Madeline Neumann - RIPSometimes you hear something that sounds so ridiculous that you think it must be made up, that it just couldn't be real. And then you're proven wrong.
The latest one of these to hit my sensibilities in the face is the tragic death of an 11 year old girl named Madeline Neumann from Weston, WI. In case you haven't heard, Madeline died last week due to untreated complications related to her diabetes. Ordinarily, while Madeline's death would be sad, it would be nothing shocking in and of itself I suppose. After all, sometimes kids get sick and, despite the very best efforts of their parents and their doctors, they die.
In Madeline's case, though, there is a twist. Her parents, Dale and Leilana, didn't know she had diabetes. Neither did Madeline or anyone else for that matter. She hadn't been to see a doctor since she was three years old and, when she began to exhibit signs of being sick several weeks ago (nausea, weakness, etc.), her parents made no effort to get Madeline any medical attention. In fact they repeatedly rejected efforts from their family to get Madeline to a doctor.
What they did do is read the Bible and pray. Really hard, they claim. The Neumann's, you see, subscribe to the belief that all healing comes from God and that, if God doesn't deliver the healing (like for instance in the case of their daughter) than it must be His will that she die.
I have no issue with the Neumann's faith although I clearly take issue with the way they define it to make what they did somehow seem spiritual. And I dismiss their attempt to rationalize their own idiocy by masking it in a cloak of faith. And, further, how dare they put their daughter's death on God's shoulders. They, Dale and Leilana, own that responsibility. Faith is not a one way street, we have to have some faith in ourselves as intelligent beings, able to make intelligent decisions, don't we? The fact that their daughter is now dead, dead from "complications" that only became complications due to their inaction and, has nothing to do with their faith. It has only to do with their selfishness.
Madeline's death is getting a lot of attention throughout the world because of the faith card her parents are playing. Only, there shouldn't be a story. She should be alive! Things should be very ordinary for her; an 11 year old girl looking forward to Spring and her twelfth birthday party. Regardless of faith, as parents, the Neumann's, like all parents, have the responsibility to make decisions that protect, not endanger, their children. After all, if God has created us in his likeness, shouldn't He have that faith in us? The Neumann's chose not to accept that responsibility. That was a dumb choice. I have complete faith in that. Spitzer's the Emperor With No ClothesJust to put any speculation to rest, I can assure you that I am not Client # 10. As you are no doubt aware, Eliot Spitzer, the Governor of New York (at least at the time of this writing) is, allegedly, Client # 9 caught on a phone line being tapped by the IRS making $4300 payment arrangements with a certain lady of the night from the escort service, Emperor’s Club VIP, while his bride and the mother of his children was busy buying the story of the important meeting that would preclude Mr. Spitzer from sharing his Valentine with her. Wasn’t it the IRS whose investigation put the squeeze on Brian McNamee and now Roger Clemens as well (those tax return audits must not excite like they once did)? There is a # 10 out there though and I’m sure he’s (I’m making an assumption here but are there any male prostitution rings?) quite worried that he’ll be the next chap doing the “I need to earn back my family’s trust” mea culpa.
The press says that Wall Streeters are popping the Dom Perignon and pulling out the really dusty bottles from their wine cellars to celebrate Eliot’s fall from grace. And why not. As they say, what comes around goes around and Mr. Spitzer was / has been (and might be again) a first-class pr**k to a lot of people, aggressively bullying people not accustom to being bullied, people who surrounded themselves with people who would never think to make them answer for things that most people might call, oh I don’t know … stealing. Spitzer was born smart enough to match wits with the big boys and rich enough not to care about anything but “what was right.” But, it turns out, that like most pontificators of truth, justice and, well, you get the point, Mr. Spitzer may have just been shouting loud enough to drown out his own demons, those annoying indiscretions that he knows better than to engage in but that he just can’t help himself avoid.
Mr. Spitzer’s lawyers are doing cartwheels and triple sow cows to convince the justice department that he should not be charged with a crime. It’s only fair, they’re saying, since the government has never made a habit out of trying “johns” in prostitution matters. Amazing how the arguments on his behalf seem so strikingly similar to those of Dick Strong, Dick Grasso, Maurice Greenberg and the other corporate executive prey Mr. Spitzer hunted. “This isn’t fair, we did nothing wrong and, even if we did, it’s never been considered a crime before.” Mr. Spitzer flatly rejected their “wimpy” fairness arguments and threw them back in their face. Now that he may find himself in the defendant’s chair, he, like they, instinctively resorts to relying on what’s “fair.” We’ll see how that works for him.
