The Management Mythbuster

Clooney, Barack, Marino, Diana and Me

1961 was clearly a vintage year. Beauty, brains, personality and sporting prowess illustrate the unique qualities of that year’s fine crop; many of which are now rising to dominance.

George Clooney (6 May), a two-time sexiest man alive (I was apparently ineligible) not only makes great films but has also become a vocal liberal advocate, although some of his comments mystify me. For example in a recent Rolling Stone interview, he comments, “Anyone who’s gone through the Sixties and didn’t smoke a joint. I don’t want you for President. You haven’t lived at all. What the **** is wrong with you?” Well I guess there’s a lot wrong with me. George, not everyone smoked (or is it smokes) joints – does that make me a bad person? I have also been married to the same woman for 22 years and she was my first girlfriend thereby making me a certifiable freak by George’s standards.

George is, of course, supporting fellow 61-er Barack (4 August) for President, Barack passes the Clooney test by admitting to having smoked a few joints, when asked the Clinton question as to whether he inhaled he has a good response, “I thought that was the point.” Moving on to sports, Dan Marino is actually my twin! We were both born on 15th September 1961 and while Barack is still early in his career, Dan is already the retired elder statesman with a statue in the Hall of Fame and a lucrative advertising deal touting the benefits of Nutrisystem for us retired athletes. Its an interesting paradox that retirement in sports coincides with baptism in politics.

Then we have the late-Diana (1 July) who must surely rival George as the sexiest product of 61. Sadly she has been departed for a decade now but Paris, Jennifer, Anglina, Posh and the rest should pay homage to the image she created that each has partially built upon.

Finally there is yours truly who must surely represent the archetypal ‘61 model – forget sexiness, acting ability, political savvy, sporting prowess and beauty - the real deal is a husband and father, moderately obese (so my doctor informs me), Lipitor swallowing, beer drinking, graying, golf playing excuse for a man who likes to be in bed (and asleep) by 10pm. You must be wondering if I am going to support Barack as he is my birth-year brother. Well that remains to be seen; personally my first preference would be Ricky Gervais creator and star of the original "Office" but like me he can never be President so maybe I will just sit on the sidelines and snipe as usual, unless Eddie Murphy (3 April) runs!

In addition to me, '61 also gave us Tony Soprano, sorry James Gandolfini (18 September) The Edge from U2 (8 August) and Heather Locklear (25 September) and its clear to see what a special vintage ‘61 was. Of course I am conveniently omitting our black sheep brethren, namely Scott Baio, Billy Ray Cyrus, Ann Coulter and former-Enron CFO, Andrew Fastow but that’s an author’s prerogative isn’t it?

Just bury me now!

Apparently I am broken down wreck of a man with numerous parts of my body malfunctioning on a regular basis. How do I know this? Well its not from a visit to the doctor. MY state of disrepair is defined my Madison Avenue and the adverts they choose to show during the few television programs I actually deign to watch.

I know I am watching the wrong programs when the adverts are constantly pushing brands I have never heard of that are targeted at the High School Musical demographic. Conversely I know I am on the right channel when the adverts directly target all my apparent ailments. For example I am allowed to watch the CBS Evening News since its audience is clearly fat (LapBand), grey (Just for Men), impotent (Viagra/Cialis), sore (Aleve, Dr. Scholl) people with heart burn (Zantac). Flicking over to the golf I find that my virility remains a problem but I also apparently frequent the bathroom rather too often (Avodart), buy expensive but boring cars (Lexus, Mercedes, Buick) and am constantly thinking about retirement (MetLife, Northwestern Mutual, etc. etc.). A further channel change to the football confirms that I am no athlete as the primary aim seems to be to get me to consume more beer (Coors, Bud, Miller) and eat more potato chips (Frito Lay) while ordering a pizza (Dominos).

Pretty clever these advertising folks ...

Now thats what I call an advert!

