing my heart out on the busy streets of commerce, but my monkey keeps returning with an empty cup.

If we can't fund this retail deal it will blow up in our faces. Our reputation will be shot. And all that we have fought and sacrificed for will be lost. Our success will be our failure. Life is full of ironies, both comic and tragic. But this is only money, and not funny enough to tell at parties, or tragic enough for sympathy cards. Maybe if I could teach the monkey to dance ...

Football Rivalry

BYU beat the University of Utah football team 33-31 yesterday at Rice-Eccles stadium. It was the culmination of a magical season for BYU, and especially senior quarterback John Beck. And it ended another annual "Rivalry Week" between the two schools, which got too heated, too personal, too vituperative, venemous and vindictive.

Angelica and I went to the game and we were fortunate to sit amongst BYU fans, and a few Ute backers that were very nice. In contrast, the line to the men's room (which was interminably long) was over-populated by Ute fans who drank too much beer during the first two quarters, leaving them with full bladders and empty heads.

The Utah fans in front of me also said that last year at BYU they were treated very rudely, so it goes both ways.

We ought to somehow rise above these primitive instincts. We are no longer warrior-tribes that must rise to a feverish pitch for battle; or nomadic hunters who require courage to fill the bellies of our women and children. No, we are a pampered society with too much time on our hands, and too little good sense to know how to use it. So we dress in red and blue and gratify ourselves by cheering the home team to victory, or wallowing in its defeat.

Next year I am going to the game in Provo. I am going to wear blue, and I am going to make it a point to do something nice for Utah fans.

Thankfully

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I like that it doesn't require a lot of preparation, other than cooking for the day. I like that it's always a four-day holiday weekend--the only one of the year. I like the big traditional meal. I like that it involves football. And I especially like the simple and unappreciated idea of remembering all the things we have to be thankful for.

Maybe it's because of these reasons that Thanksgiving has become a major event in our home. Because I like the holiday so much, we try to share it with family and friends. This year we played our traditional Turkey Bowl in our new ward. Rodger Pickett and his daughters were in town, spent Wednesday night with us and played football Thursday morning. Then the customary big dinner with family and friends from Park City and Salt Lake. Followed by lots of games, including something of a Settlers of Cataan marathon. And of course football. And then, as has become another tradition, officially starting the Christmas season by watching the movie Mixed Nuts.

None of these activities are particularly meaningful by themselves. But over time, they become important traditions for our family, anchors to our past that help define us, that give us something to look forward to, that give relevance to our gathering together.

I'm thankful for these traditions. I'm thankful for Thanksgiving. And I'm thankful for family and friends that make them enjoyable and meaningful.

Viva la County!

In 2005 I served on an advisory committee for Summit County to consider a change in our form of government. The seven of us met approximately twice a month for a year, in addition to various public hearings, research interviews and the like. After a year, we recommended a substantial change to our government structure, going from a three-person commission to a five-person council, and hiring a County Manager to assume all executive responsibilities, reporting to the Council.

The current County Commission approved the measure for the ballot this year, and on election day, despite strong opposition from current county employees, voters narrowly passed the recommendation. How narrow? The difference was only 236 votes out of nearly 11,000 cast.

I've always been attracted to politics, and even though I am no longer a Summit County citizen I was asked to serve on the Summit Steps Forward committee to help get the measure passed. I wrote numerous letters to the editor (from myself, and for others), manned a booth at the Farmers Market, did a radio interview and call-in, wrote emails, helped with publicity, etc.

And here's the gratifying thing--what I did mattered. Not just serving on the committee, which anyone could have done. But rather, getting actively involved in the political process. Volunteering. Serving. In fact, the vote was so close, that I suspect that there were hundreds of people who did something in support of the measure that turned out to make a crucial difference.

It's very easy in elections to assume that your efforts are lost in the tidal wave of the majority. And perhaps that is often the case, although I'm sure that someone's contribution is pivotal. But in this case, everyone who raised his or her voice may have provided the deciding call.

We throw our pebbles in the water and hope that in a sea of calm the ripples dance to distant shores.

