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I really wish I could have worn this tux to my high school prom! It takes a special kind of motherf*cker to be seen in something this unbelievably ridiculous. This is the only suit on Earth that could actually blind someone in the right light. Gotta love it!

The unemployed Anti DC discovers a new calling and that’s to find weird stuff in medieval art.

When I Wanted You To Share My Life, I Had No Doubt In My Mind. Velvet in Dupont says a ring means that she is no longer writing a dating blog.

Thoughts on Patty Boom Boom. U Street Girl. Standing in line to get into a new place on U Street.

My son got his toe pinched by Nancy Pelosi. Suck it, right wingers. Lonnie Bruner.

Smoky Cafe on U Street. A short story, Her Italy.

Hopefully the rain will stay away long enough for the annual Clarendon-Court House St. Patrick's Day Parade to lighten up Wilson Blvd tonight at 8pm. The last parade on Fat Tuesday got nixed by the giant snow storm, so we are over due for a night of floats, music and green beer at Mister Days!

Stay for the Celtic punk rock band O'Tasty playing at Iota or many of the other local venues like Whitlows and Liberty Tavern that are hosting St. Paddy's Day eve parties.

Actor Peter Graves died Sunday at the age of 83.  As spy squad chief Jim Phelps, he opened each episode of the CBS TV series Mission Impossible (1966-1973) by listening to his assignment on a tape recorder. Each tape ended with the announcement “This message will self-destruct in five seconds.” And it did, in a puff of smoke.

We could not locate clips of the self-immolating tape spools. Recordings of those recordings must have …well,  you know. There are clips of opening montages set to Lalo Schifrin’s Grammy™-winning theme music.

Comments are welcome if they are on-topic, substantive, concise, and not boring or obscene. Comments may be edited for clarity and length.

My internet has been down all weekend. I’ve had to use my phone in order to check my email and occasionally send Twitter updates. You can call me an internet addict if you want to, but I’m pretty frustrated about not being able to do what I want to do online. I have a lot [...]

Copyright © BiotechBlog, partner of DrugPatentWatch, and a product of thinkBiotech

Andi, Monica and I were a couple of hours into our salutatory conversation, yet it already had the patina of easy friendship – two old friends and the imperfect stranger having a drink in their neighborhood Chicago bar. The Katty Kay revelation and discussion of my blog were the impetus for our bonding – sharing secrets with people who don’t live in your town is an infectious habit.  I shared, Andi shared, Monica shared, and I shared some more.  We covered lost loves, drunken sexcapades, famous crushes, and a few things that I cannot recall.

When Monica asked about my plans for the rest of the weekend, it felt like a natural extension of the conversation rather than a veiled invitation.

“I’ve got a lot of work to finish in reviewing this business plan” I said while patting the stack of papers to my left.  “So that should take me through most of the day tomorrow.  I was thinking about finding a place to Step tomorrow night, but a) most people go to the Step joints with a partner, and b) I might not be finished with my report by then so it might be a moot point anyway.”

“You’ve got to finish in time because you need to take us steppin’ with you” Andi exclaimed.  To bolster the point, she added “we never get to go any more… just can’t convince our friends to learn.”

I began to chuckle a bit before Andi gave me a playful punch in the shoulder and asked “What’s so funny; are you laughing because I just asked you out?”

“No, I’m laughing cuz I’m wondering how Irish and Italian girls from Evanston learned to step” I replied still laughing.  My continued snickering earned me another punch to the shoulder.

Monica jumped into the conversation to correct me; “I’m from Evanston, Andi’s from Highland Park.”

“There’s a difference?” I mocked while moving out of punching range.

“Yes, and we’re all going stepping tomorrow night or I’m gonna find your blog and leave a bunch of comments about how you refused to take two hot women dancing so you could hole up in a hotel room with a bunch of spreadsheets” Monica stated with a tone that was a mix of joke and threat.

The Lady had a point.