Mr. Spitzer’s placed himself in a situation that examples just how dangerous it is to put yourself on a pedestal that’s supported by your own fragile limitations. Kwame Text - A Lesson in Communication
We continue to learn that communication, like a diamond, is forever and Kwame Kilpatrick, the mayor of Detroit, is only the latest (that we know about) high-profile philanderer to “discover” that, regardless of technological advances (and the occasional lie - 'I did not have textual relations with that woman'), it’s still nearly impossible to cover your tracks. As our world has evolved, our modes of communication have evolved as well. Where once we could only communicate solely by word of mouth, we have since applied to communication the power of scalability, enabling us with multiple means (phone, fax, e mail, IM, text, internet and, for the moment at least, newspapers to name just a few) as well as exponentially expanding our prospective audience. Where once we chiseled pictures and words on rocks and tablets, by which someone would have to walk (and interpret correctly) to “read,” we can now broadcast a message to an audience of one or one million with less effort than it took to pick up the chisel. We still, however, share an important bond with our ancient rock cartoonist mates. We call that bond permanency.
You see we haven’t yet found a way to easily get rid of our records. In fact, and as Mr. Kilpatrick is now keenly aware, it’s become much harder. Where once we could crush the rock or burn the letter (not to mention simply killing the messenger), today we are literally powerless to control how our communications are contained, maintained or sustained (thought that might add a political speech-like flavor). And, like leaving your fingerprints, sweat, saliva or any other bodily fluid at the scene of the crime, there is always a record of where we’ve been and what we said. We may have gotten rid of the paper, but we most definitely have yet to get rid of the trail. Like water that evaporates from a boiling pan, it may appear to be gone but it’s really only been transformed, stored in a cloud that, coincidently, looks a lot like those drawings IT folks make to represent the internet, and will, eventually, come back to us as rain, sometimes acid rain.
I remember being advised some time ago that I should visualize everything I say or do as being displayed on a billboard by which my mom drives every day on her way to church and ask myself, would she be proud? That example, while still strong in meaning is, of course, no longer germane in reality since technology can now bring the billboard right into mom’s house through a wire or through waves in the sky. Mom doesn’t even need to leave the house.
And neither, of course, do Mr. Kilpatrick’s wife, family, friends, associates and constituents (as well as the entire population of the web-enabled world) who, thanks to his presumably mistaken assumption (or arrogance) about the traceability of the text world, now know more about him, his chief of staff and their "agenda" than they certainly needed or wanted to know.
My advice, no matter how horny, vindictive or illegally inclined you may be, if you're using a computer, or anything that acts like a computer (which means almost everything now), resist the urge for the speed of Type/Send and instead favor this Type, Read, Affirm (that you wouldn't mind your mom (or spouse) reading this - unless she's your partner in crime, in which case this is a bad example), then, finally, Publish (Send). Oh, and by the way, did you get my text?
iPhone to The RescueJust before Christmas, I was at the AT&T (formerly Cingular) cellular phone store with my wife and kids because we were interested in getting Jamy an iPhone to replace the flip phone she’s probably had since back when I still had hair. She’d been hinting for some time (OK more aggressively than hinting) that she’d really like to upgrade her present wireless wonder and, being the perceptive genius I am, I figured that an iPhone might be just the ticket. Like a trooper, she had “lived with” this flip phone, even though it would not accept a charge from her minivan’s cigarette lighter nor was it, apparently, very handy for providing the reception quality she desired (and needed) to actually have a conversation. To top it off, when she was successful in making a call, the receiver’s caller ID would identify her as a certain “Chuck Wunsch”, the name of the guy who had originally had the phone which, as you can imagine, made me a real star in her eyes.
This was my chance to shine I thought. All Jamy wanted was a new, Wunsch-less phone that she could actually use and maybe take a picture with. It was me who, seeking redemption for years of subjecting her to cell phone inadequacy (on top of my many other inadequacies …….. and no, thank you, not that one - yet) figured an I-Phone, with its e mail, photo, internet, text, color, I-Pod and other capabilities, was a get out of jail card for me and, for her, a welcome to the real world of wireless that had here-to-for been just beyond her grasp.