In Memory of Laurence Lyon

I attended Laurence Lyons' funeral on Tuesday. It was one of the more interesting funerals I have been to. Laurence was a devoted husband and father, a talented musician and composer, and a well-versed LDS scholar. And I learned that his family called him "Laury," which I found surprising because he seemed so formal to me.

There was a lot of music, including several pieces that he had written. We sang one of his hymns. And there was a duet, and a string ensemble and a recording of a choir. It was all very appropriate, given the role music played in his life and heritage.

Sam and I have been home teaching Laurence and Donna for six months. He had been in and out of the hospital quite a bit over the past six weeks. We were by there about a month ago and I sensed a real change in him. He had softened (not that he was ever nasty, just a bit stiff, and perhaps judgmental). But I saw in his demeanor that he had experienced a change, and it occured to me that he was now seeing life from an eternal perspective. As we left the house, I commented that he was acting like a man who didn't have long to live. It was the same when Sam and I visited with them again a week later. He was positively chatty, which was unusual. (When I set up my first appointment, he said he'd like a 20-minute visit, with a lesson, and not much "chit-chat.")

I will remember him mostly by his impish grin, which came from the inside out, and genuinely reflected the pure delight of something he found clever or amusing. It was a boyish smile, and I delighted to see it. At the funeral, his brother described his sense of humor as "Puckish," and hearing that, the pieces fit together.

A great quote from the funeral, from his daughter. She said that as her father got older, he found household fix-it projects to take much more time and energy than previously. As a result, he had resolved to: "Never do anything for the first time." I wish I had said that.

I like funerals. There is such a sweet outpouring of emotions. And what a wonderful cultural tradition to gather together to learn of the best of people and to reflect on our fondest memories. It was good to know Laurence in life, and good as well to know him in death.

Stranger than Fiction

If you've seen the trailers, you know that in Stranger than Fiction, Harold Crick suddenly hears a narrative voice describing the occasional scenes he encounters in life. While one might naturally expect this to be troubling, the urgency to understand this curious phenomenon increases when the narrator drops the off-handed line that Harold's death is imminent. A shallow and boring IRS auditor, he seeks help first from a psychiatrist, then a literature professor (Dustin Hoffman), falls in love with an auditee (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and eventually discovers the author who is trying to finish Harold's story (Emma Thompson).

Maybe they should have called it Eternal Despair in an Author's Mind. Yes, this seemed a lot like the Charlie Kaufman movie that is one of my all-time favorites. And there are too many similarities to be accidental. Fiction is a surreal dramedy about a socially maladroit guy in his 30's (played by a wildly succesful comedic actor trying to make a transition)who has an unlikely romance with a wild and beautiful yet sensitive young woman. And both have a surprise ending.

Stranger than Fiction has a better supporting cast, including Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman and Queen Latifah, which adds some heft, but still doesn't make it as good as Eternal Sunshine because, frankly, it isn't written nearly as well. Fiction is also a funnier movie (particularly Hoffman), although most of the audience at my showing didn't recognize the humor. But in the end, Stranger than Fiction is a cool idea searching for a William Goldman to come in and make it a great movie.

Even more disappointing, Will Ferrell is miscast and turns in a woeful performance, either that or he's been watching too many Wes Anderson movies. And both Emma Thompson and Queen Latifah are workmanlike at best. But Maggie Gyllenhaal once again proves her mettle, and Dustin Hoffman (the greatest actor of his generation) further demonstrates his comedic range and extraordinary ability to make every role his own, unique creation. Without him, Stranger than Fiction would be tiresome, although even Hoffman can't overcome an uneven script.

This could have been a great movie. Instead, it is a singularly interesting idea of the interwoven realities of art and life that manages to mildly entertain as it meanders its way to the final chapter.

Crossing Arizona

I don't like propoganda films, especially documentaries.

Monday night we went to the Public Library for a showing of Crossing
Arizona, a documentary about illegal immigration from Mexico over the Arizona border. Producer Danny DeVivo (no, not Devito!) was there to talk about the movie, which purported to show all sides of a sticky and complex issue. But to me, it looked about as fair and balanced as Bill O'Reilly discussing Hillary Clinton.