“OK, we’re going steppin’ tomorrow night” I replied in what was a not too difficult capitulation.  “There is one problem – despite the rumors on the bathroom walls, I don’t have an ego big enough to think that I can take two women dancing at the same time.”

Andi was quick to intone “Monica will bring her ex – he can step, and they need to have some post-break-up-sex anyway.”

The statement was a small conversation grenade.  Monica gave Andi a look that seemed to say “that’s true, but did you need to share that with the stranger at the bar?” I blushed at the candor but tried to ignore it… it was consistent with our theme of sharing after all.

“Since I’m the out-of-towner, I’ll leave it to you two to pick the place; and if you’ll grant me one more indulgence, can we meet at the bar of my hotel for a cocktail first so I can have as much time as possible to finish my work?” I offered as a solution.

The plan was accepted, digits were exchanged, and a friendship, the seeds of which were planted earlier in the evening, had its first bloom.

Saturday’s sun came and went quickly.  I spent most of the day in a coffeeshop’s corner trying to preemptively rid myself of work guilt.  Ninety percent complete would have to suffice because just after 8pm and a little over an hour to get back to my hotel, eat, shower, and get dressed was about the right amount of time.

Scrubbed, shined and with my steppin’ shoes on, I elevatored down to the hotel bar.  Having made friends with the bartender earlier in the week, I took him up on his offer to “let [him] know about anything [he] could do while I was staying there.” I was fairly certain that he was referencing call girls and blow (there are certain signs that industry pros will notice) but all I wanted was a table by the fireplace, which he kindly reserved for me.

I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of Prosecco (bubbles before all things – my wine mentor used to say.)  Monica’s ex was the first to arrive.  Derrick was my almost five inches taller mirror image, African-American, the frame of a former athlete whose lines had softened just a bit, short grown-up hair, clean shaven, and well tailored black three button suit with a dark shirt underneath. He walked straight towards me and introduced himself with “you must be Refugee, I’m Derrick.”

I stood and met his hand before Derrick said, by way of explanation, “Monica said that I should look for a guy who looks and dresses a lot like me; since you’re the only other brother in here, I was pretty sure I headed to the right table.”

We shared a slight laugh that was more shared knowledge than humor.

I poured a glass of Prosecco for Derrick, we toasted to “new friends” and took our seats.  Monica and Andi entered a few minutes later, turning every head in the room in the process.  They were both casually, but well, attired last night when we met; tonight however, they were dressed in cocktail attire.  They both shared Italian and Irish lineage but did so inversely – Monica took the shockingly pale skin from her Irish mother and dark curly hair from her Italian dad; Andi had the red hair and green eyes of her Irish father, but the lightly olive skin and strong features of her Italian mom.  They both were simply stunning in dresses that fell just above and just below the knee.

Derrick and I watched them cross the room towards us and both stood to greet our nominal, but questionably accurate, dates.  Cheek kisses were sent all around as was mutual admiration for how well all of us “cleaned-up.”

After we drained the bottle, again leaning on the bartender’s offer for assistance, I had the hotel’s town car waiting curbside – there was a fifty dollar handshake on my exit.

Twenty minutes later we walked into an uptown ballroom filled with late 30 to mid 50 something Black Chicago Society.  I’ve been, and frequently am, the only Black person in the room for many situations.  It’s never been by design just circumstance of social/professional circles; and I rarely take stock of that circumstance.  Yet there I was suddenly, instantly aware, and slightly discomfited by the fact that Derrick and I were the two “Black guys who brought the White girls.”

The socio-political implications of race are too fraught with peril but never more delicate than within the Black community.  The far too simplistic explanation of my feeling is: I know that I am not that stereotypical successful Black man who wears a Caucasian woman on his arm as an accessory or trapping of that success, and I know that our pairing that evening developed organically.  However, I sensed that too many people in that room, rightly or wrongly, assumed that we were that cliché because the evidence of their life and the media told them it was most likely the case.