And, I’m happy to report, it worked. Although you should know (and maybe you already do) that you can’t get an iPhone at a AT&T formerly Cingular store (you have to go to a non formerly Cingular AT&T store (or an Apple store), that there is no discount for the phone although you can pretty much get any other phone you desire for free if you sign up for a plan for which they must wildly overcharge you and, finally, that there are literally no directions included with the iPhone. Fortunately, though, the check-out lines at Barnes & Noble prominently display several iPhone tell all books that, as I’ve learned, offer all kinds of valuable instruction for the paltry sum of $19.95 (less 30% with your “Members” discount).
I have to admit that the iPhone’s been a hit and probably earned me a couple of much needed points for which I somehow feel obligated to thank Steve Jobs. In addition to freeing Jamy from Mr. Wunsch, her wireless alter ego, it’s also enabled her to make calls that connect (and stay connected), check her e mail, take pictures of our dog and, whenever it strikes her fancy (or my daughters for that matter), give me the temperature in Honolulu. Do you think that’s a hint as well? Sean Penn "Soaks In?" Hugo ChavezNormally, when my wisdom gets the best of me, I stay away from political discussions because, like any discussion based more often than not on emotion rather than reason, they just don't go anywhere. But every so often, I see something that drives me so crazy that I succumb to my own emotions and ooze myself into the slime of "unreasonable" discourse. So here it goes.
Last Monday, I'm minding my own business by my locker at the gym, getting dressed to go home. A guest host for Bill O'Reilly is on the TV in my locker row talking about Sean Penn's recent visit to Venezuela far a meet and greet with their wanna be dictator, Hugu (that's Ugo) Chavez. Seems Mr. Penn is rather impressed by the work Mr. Chavez is orchestrating in his quest to build what he refers to as "21st Century Socialism" which, if actions speak louder than words, is defined as unlawful property seizures, censuring (or "re-defining" to be kind) free speech and "modifying" his country's constitution to engender himself a "be in charge" card for life.
All of this topped off like whipped cream on pumpkin pie by a big spoonful of "Bush is the Devil" rhetoric and that's, apparently, the bait that hooks Mr. Penn and the like.
Mr. Penn is critical of many US government policies and, it's safe to say, President Bush as well. That is, as an American, of course his right. As an American, Mr. Penn no doubt enjoys and covets the freedoms bestowed upon him, the freedom to do the work he pleases, own the property he buys and say what it is that's on his mind. If only the citizen's of Venezuela had it so good. In fairness to Mr. Penn, he smartly had little to say during his trip, choosing instead to maintain that he was visiting the country only as a journalist to 'see things for himself and sort of take it all in. For Mr. Chavez, like most big talkers with little minds, would have none of that. Way too scary to leave to chance just what Penn might say with his, um, pen. Like any dictator in training worth his salt, Mr. Chavez paraded Mr. Penn around his country in the company of soldiers, no doubt orchestrating and controlling who and what Mr. Penn could see and hear. Chavez even spoke for Mr. Penn describing him as "a man who is critical of his government and of imperialism" (he' no doubt redefined imperialism to exclude himself).
It's pretty clear that Mr. Chavez is systematically and actively trying to engage any and all well known American Bush Haters like Mr. Penn, Danny Glover and Cindy Sheehan for a visit and photo op in an attempt to add some global legitimacy to his Tony Soprano like ambitions. No doubt that a visit from Alec Baldwin is forthcoming, after the whole calling his 11 year old daughter "a little bitch" phone message thing blows over (Mr. Chavez is needy but not stupid after all).
I'm 100% certain that Mr. Chavez will fail in his quest to become the supreme leader of 21st Century Socialism for two reasons. First, socialism is a fundamentally flawed system that, in order to be successful, must appeal to the "have nots" at the expense of the "haves". Were Mr. Chavez Mother Theresa, he may have a shot at this. Second, like any dictator attempting to drape himself in the veil of socialism, Mr. Chavez will, himself, become his own worst enemy, lining his pockets while lying to his "people". And like nearly every dictator (or wanna be) in recent history, Mr. Chavez will either end up with a bullet in his head or on the run constantly looking over his shoulder for the end of his life.