Nevertheless, the movie had no obvious premise, glossed over the problems and offered no meaningful solutions or insights, except perhaps that George Bush and the conservatives are mean-spirited idiots. How else will the director get invited to the cool Sundance parties?

Tragically, over 3000 people have died on the Arizona border in the past 10 years, wheras prior to that none had. The cinematic finger keeps wanting to point to NAFTA as the cause, suggesting that subsidized U.S. produce flooding into Mexico has crippled the market for competing Mexican goods. Well, maybe that's part of it, but ... even the movie acknowledges that stiffened border policies in California and Texas in the 90's had a siphoning effect, leading more illegals to attempt the more dangerous Arizona route across the deserts. And while U.S. agricultural subsidies make an easy villain, the low prices probably have more to do with the same large-farm production efficiencies that have put most domestic small farmers out of business. And why didn't we learn why Mexico signed NAFTA in the first place? After all, at its conception it was supposed to benefit the Mexican economy. But unfortunately, even with the elimination of tarriffs, the Mexicans can't compete with the Chinese economic juggernaut fueled by ultra-cheap labor.

But somehow the filmmakers made this all look like George Bush's fault, even though Clinton signed NAFTA. I thought Bush was the guy that was at least floating solutions, while ost politicians preferred to ignore the problem as a no-win issue.

But what reallly bothered me was the emotional manipulation to sell a point of view. I didn't like the selective portrayal of the "Minutemen," the armed volunteer border patrol, who came across as racist zealots, hunting Mexicans like so many bucks and does. And I resented the lingering and sensational footage of the dead, pregnant Mexican woman. It's so easy on film to create good guys and bad guys. Give me a camera and a limited budget and I can make you love or hate almost anyone.

Crossing Arizona was at its best when showing the many selfless volunteers that place water along the routes to help save lives. These people aren't for or against illegal immigration. They are humanitarians. And above all, it was these individuals that I found most compelling.

There are no easy political solutions. Afterwards, DeVivo talked about the failed U.S. immigration policy, but without offering up alternatives. He has every right to make a political documentary if he wants, even a manipulative one that feigns impartiality. And I guess the audience had every right to react with anger and indignation, truth and reality notwithstanding. Welcome to America.

For People Who Talk

We often underestimate the importance of our words. Many people will rationalize their words with the explanation that they weren’t intended to be mean (or nasty, disrespectful, critical, etc.) but they were misinterpreted. The fact is, we are continually judged based on what others hear us say. If we’re misinterpreted, it’s our problem. Others can’t read our minds. And besides, almost every time I’ve heard these rationalizations, it occurs to me that they are exactly that—feeble attempts to logically justify poor judgment or thoughtless behavior.

Beyond their preeminent importance as a communication tool, words can be used to shape how we feel and think, to drive the subconscious in directions we would like it to go. It's not what goes in, but what comes out of the mouth that defiles us.

So here are my Ten Principles for People Who Talk, for your consideration:

1. Think before you speak. If I mastered this one principle, I would silence a fourth of my words and change another fourth.

2. The less “I’s” the better. So many of us want to talk about ourselves, not recognizing that the listener is politely bored. How about a few questions?

3. Quit complaining. Complaints are the static in life's radio. Everyone wants to change the channel.

4. Quit making excuses. Your friends don't need them and the rest won't believe them.

5. Don’t criticize. Didn't your mama teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say about someone ...?

6. Graciously give and receive compliments. This takes surprisingly little practice to master. Mainly sincerity. And if you don't immediately see something worth complimenting, look more closely.

7. Resist the urge to correct. Most egregious is that you might be wrong. But really, is it that important? Probably not.

8. Be an active listener. Don't do this to feign interest. Do it to enhance understanding and appreciation.

9. Be honest. It's easier, and usually more fun. And it's one less thing to worry about.

10. Overcome the desire to win. It's always a hollow victory. And in the same vein, only play "I can beat that" at frat parties.

11. Never pretend to know more than you do. 'Cause you don't, OK?

12. Remind yourself to Shut Up! Much better than waiting for someone else to remind you.

Imperfectly Perfect

I have become a fan of imperfection.