Throughout my Asian tour I have been assaulted by the marketing of beauty, style, glamour and pure vanity. It seems that every mall in Hong Kong, Tokyo, Seoul and Singapore contains the same high end brands and with current exchange rates the same astronomical prices for those who wish to be clothed, jewelled, and shod in style. But it was in Manila that I found the best of all. Observe the picture below, this icon of vanity advertising stands on a 30 foot high billboard at the main intersection right outside Manila's Ninoy Aquino Airport.

At first glance I though it was one of those perfume ads where a spectacularly beautiful woman demonstrates that all she needs for prerfection is the right scent, but no this is much more fun. In case you can't read it or are distracted by the pneumatic perfection of her form, the text reads "Now Fun Has A New Figure - SmartLipo by Belo" She's not real at all - she's the product of a master surgeon! How disppointing. Still I did start to wonder how many men have been moved to gently nudge their wife, girlfriend or significant other while stopped at the light and whisper, "How about it?" only to recevie a sharp elbow in the ribs for their trouble.

Frankly I'm surprised such ads are not staples along the Hollywood Freeway - but give Madison Avenue time and I'm sure they get to it.

That's Entertainment

August 16, 1977 - Elvis dies; August 17, 2007 - High School Musical 2 premieres on the Disney Channel. We've come a long way in the last thirty years. Entertainment has become so evolved that the hit shows of today seem to feature relatively talent-free amateurs seeking fame and fortune through that most 21st century innovation the talent show. Together with the game show and the reality show, talent shows seem to account for about 90 percent of the primetime schedule and must offer any alien who tunes in a interesting perspective on our relative state of evolution.

Thirty years ago while Elvis was falling off the toilet I was a wide-eyed fifteen year old roaming the streets of Moscow on a school trip. Believe it or not we were allowed to roam the streets and explore the subway system unchaperoned. The only requirement was we had to be in school uniform; so you had the strange sight of 15-20 teenage boys walking through the Kremlin singing Rule Britannia while wearing our best green blazers. The expression on the guards faces was one of utter bewilderment. We actually learned of Elvis's passing from the one English language paper published in Russia - The Morning Star - which took some delight in briefly reporting the death of this decadent symbol of Western moral decline. Perhaps they were right...after all other events of '77 included:

Gary Gilmore becoming first person executed in United States since 1967.

Star Wars hits the cinemas; Apple Computer opened for business

The worst air disaster in history as two jumbo jets collide at Los Rodeos airport

A power-cut blacks out New York City. Widespread looting and vandalism occur (some things never change)

A little piece of India

As they say "Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun" and last week we fully lived up to the image as the Axson family traipsed around our adopted nation's capital while the mercury touched 102 (39C). More of our capital adventures later: while there I took advantage of "Embassy Row" on Massachusetts Avenue to acquire my Indian visa in advance of my visit next month. On Friday morning I sweated my way past the various embassies of Latvia, Madagascar, Korea, Japan, a very overblown Ivory Coast embassy that must have consumed a couple of years GDP, a very sedate Irish embassy complete with Guinness harp in the wall, before reaching the understated outpost of the world's second most populous country.

Of course the visa section was in the basement and as I pushed open the door I stepped off Massachusetts Avenue into a little piece of New Delhi. The walls were painted institutional cream crica-1974; there were about 30 plastic chairs and about 80 people in a room designed for maybe 25 to sit comfortably. No air conditioning of course, a large fan did sit in the corner but it was not on, 102 being merely slightly warm for the sub-continent. One lady in full Indian dress sat behind the counter protected by a Perspex screen that looked like it had been taken from a New York taxicab. On her order to form a queue, a series of candidate queues formed in front of her window none of which were willing to cede precedence to any other. Each application was inspected and about half were summarily rejected for having failed to staple the required passport pictures to the application form. A wide range of other bureaucratic misdemeanors hastened the exit of yet more applicants. Remarkably my application passed muster and I was instructed to return at 4.30pm to retrieve my passport hopefully with a valid visa attached.