And as for Mr. Penn, I hope he writes a great article on his Chavez experience. But I also long for the good old days, a time when I like to think Mr. Penn was most in his element, as Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. It was in this role that Mr. Penn professed, "What Jefferson was saying was, Hey! You know, we left this England place 'cause it was bogus; so if we don't get some cool rules ourselves - pronto - we'll just be bogus too! Get it? Got it. Mr Chavez, any questions? It’s Not About the Money, It’s About the MessageIf you’re familiar with the saying “it’s not about the money” then you may also know that, with the exception of those occasions when it really is ONLY about the money (the check out line, tax time, rent due kinds of times) it’s almost never really about the money. Confused? Good. I was hoping that I could create a scenario for you that would replicate the way I felt after attending a speech last week at Milwaukee’s Wisconsin Club. If there’s one thing that’ll get most business people charged up it’s the chance to hear a billionaire talk. “Wow”, they’ll say, what an opportunity! And, presumably, they’re right. Anyone who’s become a billionaire, especially if they didn’t start life as such, probably has a leg or two up on the rest of us, either in smarts, instincts, relationships, confidence, vision or, dare I say, balls. And any chance to glean a nugget or two of their gold for our own personal use is, to beat an overused saying to death, priceless.
Or so you might think. But sometimes, like the night last week at the Wisconsin Club, a billionaire shows up ……. to talk ….. and talk ….. and, well, talk. It would be one thing to hear a billionaire talk like there was an audience actually listening, but that wasn’t really the case that night. The audience was there, of course, it’s just that it seemed we were being talked at, rather than talked to. And that’s, I guess, the problem. Whether you’re a billionaire or not, the key to an effective presentation is to know what your audience is looking for from you and deliver it. You’re not a speaker so much as you are a messenger. And a messenger needs to tie a story to a lesson like a nail secures a shingle on a roof. Without that, it’s unlikely that your story, whether you’re a billionaire businessman or a Wal Mart greeter, will mean anything significant to your audience.
There’s a guy named Jeffrey Gitomer (www.gitomer.com) who’s a sales expert, and a fantastic speaker (but not a billionaire as far as I know) who’d describe the billionaire’s presentation as “showing up and throwing up.” In other words, he came to say what he came to say, and didn’t appear to think too much (or care) about what we in the audience came to hear. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do that on purpose. But sometimes, (I’m told) people tend to treat billionaires like royalty and, like the story of the emperor with no clothes on, they can be a tad wary about pointing out that something is …. amiss, regardless of how revealingly.
It may not be my place to make this point but … what the hell. Next time you talk to us (or any group) make us feel what you’ve accomplished, the people you’ve touched, the people who’ve touched you, your successes and your failures. Let us know what we can learn from your experiences and how we might use that knowledge to produce bigger results in our own lives. Don’t tell us the timeline of your life, lead us through your life’s experiences. And (sorry, I can’t help myself) for god’s sake, make a point already!
If it’s not about the money, great! The question is what is it about?
Do You Color Inside the Lines?In school, I was always taught to color within the lines. Seems logical. After all, when we color within the lines, we usually make a pretty picture. The colors may not match perfectly, but no one can say we're not neat. And at least that's something. As I've aged (yes, gracefully - thank you), I've begun to question the logic of coloring within the lines. Not because I don't like pretty pictures, but because I wonder (often) whose lines I'm really coloring in and why I should be concerned with their lines. Maybe you wonder that as well?
Would the world be a better place without lines? OK, I'll admit, that's a silly question. We, of course, need lines to define property boundaries, mark the right and left sides of the roadway, punish folks who violate or ignore the law (unless of course the glove doesn't fit) and assemble in an orderly fashion when WalMart is selling DVD players for $19.99 (after $5 mail- in rebate), among other things. We need lines to get along with each other in a peaceful and productive manner, lest we invite that nasty little annoyance called anarchy.