Not too much, mind you. But I have discovered that a couple of flaws here or there is preferable to the elusive ideal of exquisite perfection.

I discovered this paradox when we moved to our current house, which is older and smaller than other houses we have had in the past 20 years. The inconveniences became immediately apparent: There is no air conditioning on the main floor and we sometimes need fans in the summer. The living room is cold in the winter. My shower sprays water like a bad radiator hose. Our closet is small, and the door is so narrow you have to walk just right to get through with a laundry basket. There is no fan in the downstairs bathroom. There's not enough cupboard space anywhere. The refrigerator is small. There is a cellar that is accessed from outside the house. And the list goes on.

Day One I started noticing these things, but for some strange reason never really considered them as negatives. They instantly became part of the charm of the house, and I have mostly gotten used to them. But more importantly, I have grown comfortable with the realization the that the house is never going to be perfect. So I'm more relaxed. I don't feel the urge to pick up stuff all the time. I'm OK leaving my laptop on the counter, or a book lying near the fireplace. The old couch and the frayed rugs don't bother me as much in their new context. And I don't feel guilty about the little things that would be quickly attended to by someone more conscientous than myself.

Here's an example--our yard has several different kinds of grass (one of them is "crab"), a couple of bare spots around the edges, and the occasional mushroom patch in wet shady parts. It's the perfect yard to play in, and when Sam and his friends etch home plate into the lawn it's not such a big deal.

I think this is a good strategy for relationships, and probably for self-analysis as well. None of us is perfect, and the sooner we get used to that the happier we will be with our spouses, our children, our family, friends and co-workers, and ourselves.

I like our house. And I appreciate its charming imperfections. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way. Except maybe the bathroom fan.

My Generations

A simple yet profound thought came to me today.

I suddenly realized that whether I want to or not, I will have a significant influence on dozens, or hundreds, or maybe thousands of lives. This will happen not as a result of my roles in business, or politics, or church or community. Rather, it is an inexorable function of being a father.

If years ago you would have asked me if I had some influence on how my children turned out, I suppose I would have answered in the affirmative. But now I have the privilege of observing living specimens; of seeing my children as fully grown adults. And only now am I beginning to appreciate how much is passed like a dowry from generation to generation--cultures, attitudes, values, interests, tastes, traditions and habits, to name a few. Some of these stick, and will be passed on to my children's children. And some will undoubtedly survive a generation or two beyond that. And in some small yet important way, I suspect that some threads of our parental influence will be woven into the lives of our descendants for many generations to come.

If I have raised my children mostly right, maybe they will be smart enough to eradicate most of the deficient parts of their inheritance. Maybe they will be more patient, will give gifts on time, will have family service activities and sing together. But just as well, I hope that somewhere down the line a child who has only known me by genealogy will nonetheless learn a poem that his father taught him, or camp in remote backcountry with her mother, or read philosophy or play touch football or have big Thanksgiving get-togethers or practice good table manners or have in his or her young life at least one baton that I once held and that had been passed from mother and father to daughter and son.

I will be more careful now with what I am leaving behind. I wish I had thought of this earlier.

Cardinals Win!

I love the World Series.

The St. Louis Cardinals just defeated the Detroit Tigers to win the Series in five games. TV ratings were down again, as Americans turned to Dancing with the Stars instead, and sportswriters grumbled about the small-town teams that lacked star-power and weren't scoring runs. But personally, I found the Cards' victory extremely satisfying.

Jeff Weaver pitched two outstanding victories. This is a guy who the Angels dumped mid-season. Same story with Preston Wilson, who was a mid-season pick-up from waivers and started in the outfield.

Tony LaRussa is a class act as a manager. He's got a brilliant baseball mind, he's a terrific leader and he's got great instincts.

I love Albert Pujols, who is the best player in the game even though he didn't have a great Series. And it was nice to see Jim Edmonds and Scott Rolen come through under the spotlight.

And little David Eckstein was the MVP, with timely hits and a .367 average. He's 5' 7" of scrappy, competitive hustle that is distinguished by his irrepressible will to win. If you're a baseball fan, you can't help but admire David Eckstein, who was cut from his college team. LaRussa says he's the toughest player he's ever managed.