Our foursome ordered drinks at the bar and chatted with just a touch of the awkwardness of 8th graders at their first junior high dance – who will be the first to ask whom for that dance?  Right about the midpoint of our collective and individual glasses, the song changed and it seemed like the logical moment to extend my hand to Andi.  Derrick followed suit.

Andi stepped better than me – she never answered that question about how she learned – like, I-need-to-really-pay-attention-to-not-screw-up, better.  When I had moment to glance over at Derrick and Monica, they were really good too.

We took a few turns on the dance floor before the ladies went to the restroom and Derrick and I adjourned to the bar.

Standing at the bar next to a couple of early 50s Black women, Derrick and I ordered a couple of Bourbons for me and Monica, and a couple of glasses of generic red wine for him and Andi.  The woman nearest me, a younger Nancy Wilson clone, leaned over to me and whispered, almost conspiratorially, “at least they know how to step.”

Filed under: it's complicated - not the movie, kindness of strangers, women

We’re often told in fairy tales and pop culture that there is some One Great True Love out there for us to find.

Some people spend their entire lives waiting for it to show up on their doorstep. Others burn through relationships like flash paper seeking that divine choir that will indicate their quest is at an end.

Rarely do either of those methods work well on their own.

Why? Because, by and large, that magical One is nothing more than some idealized myth.

The reality of it all is more rich, textured, robust, and variable than the fantasy ever is.

This week, we’re going to explore that a little.

But first, I have a few of questions for you.

• Have you ever thought you found The One? Were you right about it? Wrong about it? How did you know?
• What was your favorite fairy tale growing up? How much do you think it influenced your romantic views?
• What do you think of how love and romance are portrayed today in film and television?

Talk to me, either in the comments or through the contact form.

It was a weird weekend. And not just because I spent part of it sitting in a room with strangers wearing Saran Wrap underpants.

Or as I like to call it...Saturday.

Perhaps I should explain...

For a few years now, I've been thinking about getting laser hair removal for my most intimate of areas........my armpits. (Stop judging and let me know what your most intimate area is after 11 years of marriage. You have to get creative. Haters.)

[Due to the sensitive nature of what I am sharing, the overuse of "air quotes" begins below. "Thanks."]

I'm actually referring to my "bikini area." I have been thinking about getting this lasered for a few years now and finally decided to go for it...in the blissfully ignorant way that I make most decisions that cost a lot of money and have the potential for extreme humiliation.

Turns out, this is no simple procedure...it is a process of six treatments over the course of a year. After filling out more paperwork than I had to complete at my house closing, I made an appointment for my first treatment. 

Based on the suggestion of the "medspa" where I'm having this done, I arrived an hour early to go into a room and apply numbing cream to my "area" and then wrap the entire area in plastic wrap and sit in a lounge they call the "Sanctuary" while the numbing cream took effect. (This "medspa" offers a variety of services that you'd never want anyone to know you're having...such as Botox and laser liposuction. It conveniently shares a lobby with the Little Gym...so every time I go, there is a good chance I will see the parents of one of my daughter's playmates who can speculate on which narcissistic/insane treatment I'm electing to have.)

I entered the "Sanctuary" which really consisted of three hard-backed chairs in a 6'x6' room (though it was dim and did have some spa music playing) and tried to position myself in a way that the other ladies in the room would not see my plastic underpants and also so that I did not shift and lose the underpants. On a relaxation scale, I would equate this to having your father-in-law read something you wrote about vaginas on the chalkboard in your kitchen or wetting your pants at work.

One interesting thing I noticed while sitting there was that the room in which I applied my numbing cream was right next door, and through the paper-thin walls, you could clearly hear any conversation between the numbing cream applicatee and the technician. As I tend to be overly chatty when I am uncomfortable or nervous, I recalled that when I was in there, I had asked the technician to repeat the procedure for creating Saran Wrap underpants and had also remarked, "Oh...so just like I do at home?" (I suppose they also heard the crickets chirping in the "Sanctuary.")