Besides these societal-appropriate lines, however, I believe the rest are seriously overrated, especially those that limit (or hope to) your ability to let your creativity make a difference in the world. We start coloring within the lines in kindergarten and, before we know it, we're coloring ourselves into lines until the day we die. And why not? In kindergarten, the teacher gives us a gold star for making a pretty picture and staying in the lines. In high school and college, we matriculate by staying in the lines. And, at work, we stay out of trouble by staying in the lines. It all works kind of nicely and keeps us (or at least our parents and bosses) happy!
There's nothing wrong with choosing to live your life staying within the lines. It's safe and, for some, the perfect solution for living a life over which you can cede control to someone else. It's a good way to make "they, them and those" the topic of discussion (and disdain) at the dinner table or the backyard barbecue. It's also easy and, as you know, we'll give up more than we probably should for a little dose of convenience.
But instead of staying within the lines, wouldn't it be more interesting to go outside the lines (or imagine them as being totally different)? Isn't there a chance that you have something to offer that someone else's lines don't take into consideration?
I've decided that, for me at least, coloring outside the lines makes more sense than staying inside of them. It gives me the permission I need to use my imagination, think things up, test theories and .... make lots of mistakes (an unfortunate but necessary consequence). It also lets me be messy (or so some might say). In fact, if you give me a line, I'll immediately start thinking about whether it's the real line... or just the line so far. Not out of disrespect for your line, of course, but simply out of my own curiosity. I may even stay in it, like the line at the DMV, because even I'm smart enough to know I can't win every battle (and I just happen to need my license renewed).
I'm not sure whether coloring outside the lines will lead me to any great, world-changing successes. But think of it this way. Al Gore colored in the lines his whole life. After all, that's how his Daddy raised him. Until November 2000 (or was it December when it was all said and done) when a hanging chad in Florida of all places prompted a sudden, if disputed, career change. At first, Gore reacted, predictably I suppose, like someone who lived in lines he had drawn for him by someone else (but accepted nonetheless) ..... he cried and yelled about the unfairness of it all. Until he wised up that is and figured out that he was now on the other side of the line. Thanks largely to having his lines modified by the Florida chad, Mr. Gore is, as I write this, the proud owner of both an Academy Award and a Nobel Peace prize, an inconvenient truth though both may be.
So my advice to you is to stay within the lines if you like. I won't tell, I promise. But, if you you're just a little curious and you're not too scared .... don't be afraid to wonder "what's on the other side of the line?" Why I'm Not as Smart as a Fifth GraderIt’s bad enough that I can’t answer all the questions from the TV show Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader. Even though I’ve apparently got a lot of company when it comes to my inability (most contestants and a fair majority of the viewers if I had to guess) it still grates at me. And the fact that Jeff Foxworthy, the man who created the whole “You might be a redneck if. . .” movement, is the host with all the answers is, well, like a stick in the eye to boot.
And now this. As it turns out, last June I foolishly (in retrospect) engaged my just matriculated 10-year old fifth grade daughter, Morgan, in a summer reading contest, I did this, of course, with the highest of noble intentions wanting to stimulate her desire to read, learn and imagine her way through the summer. I also made it interesting, offering her a $5 bounty for each book she might read in excess of my total for the summer. She accepted, and the race was on.
At the outset, I assumed she would win because she enjoys reading and would have more time to read during the summer than I would. I figured maybe five books more than me would be her total. But not unlike many government projects, I soon found that my costs would exceed my budget – and, like Uncle Sam, I couldn’t tell by exactly how much.
I knew I was in trouble early when I noticed Morgan reading a book whenever I saw her. She read in bed, on the couch, in the yard, while she ate, in the car, in a tent in the yard, in the bathroom, on a walk in the park. You name the place, she had a book. The books seemed attracted to her, like a magnet to a refrigerator. Almost every other day, I’d be met with her smiling proclamation, “I finished another book,” then the jab, “How many have you finished?”
On Labor Day, we settled up. Her total, 26 books all above our 200-page minimum and including Harry Potter at 700 pages plus. My total: 8. Difference: 18 books! Cost: $90! She was thrilled and I . . . was too, despite my whooping. We high-fived, and I congratulated her like the winner she was; “I’m not worthy,” and that was so true.
Morgan came to me a short time later with a proposition. We’d agreed that she would collect her winnings in a Barnes & Noble gift card. Ninety dollars, she told me, is a lot of money to spend on books at Barnes & Noble; would I consider the following attractive:
Ø $30 Barnes & Noble gift card;
Ø $30 cash so that she could buy something for herself and her younger sister, Rachel; and
Ø $30 for charity.