I feel badly for Jim Leyland, who is another great, great manager. But what he's done with the Tigers is not diminished at all by the loss.

I remember watching the Tigers and Cards play the 1968 World Series, with stars such as Bob Gibson, Curt Flood, Roger Maris, Lou Brock, Orlando Cepeda, Al Kaline, Denny McLain and Mickey Lolich. Back then there were day games during the week, but my sixth-grade teacher Mrs. Rudaseal was a baseball fan and had a television wheeled to our rooms where we watched the games. It made the whole thing seem so ... important, like a foreign invasion or presidential election. I can still recall the entire line-ups from both teams. Tiger sluggers Al Kaline and Norm Cash carried Detroit offensively. But Lou Brock had an amazing Series, with 13 hits and 7 stolen bases. He just dominated the attention in every game.

Still, the real storyline was the picthing. Denny McLain won 31 games that year and was the Game 1 starter, losing to Gibson, who had perhaps the finest year ever for a starting pitcher, with a 1.12 ERA. But it was Mickey Lolich (aka The Fat Guy), who won three games to lead the Tigers, beating Bob Gibson 4-1 in Game 7. He also hit the only home run of his career in Game 2, and was the World Series MVP. Both Gibson and Lolich pitched 27 innings and had identical ERA's of 1.67!

It was one of the greatest World Series of all time and I watched every minute of every game and it was that October of my 11th year that I became a baseball fan for life.

Ala Carte Fantasy Football

Business Idea the 3rd

Fantasy Football has become extremely popular in the past few years. According to one research firm, 36 million participate during the pro season. But its strength is also it's weakness--you sign up for a season and slog your way through 16 games, assuming you are fortunate enough to make the playoffs.

So why not have the option to play on a one-week basis? There are a number of ways you could do this, but perhaps the simplest is to pick players against their projections for the week. So basically, can you outsmart the experts. If Peyton Manning is projected to throw for 250 yards and 2 TD's and you think it will be a lot more than that, you pick Peyton as your quarterback.

The beauty of this is you can start anew every week, without paying the price all season long for a weak pre-season draft. You could have season-long leagues, monthly tournaments or simply weekly match-ups.

You could even theme these, maybe picking one team against another, or picking from one conference or division, or even one position, or any QB/WR combo, or whatever.

And of course, the idea could just as easily be expanded to other sports. The software is the toughest part. Then, a little marketing and some momentum and position yourself to be bought.

See Rebecca, I told you that playing fantasy footbal league was good for something.

Honey-Baked Spam

Last night I turned on the computer and read the following email:

hi Karina i hope this is your e-mail.
I was happy to see you the other day. I expect you was excited about New York.
So much so much happening all the time, lots of great opportunities.
And speaking of opportunities, the deal I was speaking you about day before involves a company known as Tex-Homa (TXHE).
It's already growing up, but the big info isn't even out yet, so there's still time. I have got this shares already and made 2000. I recommend you to do the same today.

Hope this helps you out. I'll see you this weekend.
Yours Karina Sterling

The existence of this type of advertising is a function of two things--an exceptionally low distribution cost, and the gullibility of a few very naive individuals. And maybe there's a third factor to consider. Some woman (or some guy) has a unique creative talent to dream up this stuff. Living in some foreign country, comparatively fluent in English, she collects a paycheck every two weeks and takes the train home at 5:00 p.m., puts her kids to bed and watches television as she falls asleep on the couch. And one day she woke up with a new idea, though never intended for me, that greeted me in my mailbox: hi Karina ...

Not only that, but there were three versions of the same, each with different names, and mailed to two of my different accounts. And judging by my sample of one, she'd found a rich vein: She made it through the spam filters and into my inbox. And she got me to open it up and read it. But what are the chances of me actually buying some shares of Tex-Homa? Exactly Zero.

It's hard to go broke underestimating the American male, but he won't buy stocks from an imaginary Asian woman who goes by Karina and sends him emails she has written to herself even when she does promise to see him over the weekend.

I know it's not my idea of a hot tip.