It felt like I was in the "Sanctuary" forever. And after a few women had cycled in and out, I finally turned on my cell phone to check the time and discovered that it was HALF AN HOUR after my appointment was to have taken place. I poked my head out of the "Sanctuary" door to look for someone and saw no one. So, in my robe, while holding up my Saran Wrap underpants and with a completely numb crotchal region, I began wandering the halls in search of anyone who could help, and found myself in the shared lobby. (And permanently off the play date list...)

They got me into a treatment room ASAP, which is when they really let me know who's boss, by TAKING A PICTURE of the "area to be treated" as a "before" photo. Honestly, this clinician had access to more than my husband did in our first five years of marriage.

The treatment itself took about ten minutes and was pretty painless. Or as painless as it could be while I was naked in a spread-eagle position on the table while wearing dark glasses to protect my eyes from the laser. 

I'm sexy.

So, every two months for the next year, I have this to look forward to. I wonder if they make a cream to numb the shame?

In what universe is this remotely acceptable? outta mind outta site tells of a conversation with a taxi cab driver.

My Ten Commandments for Feeling Good. ErinSlick. A well thought out list.

Birds in the Park coming to DC, reports Daily Campello Art News, who writes that this is a “a touring public project, which involves the one-day installation of thirty to sixty porcelain birdlike forms on the ground.”

Liberty Tree Takes Root on H Street. The Hill is Home tries out a new restaurant.

Top Chef Filming In DC Starts Soon? Metrocurean. Comments are filled with rumor-specifics.

Books that changed my life. Sex after Sixty.

Farmer’s Market Pizza with Feta and Basil is the end result of shopping at the Dupont Circle Farmers Market. Modern Domestic

Embracing the pink. adventures in knitting and other geeky mishaps Photos.

An FDA recall of contaminated acid-hydrolyzed vegetable protein (HVP) has led to scrutiny of this misunderstood ingredient of industrial food products. HVP sounds like a means of adding nourishment to manufactured foodstuffs, but it is actually a flavor-enhancer, a  neuro-exciter. Active ingredient: glutamic acid. You may recognize one of its salts, monosodium glutamate (MSG). 

Many people who avoid MSG still purchase foods containing HVP and other ingredients that do not sound like vegetable byproducts boiled in acid, but that’s what they are. Processed food manufacturers happily label products containing HVP as “No MSG added.” Thanks to recall-fueled scrutiny, this is catching up with them.

The FDA recall was due to a salmonella-contaminated HVP processing plant, but the food-industrial complex will suffer long-term credibility damage now that the HVP cat is out of the bag. There are lists of glutamate-related food additives here and here (scroll down). You will find them on a staggering number of food labels.

 

Image by Mike Licht. Download a copy here. Creative Commons license; credit Mike Licht, NotionsCapital.com

Comments are welcome if they are on-topic, substantive, concise, and not boring or obscene. Comments may be edited for clarity and length.

If this doesn't inspire you, NOTHING does.

The first installment of what may become a regular weekend feature in which I revisit some of my favorite work that new readers may have missed.  This particular bit of fiction had a real world inspiration but is pure flight of what passes for creative writing from me.

“Light me a cigarette and pour me a drink” AB said by way of salutation. She was dressed like a great 1960s cliché – slightly shimmering grey ¾ trench, black seam symmetry running up the back of her legs, and strappy black pumps.

She followed me into the kitchen closing the door behind her.  I pulled a bottle of wine from the rack and AB walked closer to me than needed to get glasses.  I poured wine and she gave me the classic glance-up-look-down-glance-up move.  If I had super powers of resistance, this was kryptonite in a gaze.

“May I take your coat” I offered by way of attempting to change the subject we weren’t discussing.

“I’ll keep it – not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

AB moved deliberately into the living room, striking heel toe against hardwood with precision.  I didn’t need the sound effects; the shoes had already garnered attention.  I watched her, just as she wanted me to do, cross the room, pivot, settle into my chair – the big man chair – in the corner, and cross her legs.  I followed AB to open the window and light her cigarette before sitting on the opposite couch –  wasted movement as I would need to rise to pour her more wine as she had finished the drams I had poured already.

