“She’ll See You Now”

You know your shit but you hate this process. The dumb hypotheticals. The intentional waiting. The unreasonable scrutiny. Someone’s going to judge you on their own quirky set of values. It’s visceral. How do you prepare for that?

You just have to be comfortable in your own skin and bring it….the confidence and self assurance physical conditioning gives you. Presence.

A quick flight check:

You feel alive, vibrant, clean. Your respiration’s even. You look down and see buckle instead of belly. Your palms aren’t clammy and you’re sitting up straight. Ramrod straight.

Your legs feel powerful and you feel your delts trying to push through the corners of your jacket. You’re tight, your fit, you’re ready. Key.

You’re an organized, highly efficient, fully functioning human being. On purpose.

You’ve made the most of your gender selection. It all comes down to confidence, demeanor and presentation.

When the secretary says, “She’ll see you now,” you know all of your principled conditioning and sweat equity is going to come through….today.

Sake Anyone?

Meet our sales team.

They have big ones out here in Arizona. The kamikaze sales system is alive and well. “Do you like making calls so cold you need an ice pick? Do you not take no for answer? You do know no means yes, right?

Do you love the thrill of rejection? Well, do we have a career for you. We have no customers, no leads, no overhead and no clue. All you gotta do is barge in on ’em. You just gotta know who ’em is.

If you are lucky enough to get the privilege to represent us, then all you gotta do if find the money to get yourself to Minnetonka for training. What’s not to like?” (We pay for lunch.)


I consider myself an expert in sleep medications. Prescription, over-the-counter, under-the-counter, I have tried them all. Ever since my first AA Meeting, when they told us “No one ever died from lack of sleep.” I didn’t believe them. I’ve been chasing that “sleep jones” for more than 40 years.

Recently, I have been using melatonin. 5 milligrams, sublingually. I can barely remember my head touching the pillow and I have to pry my eyelids apart before I venture out of the bedroom in the morning. I’m heading straight to the shower these days.

I’m also noticing some rather pleasant side effects. I seem to be recuperating faster from my workouts, I’m leaning out more in my midsection and feel less muscular aches and pains.

Better sleep also means better regulation of hunger hormones (like leptin) and metabolism, which are affected by your circadian rhythm.

Another explanation may be that melatonin reduces the production and release of insulin, and has been reported in a number of studies.

This effect by melatonin may also explain why supplementing prior to training increases the use of carbohydrates for fuel during a 30-minute bout of endurance exercise.

I’m not sure why, but my coffee consumption is dwindling instead of increasing. Wish I knew more about this stuff back in the day, could have saved myself a lot of heartache…and money.

A Reminder….

Dear Robert,

Just a note to remind you that we had a meeting scheduled two years ago that you abruptly cancelled. I say, rescheduled. I was of the understanding that you wouldn’t be long in meeting your long awaited obligation to me.

I took you at your word.

Judging from your daily activities and your rigorous regimen, I’m starting to think you have no intention of meeting my needs.

It’s not wise to make me wait. I’m thinking you might be blowing me off for years, even decades.

That doesn’t make me happy, Bob.

Let me remind you of the inevitability of your situation. Pay me now or pay me later doesn’t work here. Besides, I thought we had a deal.

My advice would be to stop the nonsense and get back on the program. We’re supposed to be working from my schedule, not yours. Got it?

Yours in anticipation,


The corner of my eye.

Sometimes when I’m working, I leave the TV on without the sound. Some of the commercials I witness are so idiotic and over the top, I shudder.

As a veteran corporate video producer and editor, I know first hand that nothing that hits the screen is an accident.

The opposite is true. Every gesture, vowel and nuance is meticulously edited in.

It is thought about, written, re-written, wrangled over, shot, re-shot and overproduced with drop-fame premeditation.

They bring in psychiatrists, psychologists and even a Freudian analyst, like Herta Herzog, who they brought in when they were shooting an early Alka-Seltzer commercial in the 1960’s.

When they started to shoot a hand dropping a single tablet into a glass of water, she said, “drop two in , you’ll sell more.” And they did. (Also see: rinse and repeat)

When a plan comes together…

The recent kerfuffle at the VA on May 10, over my lipid panel, (video) was more than histrionics on my part. Or that cranky little headache I received from skipping my morning dose of caffeine.

It was part of a plan to see if I could actually prescribe an eating plan for myself that would succeed in overturning 70 years of mixed, disappointing results. Which usually would be followed by the urging of my doctor to at least try another flavor of statin.