After a day of memorials, museums and a loss of about ten pounds I wearily re-entered Delhi at the appointed time. Of course this being India, the water cooler was empty and the Coke machine was out of order so I sat and freely perspired until my passport was returned replete with a legal visa. For all its bureaucracy the process works and I can't wait to return to the sauna of the real Delhi next month.

The decadence of decline?

Private equity taking over the world, celebrity trumping true worth (pun intended), conspicuous consumption on an unprecedented scale. The behavior of the wealthy, Gates, Buffett and a few others excepted, borders on the absurd as 45,000 square foot mansions, 250 foot yachts and private jets become the badges of success and the asipration to excess forms the basis of teenage desires.

I live on the periphery of this world, I have been very fortunate to benefit from some of these trends but struggle to either afford or desire the lifestyle now being protrayed as glamerous. This was perfectly illustrated over the weekend: my possession of a certain credit card apparently entitles me to receive an extremely glossy and ad-laden magazine called Departures which glories in the excess of luxury living, conspicuous consumption and all those other behaviors that were so characteristic of Rome in the waning years of the empire (any parallels here?). On seeking out content between the glossy adverts I came across a section on the latest fashion trends from around the world - not normally my section but the models accompanying the piece looked pretty good. At the bottom of the page was a quote from one of the fully paid up members of the style elite:

"I'm a Manolo girl but I just came back from Punte del Este, Uruguay, where everyone chic is wearing laceless Converse 'slips' with trousers and blazers. So I bought myself a pair - turns out they look great with diamonds and De La Renta, too!"

In one short quote she managed to define herself - expensive but sexy shoes, global traveller, style maven and anme dropper - quite a profile don't you think? The lady behind the quote describes herself as a "private jewelry dealer" which sounds slightly dodgy - is she really a diamond smuggler.

I read the quote out loud to my darling wife and after laughing her first comment was "Who's Manolo?". I smiled as my family budget remains safe from conspicouous consumption, at least by my wife!

Of course my hypocrisy knows no bounds as I write this while sitting at the airport waiting to board a flight to Milan - perhaps the style capital of the world. Of course, my trip is not to scout out the latest fashion trends but to deliver a speech on the sexy aspects of modern budgeting - needless to say its a short speech!

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be

Like many people in their mid-40's I have become very nostalgic of late.  My mind frequently wanders back to school days, unrequited loves and scenes of tremendous personal embarrassment.  The agony of such memories has caused me to become a very odd sort in that I am intensely nostalgic about things I never experienced - at least not in this life. 

My favorite period for fake nostalgia trips is 60's London - between 1964 and 1967 London was probably the social and cultural capital of the world. It was the place to be and be seen; Carnaby Street, the Kings Road, the Ad Lib, Biba, and the Chelsea Cobbler were apparently the center of the universe for a few brief months before California took over.  My universe at the time was a small town in the Northwest of England about 160 miles from the action. Actually it was more like ten years from the action - we were stuck in some early-50's timewarp and the so-called Swinging Sixties passed us right by save for the odd appearance of "She Loves You" on the radio. 

I used to feel bad about this, as though I had somehow missed out on something as everyone was having fun except me. I was born 10 years too late and my excitement would be limited to glam rock, punk rock and disco; however I don't feel so bad now.  Having read numerous books covering the period when London was swinging it appears that only about 200 people actually experienced "the scene"; of course millions more claim to have been at the center of the action just as many millions claim they were at the first SuperBowl, on the grassy knoll when JFK was shot, saw the Beatles at Shea Stadium, and witnessed Roger Bannister break the four minute mile. 

What my research tells me is that I am not the only person nostalgic for a time, place or event that they never actually experienced.  I am sure that fake nostalgia addiction is a registered psychosis and sports a really cool name with expensive specialist treatments.  I suspect my 60's addiction can be cured through intense therapy administered by Jean Shrimpton and Marianne Faithful lookalikes while listening to Beggars Banquet and Revolver, ingesting some obscure substance from North Africa and wearing a caftan.  In the meantime I will crank up the music and slip the DVD of The Ipcress File into the machine to satiate my cravings...