This was everything I had learned in the brief history with AB distilled into a glass with all of the complexity of the wine we now sipped.  At once possessed with unassailable confidence and betrayed by doubt, a glint of guardedness in her eye but permissive in tone, she was easily read but as understood as a Cornell West dissertation.

Bluntness was a dangerous proposition here – it was equally likely to progress or end a conversation – but I risked it anyway.  “Why are you here, AB?”

“What do you mean?” she replied despite fully knowing the answer.

“I mean – we’ve danced this dance before.  Each time the music ends we swear it’s the last time; but here you are knocking on my door on a rainy Monday night.  What do you want?”

AB and I have had a couple of arguments and they both ended with her issuing a sensual olive branch.  She skipped the argument, the defensive posture and did the heal-toe walk to stand before me.  She bent slightly to uncross my legs and position herself between them.  She stood there for a minute – allowing the inches separating us to shrink by gravitational pull – before extending her arms down my shoulder blades.  I drew a breath deeper than most in preparation to say something – exactly what words I am unsure or have since placed them in an unreachable part of my memory – when she preempted me with a whispered command to “stop over-thinking.”

Searching for perspective and a slightly more safe space, I leaned back into the couch.  The third track on the Thomas Crowne Affair soundtrack,Sinnerman, had just started to play as AB loosened the belt knot on her grey ¾ trench.  Her coat opened enough to show me a vertical stripe of lacy black bra, matching panties, garter belt, and smooth skin.

I’d never felt a stronger physical attraction to her than this moment.  Her attire was sexy, but her method even sexier.  Following the not-thinking admonition, I let my hands reach for her at the spot where thighs met stockings.  She let me stay there for long enough to enjoy knowledge of the thigh-highs.  AB leaned me back into the couch and braced herself against my thighs as she kneeled down.

Never breaking eye contact, she unzipped my trousers and searched for a firm grip before releasing me.  We were locked in a staring contest though I am not sure why.  AB traced my cock between her left thumb and fore finger until she had its full attention while she used her right hand to keep me firmly pressed to the couch.  She placed her mouth close enough for me to feel the heat of her exhaling onto me, and with one final look took me into her mouth.  She used her whole body in the effort – heaving her bosom against my legs, left hand preceding her mouth in motion and right moving from my chest to my torso and back again.

Nina Simone is still singing – disapprovingly in my mind – in the background as I opened my eyes to find AB looking at me.  I didn’t know if she was enjoying her mouth or her power over me more.  I am not sure I cared.

I tensed inside of her and AB allowed the only words since “what do you mean” to escape her lips.  “Yes” she said lustily and repeated twice more for effect before she willed me to explode.  She drank thirstily until I was spent.

She pushed herself prone and away from me.

“Thanks for the wine” she said as she heel-toed towards the door, tying her coat as she went.

Filed under: fiction, random stuff, revisiting, something else I have started that I may or may not finish

It’s that time again: Spring forward. Yesterday’s 9:00 AM is today’s 10:00 AM.

Maybe you forgot and woke up too late for church today. So what’s your excuse for next Sunday? Don’t worry; you’ve got a whole week to think of one.

So what time is it? Time to tour your abode and reset the time on all your gadgets — if you remember how, or can find the manuals.

 

Other countries have different DST schedules.

Image by Mike Licht. Download a copy here. Creative Commons license; credit Mike Licht, NotionsCapital.com

Comments are welcome if they are on-topic, substantive, concise, and not boring or obscene. Comments may be edited for clarity and length.

{Today’s guest post comes from veteran crisis comm guy, Adam Hollingsworth, who offers up three rules for keeping the public’s trust when communicating in the midst of chaos.}

Toyota just can’t seem to get it right.  And every PR flack worth his or her salt knows it.