Wow! I was impressed. I’m still not sure if I’m any smarter than a fifth grader, but I do know that I can learn a lot from a fifth grader. Congratulations, Morgan! Buying What You're SellingOne of the most baffling truisms I find in so many businesses is the dichotomy in the message being preached by the sales side of a company with that being preached by the purchasing side of the company. It often goes something like this:
Sales: “Our job is to make sure our customers know all the benefits of our product/service
. . . we must make them understand our value add. . . price is only part of the buying equation. . . it’s all right here in our brochure.”
Purchasing: “I have no use for your brochure. What’s the price?”
Most companies teach their employees that buying and selling aren’t at all related, and I think that’s silly. Doesn’t it make much more sense for the company to be speaking the same language out of both sides of its mouth? After all, you’re expecting your sales people to be able to position your product/service to your customers as a benefit to the success of their business. Shouldn’t you expect the same benefit focus to guide your purchasing?
Why doesn’t it happen more often? Two reasons: Ego and habit. Ego breeds delusion and sounds something like this – “We have a unique value proposition for our customers.” We convince ourselves that our value proposition is, like our mom always told us we were, “special.”
Habit is the curse of repetition, the belief that the lesson we were taught early in our careers by one of our clueless managers – that vendors exist to be brutally beaten into submission – somehow continues to make sense today, even though it is opposed to what our own company preaches and sells, or at least in “those” offices of the company.
The fact is that Selling and Buying are not unrelated. They are the same. And the same expectations are necessary in your company to make both successful. Your customers should know, understand, value and pay accordingly for the benefits that your product/service brings to their business. On the flip side, your buyers should know, understand, value and pay accordingly for the benefits that your suppliers’ product/service benefits your business.
Let’s face it; there aren’t too many places in this world today where you can sell a penny’s worth of value for a dollar; it just ain’t happening, at least not more than one time. Customers are too smart for that. You also aren’t likely to buy a dollar for a penny, no matter how many times you ask, demand or slam your hand on the table. Your people are too smart to fall for that. Aren’t they? Six Walls and a Thousand AnglesI'm trying to learn how to play raquetabll and it's not going so well. In fact it's going terribly. The first time I played was on a Friday afternoon and it wasn't enough that I was, well let's just say, humbled by the beating I took. No, on top of that - and thanks to being improperly shoed, I came away with the skin on the bottom of my foot split like a fissure from which blood and "stuff" leaked out and I couldn't walk for the entire weekend. I even went to Walgreen's to see about buying some cruthces (they were all too small). To add to my dilemma and my pain, my wife and kids thought this was all very funny.
I probably should have taken this as a sign that perhaps racquetball and me weren't meant to be, but, I'm a bit harheaded, so I didn't quit. I got the right shoes, which I was told was the problem, and went back for more pain. And that's exactly what I've gotten - no wins, but lots of pain. Not the foot kind though, I've learned that I can go an hour and survive with my foot in tack, the pain I now have is mostly in my brain with a dash in my ego for flavor.
And here's why. By all rights, I should be beating the guy I'm playing against. Sure he's got lots of experience, but I'm younger, faster and stronger (no offense Jim). In most sports those are advantages. But the thing that's killing me is not the speed, it's those friggin' angles. I can't tell you how frustrating it is to see what appears to be the same shot coming toward me and find myself frozen and confused suffering from the failure of my brain to tell my body what to do. Most times I look like a squirrel trying to cross the road, all kinds of movement but no sense to any it. And Jim, God please him, somehow manages to hold back laughing at me, at least on the court. I imagine he gets a good chuckle on his way home.
I've discovered that the things I lack in racquetball career are anticipation, visualization and patience, or, in other words the skills that are necessary to be good. And I also suck, for now at least. But, on a positive note, I get a good workout and I suspect that all of that flailing about I do is at least "heart healthy".
But I'm not discouraged, in fact I'm just the opposite, I'm optimistic. Not that I will become the club champion, but that I will train my brain and my body to understand the angles and that I will, one day, threaten Jim with defeat at the hands of my mad skills. And if that never happens, at least I can take comfort, literally, in knowing that I have the right shoes.
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