Have you been Schvitz'd lately?

Last night I got well and truly Schvitz'd and only had a couple of beers!  This was my first Schvitz and it was a unique experience.  Apparently the Schvitz is a famed Jewish American tradition, as I am neither Jewish nor, until 2004, American this was a new experience for me but it approximates a Turkish bath complemented by massages, steak and beer.  Apparently there are Schvitz's in a few American cities but the one in Cleveland must be unique. Let me explain...

I was invited to Schvitz (or maybe its do Schvitz, or having a Schvitz) by my investment adviser so my status as a valued client must be clear. The really valued clients get trips to Hawaii, I get an evening in a condemned concrete warehouse on the east side of Cleveland in January!

Anyway it sounded fun; however my doubts started while having a haircut yesterday morning, after all one wants to look nice when being entertained doesn't one?  My barber is a lifelong Clevelander and when I mentioned I was going to the Schvitz he failed to stifle a chuckle. I pushed for more information and he mentioned that he grew up not far from the Schvitz.  I asked for his advice and he commented, "Well its not the best part of town, if you've got a gun take it. It was rough when I was a kid 50 years ago and its got worse since!"  Well I don't have a gun so my anxiety level rose a few notches. 

A little later I called my host for directions and my anxiety level was further enhanced.  The directions were fine until he got to the final few elements, I had to turn off the main road and drive down a unmarked alley between two darkened, possibly derelict houses, pass through a pair steel mesh gates into an unpaved yard which served as the car park.  In one corner would be a two story black brick building unadorned by any lights or signs.  This was the Schvitz.  I was then to enter via a single unmarked door and proceed up the staircase in front of me. The description sounded like that of a Prohibition era drinking club (perhaps it was once) and I was tempted to ask what the password was!

Still life is about new experiences so despite my anxiety I headed north.  Last night in Northeast Ohio was a classic winters evening.  The temperature was well below freezing and it was snowing. As I left the freeway and entered darkest east Cleveland the boarded up buildings and decayed factories seemed to slowly encroach on the potholed road as I cautiously navigated through a less than salubrious neighborhood.  The directions were spot on and I passed through the steel mesh gates and entered the field/car park.  A shadowy figure in heavy overcoat and ear muffs directed me to a spot and cheerfully wished me a good evening - his smile seemed to convey a slightly perverse pleasure at what awaited me inside.

I padded through the soft snow heading towards the single light bulb that illuminated a door in the corner of the building.  Upon opening the door I entered what looked like a broom cupboard decorated in a style not too different from my student apartment in a poorly converted Victorian townhouse back in Leeds, England; namely peeling paint, threadbare carpet and exposed plumbing and wiring.  To my right was another door which led me to a staircase whose carpet had clearly seen better days.  A couple of towels lay on the lower steps along with a handwritten note asking me to wipe my feet. I suppose they were worried I might soil the premium floor-covering. I followed instructions and headed upstairs.  As I reached the top I was met by a man wearing only a towel stylishly draped around his waist who muttered a greeting in the way nearly naked people do and proceeded to head down a second staircase directly parallel to the one I had just ascended.  I headed off in the direction from which he had just come, equipped myself with a couple of towels and found the locker room which doubled as a massage room.  The lighting was appropriately subdued and I changed into my "Schvitz suit" and headed back downstairs following my fellow Schvitzer.  The room I entered was a bare-walled concrete tomb with a couple of troughs, a few shower heads sticking out of the far wall and a rectangular plunge pool filled with murky and very cold looking water.  The design was not Canyon Ranch but more early cow shed.  On the left was a wooden door leading into the steam room. I entered and was confronted by the sight of twenty or so sweating males arrayed on a set of stacked wooden benches.  The room was tiled on three sides in fetching red and cream (probably white once) tiles, the fourth side housed an enormous black oven out of which belched copious amounts of steam and heat. I could cope with this.