Toyota was slow to respond to initial reports of uncontrolled acceleration in some of its vehicles.  Their corporate suits have been defensive in both media interviews and Congressional testimony.  And, worst of all, they have been less than sympathetic to the victims of the malfunctions.

Taking these three major gaffes together, Toyota has struck out when it comes to maintaining public trust.  And it looks like they’ve forgotten one of life’s great lessons: You never have a second chance to make a first impression.

That’s particularly true in a crisis.

Having advised a number of Fortune 500 companies through headline-grabbing crises, I know that navigating the bright lights of public scrutiny is hard work.  It’s also an inexact science where even the best-intentioned can stumble.  However, over the years, I’ve developed a few key rules that must be followed – including, by the way, giving the PR folks an equal seat at the table as soon as a nightmare strikes.

Unfortunately, that’s not how it works in many companies.  The typical first response of some corporate leaders and the lawyers that advise them is to say little, admit nothing and define the problem as isolated and not systemic.  That’s okay if the problem is isolated.  If not…well, just ask Toyota.

And Toyota, if you’re listening, here’s what the folks in your PR shop would like to say if they could just get a seat at your boardroom table:

Rule #1: Express sympathy. Sympathy for the problem, sympathy for the victims.  (And, no, expressing sympathy is not the same as admitting guilt or responsibility…it’s just a gracious and expected human response.)

Rule #2: Move quickly. Move quickly to meet victims’ needs.  Move quickly to provide solutions…or explain why solutions may take longer.  And move quickly to be transparent in the reporting of progress.  (I know it’s overused, but think Tylenol.)

Rule #3: Be consistent on facts and message. The day after a Toyota Prius driver accelerated to 94 mph on a California freeway, a Toyota spokesman was quoted in broadly distributed wire story that the company would soon be issuing a recall on the Prius. He also said the recall was delayed because a remedy had not yet been developed.  On the same day, however, Toyota posted a response on its web site calling the wire story inaccurate.  The response further said the Prius recall was issued last November…and it said that a remedy is available.

Huh?  Which is it?  Recalled or not recalled?  Are solutions available or are they still working on it?

Toyota engineering has been the envy of the auto world; great cars that maintain their value over the long-term.  The question is: will the company pay as much attention to their reputation and PR strategy as they have to building cars.  The future of their company hangs in the balance.

Adam Hollingsworth has spent nearly 20 years developing communications strategies in both the public and private sectors.  He currently works for the mayor of one of Florida’s largest cities.

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• Another Runaway Toyota Prius in New York (blippitt.com)
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Is it a liquid asset or collateral? Both! That’s the magic of Repo 105.

A report on the Lehman Brothers bankrupcy lifts the curtain on the unregulated market in repurchase agreements (repos). In repos, financial instruments are sold with an agreement to buy them back at a later date.

“Lehman’s trick was to use a clause in the accounting rules to classify [a] deal as a sale, even though it was still obliged to repurchase the assets at a later date. That meant the assets disappeared from the balance sheet, and it could use the cash it received to temporarily pay down other liabilities…. [Repo 105] was crucial for maintaining the group’s credit rating as rating agencies and investors began to focus more on leverage and demanded lower risk.” – Simon Kennedy, Market Watch.

A British law firm provided Lehman with cover for double-counting billions pledged to back short-term loans as liquid assets. A U.S. law firm had previously disapproved the practice. Lehman’s auditors, Ernst & Young, did not object.

 More:

“Repos Played a Key Role in Lehman’s Demise,” Wall Street Journal.

 ”Report Shows How, Collapsing, Lehman Hid Woes,” New York Times Deal Book.

“Lehman Bankruptcy: ‘Repo 105,’ Firm’s ‘Accounting Gimmick,’ Was Like ‘A Drug,’ Emails Show,”  Huffington Post.

“Lehman Brothers: Caught cheating, again,” Salon.

 

Comments are welcome if they are on-topic, substantive, concise, and not boring or obscene. Comments may be edited for clarity and length.

This is the first year since 2006 that one or both members of Team Newman are not making an appearance at South by Southwest Interactive (SXSWi), the geek conference in Austin, TX.

It’s not that we haven’t loved it. Our SX adventures of yore enabled us to be among the first to try Twitter, discover Ze Frank, meet our good friend Joe Flood and give Gowalla a go. It also did wonders for our sticker collection. But after AT&T’s Great Network Failure of 2009, and attending one-too-many Twitter panels, we’re taking a break.

We wish many a Chris Brogan and Guy Kawasaki sighting, much fabulous swag and free beer to those thousands of social media guinea pigs in attendance. Have fun and consume tons of Stubbs BBQ for us!

Related articles by Zemanta

• Drowning in ads at SXSWi (news.cnet.com)
• South by SouthWest 2010 (telegraph.co.uk)
• Foursquare unveils its SXSWi arsenal (news.cnet.com)
• South by Southwest: A Virtual Playground in Austin (bits.blogs.nytimes.com)
• It’s Location, Location, Location at SXSW Interactive (austinist.com)

Syracuse University has appointed Mary Hudson as the school’s first pagan chaplain.  Just in time for Ostara!

The University of Southern Maine is the only other U.S. college known to have a pagan chaplain (Rev. Cynthia Jane Collins), but schools in Canada, Australia, and Britain have them.

The U.S. Air Force Academy has set aside a circle of stones for use by campus pagans, but there are no pagan chaplains in the U.S. military. Chaplains trained in other religions minister to troops of all faiths, including neo-pagans, and receive guidance on pagan religion.  Among Distinctive Faith Groups recognized by the military are Pagan, Wiccan, Druid, Shaman, Dianic Wicca, Gardenarian Wicca and Seax Wicca.  After a recent lawsuit threat, the government now allows headstones in veterans’ cemeteries to display the pagan pentacle symbol.

Hat tip: Inside Higher Ed.

More about Old English Ēostre (also Ēastre, Ôstarâ) here.

Image by Mike Licht. Download a copy here. Creative Commons license; credit Mike Licht, NotionsCapital.com

Comments are welcome if they are on-topic, substantive, concise, and not boring or obscene. Comments may be edited for clarity and length.

Let’s say you just sent out a huge mailing to all of your friends, favorite clients, and prized customers. It’s 4:57 pm and you have dinner reservations at 5:30 and if you’re late again, your spouse is really gonna let you have it. Again. You can’t just walk away and hope people are clicking on your newsletter and signing up for your latest promotion and… the list goes on and on.

We might have a solution for you, but only if you can be subtle about checking your phone. That’s right. GroovyMail is now on your smart phone. That means iPhone and Android users can now view their campaign stats in full HTML graphic goodness glory while they’re on the go – without their laptop and the glares that would induce at the dinner table ;)

So here’s the deal: go here like you always do: http://www.groovysoup.com/groovymail and log in using your normal info. GroovyMail will know if you’re using your phone and will automagically show you the stats for your latest campaign right on your phone – and not teeny tiny but normal size so you can read it and see what’s going on without your spouse seeing your phone – well, not if you’re cool about it anyway.

You know what else is cool about it? If you’re on iPhone you can just add it as a bookmark to your Home Screen and it will create a snazzy little icon that saves you from logging in next time. Cool, huh? Give it a try and let us know what you think, and if you’re not already using GroovyMail for your HTML email campaigns, drop us a note and we’ll get an account set up for you right away. Your spouse will thank you for it :)

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The Players in the Room:

Steve – Big shot attorney who is also an investor in a couple of restaurants, the man who writes the big checks to make things happen, insisted on my participation in the deal as a consultant before he wrote one of those really big checks, doesn’t mind people who lose money doing the right things, but detests wasting it.

Damian – professional dilettante turned interior design consultant, happens to be the nephew of Steve’s wife, and has been largely tasked with identifying the space, thinks that he is capable of doing my job, and is technically my client too.