What followed was wonderful sequence of good steam, cold plunges, warm showers, a great massage, a couple of beers, a large steak with an overdose of garlic and good conversation -  in short a great evening.  Fully Schvitzed, I exited a few hours later and gave a generous tip to my friend in the car park who looked a little like a Yeti now given the steadily falling snow.  The journey home was a time for reflection. I had another great experience to add to my life's collection.  Memories of plunging into icy lakes in Finland and multistory massages in Bangkok flashed through my mind (I may even share these with you one day). The Schvitz was right up there...

That's not Patrick Swayze! It's Kevin Spacey.

I have just spent the last three hours sitting fifteen feet away from a double Oscar winner - obviously not Mr Swayze!  The exchange in the title was spoken word for word by the couple sitting behind me who must have been disappointed this was not a stage version of Dirty Dancing or even Road House!

I was not disappointed, I wandered south across the River Thames and "took in a show". More specifically "A Moon For The Misbegotten" at the Old Vic Theatre (note the correct spelling of theatre).  This was an excellent production of the Eugene O'Neill play about drunken redemption in 1920's Connecticut which was clearly a very different place from "hedge fund central" that seems to be its modern image. Spacey was awesome - probably better than on screen - however for me the star was Eve Best who captured the strong-willed but with a heart of gold female lead, Josie, perfectly.  She looked very sexy despite wearing the most unflattering clothes - quite an achievement given today's appearance obsessed society. I hope she gets a film break soon - you will not be disappointed.

O'Neill must have been a tormented soul given the emotions that the play lays bare.  His Nobel prize and four Pulitzers were obviously of little solace as his first son committed suicide, his second died of alcohol and heroin abuse, his grandson suffered a cot death and he disowned his daughter when she married the much older Charlie Chaplin! Quite enough motivation for his plays which also include a Long Days Journey into Night and The Iceman Cometh. 

Moon was first performed in Columbus Ohio so I felt some affinity for the play. The program then goes on to comment that "In Pittsburg (sic) Moon was attacked for its vulgarity" - amazing how attitudes have changed since its first performance in 1947. The story is of a daughter and her drunken Irish father (played by Colm Meaney  of Star trek fame) struggling to survive on a small rented farm in Connecticut. Spacey plays the equally drunken landlord.  Josie and Jim Tyrone, Spacey's character, finally express their true feelings to each other one night under the moon in an achingly sad tale of human frailty, decay and frustration. The play ends on a note of hope - not too much mind you as O'Neill clearly wanted his audience to share some of his pain.   

Well its getting late so from your intrepid correspondent reporting from London, England at 11.50pm its Good Night.

The Fonz and Bobby Ewing hit English panto!

Do you know what a pantomime is?  I thought not. 

Panto, in its English form, is a type of theater where classic fairy tales. think Peter Pan, Jack and the Beanstalk and Cinderella are performed as farcical comedies performed around Christmas where second rate television stars and increasingly today reality show stars, engage in exaggerated slapstick with very predictable and saucy jokes.  One other thing, the "principal boy" (Peter, Jack and the Prince in the examples above) is always played by a girl - with me so far? 

Last year the genre received a major boost when Sir Ian McKellen, definitely not a second rate actor, played Widow Twankey in panto at the Old Vic. Well this year the genre is regressing again as Henry Winkler (the Fonz) and Patrick Duffy (Bobby Ewing) are launching a mini-American invasion of English panto.  Oh how the mighty have fallen. Winkler will be treading the boards as Captain Hook while Duffy will appear in Cinderella as Baron Hardup! I kid you not: times must be tough in sitcom/soap land. 

So there you have it.  Maybe next year we can see Martha Stewart play the Wicked Witch, Brad Pitt as Prince Charming and David Letterman and Jay Leno as the Ugly Sisters...