Chef – the relatively young, relatively bright culinary mind who knows enough to know that he is ready for his own place, but also knows enough to listen to people who know more than he in their areas of expertise.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Restaurant Refugee – professional restaurant consultant who’s spent more time in Chicago than DC the past several weeks, is also getting a little impatient with the process at the moment.

Angela – Commercial Real Estate Agent with a permanently painted smile, a mix of “I-want-this-deal” happiness and some flinty Chicago toughness which is betraying a bit of that happiness with the frustration of showing so many places to the same client group.

The Room: yet another empty commercial space that doesn’t really work as a restaurant for reasons that people who know the restaurant business from the inside can understand.

This is our third building of the day.  I didn’t quite judge it from the cover, but as we approached I was silently hoping that this wasn’t it.  After 30 dusty seconds inside, Damian exclaimed “I love the lines in this place; Refugee, doesn’t it have great bones?”

It was a deep-breath-before-responding moment and I took one.  “It does have lovely lines,” I began; “for a ground floor condo space or high-end retail shop, but pros can tell you that there are unmanageable choke-points there, there, there, and there.”  I knew that my tone was about half a degree sharper than I consciously intended – can’t speak for my subconscious.

Damian turned his attention from the windows to me and asked “are you inferring that I’m somehow not a professional?”

I wasn’t sure if this was a line in the sand moment, but I thought it best that we have the conversation internally.  ”Angela, would you mind giving us the room so we can walk around and talk about it freely,” I mostly declared.  She and I have had a few off-line conversations about this so she knew the situation.

“Damian, I am just suggesting that there are problems with the space that people who’ve spent a lot of time in restaurants can see but you might be missing.”

“You know, Refugee, I think that’s the second time you inferred that I don’t know what I am doing… and I’m a little tired of you being so fucking smug, you do know that you work for me right?!?!”

Steve may have wanted to enter this fray to mediate, but I had reached my limit and spoke a little too quickly.  The look on Chef’s face indicated that he wanted no part of this.

“Damian, I am not inferring, I am implying; and since it seems that the implication is too opaque, let me be fully clear – your suggestions and ideas indicate that you are thoroughly, completely, and unquestionably out of your depth.  You look at this room and see all of these lovely angles and attractive lines.  I look at it and see all of these load bearing columns which mean that you couldn’t possibly construct a kitchen large enough to accommodate a dining room of this size.  I see impossible corners and walls that can’t be moved.  Damian, you’re tired of me being smug, huh? I find that pretty damn laughable because for the last few weeks, I’ve been going out of my way to include you in conversations, to twist my mind into pretzel-like contortions to find something, anything, nice to say about your ideas and opinions.  All of that was made even more difficult because I generally think your contributions have been about as valuable as a warm bucket of spit.”

There was a stunned silence in the room as I took a breath and… well, I guess I reloaded.

“Other than some sort of random genetic good fortune, I have no idea why you’re here, because you looked at this room and thought it could be a restaurant.  I looked at this room, just like any pro would look at this room, and thought it a waste of time… and I look at you and see a feckless automatron who’s wasted enough of my time and other people’s money.”

More stunned silence, but this was a moment when reloading would have been cruel, so I just left.  Half a block away, I lit a cigar for the calming effect.  That and I was pretty sure that unleashing a verbal barrage on my largest client’s nephew qualifies as a “smoke a cigar moment.”  I walked around the city for a bit, finishing my cigar, contemplating the shithole I had just dug, wondering if I wanted a rope.

When I got back to my hotel room (one more cigar, and a couple of cocktails later) there was a bucket of champagne on the credenza.  The note read:

Refugee, if you could say all of that to a client, I suppose I can have a difficult conversation with my wife.  That was a lot of fun to watch.  See ya next week.

-Steve

p.s. the feckless automatron won’t be joining us.

Filed under: apparently I cannot avoid an argument, bad clients, booze & boozing, dumb things I have done, finding slight is easy if you're looking for it, i didn't wake up pissed-off