When the orderly told me it looked like they didn’t tick off the cholesterol box on my blood draw, I was more than disappointed. I went shithouse. They had just stuck their finger in the eye of my latest business plan.

As a personal trainer, how can I help people get their numbers down if I can’t get my own act together? The results were a critical piece of my strategy. I was misinformed about the test and as my doc said, “Your results are perfect.”

I have a serious problem with trainers who don’t know or care what they’re talking about. There’s plenty of them. It’s a money game, don’t forget. Besides, it’s dangerous.

In video production we say, plan the shoot, shoot the plan. Which is what I did with my diet. The results blew me away. I thought I was just another victim of genetics.

Pounding weights will straighten you up while it straightens you out. But the science of body re-shaping lies at the dinner table. Food is a chemical. And a drug, lest we forget.

Why go to the trouble of putting on muscle only to have it covered up with a layer(s) of fat?

What’s the point of all that hard earned muscle if no one can see it? Unless your a linebacker.

Losing body fat has more healthful benefits than can be discussed here. We have information overload already.

After seeing the results of my pragmatic approach to diet and exercise, I’m starting to think I just might know what I’m talking about. God help us all. 🙂


Physician, heal thyself.

Now that everyone knows I’m a weenie when it comes to fasting, I can sit back and analyze the data from my recent (dramatic) blood draw. All my life I’ve had trouble with low HDL and (very) high triglycrides, then flipping those numbers in clumsy attempts to right the situation. With disastrous results, I might add. Statins led to head pain which led to pain killers, which led to…, well, that’s another story.

A few years ago, my doc didn’t want me to leave the building. This time, at 72, I knocked it out of the park. This time, I used the knowledge I gained as a personal trainer and a nutrition certification to save my own bacon. Bacon’s probably not a good analogy.

This time, my efforts were deliberate and intentional. I now know, first hand, what works and what doesn’t. I’ve witnessed the changes in my body, my energy levels and more importantly, my confidence. Which are all inextricably tied, in my opinion.  My thinking was, as a personal trainer, if I’m going to fix someone, I should know how to fix myself.

I am on a grand total of zero medications. No heart, no blood pressure, no Flomax, and more importantly, no sleep medications. My pharmacist wants to know if it’s something he said.  🙂

On August 18, 2016, a Sunday, I surrendered my bloated, defeated, addicted carcass to the VA in Bedford Ma, to see if there was anything left to salvage. Seems there was. As my mother used to say, ” A pat on the back is a good thing, as long as it’s low enough and hard enough.” As usual, Nora was right…..


It occurred to me this morning in the darkness of the 2:00 am desert, that I will succeed. Period. In whatever direction I point, I will get there because I’m willing. I am willing to immerse myself with no thoughts of the outcome.

I am one of those fortunate few who enjoys process. The grind. The training, the long hours at the gym, learning new technologies, musical passages, recipes, prose, art. I like the effort, the journey, not the destination. Always have.

I like going into seclusion and woodshedding on whatever my passion is at the moment. With no thoughts of the morrow.

My outlook has caused me no end of conflict, because once I set my sights, my elevation and my windage, it’s on, for better or worse. I am immersed beyond comprehension.

So as I was plodding along this morning in the thankless dark, I wasn’t thinking about a 32 inch waist, (which I will achieve), or a rippling six pack at the age of 72, (ditto), it’s because I love the goddam pain of it all. It’s a price I am eager to pay.

I overcome the weenie inside me every day and I embrace the ritual. Because I am always grateful for the opportunity to struggle and I am….wiling.

What do you want? Blood?

Nothing makes me crankier than a fasting blood draw. I sweat it for weeks beforehand because it upsets my rhythm. My life is clock-work methodical. To the minute. Today is the first day I didn’t run in six months and my body is in shock. I have a nasty headache and was really feeling disoriented after 12 hours of nada. I was actually so irritated I didn’t even worry about what disease they might find. That’s different.

At 7:26 I pull into the VA parking lot and there they are, the wreckage from the past: walkers, oxygen, canes, bellies and campaign hats. Anxiety. I sit in my car taking it all in as the line grows and grows along with my caffeine deprived nerves. We’re told to take a number and my headache comes back. Coffee, please. I start looking around the packed waiting room and try to imagine what these guys looked like when they were back in the war. Omitting myself, of course.

They take five of us in the lab at a time and start sucking the blood out. They are extremely efficient. But it slows to a t-r-i-c-k-l-e…. when we are asked for a urine sample. After my last blood pull, I am wrapped up and told I am all set. It’s about time I’m thinking. As my caffeine “jones” rears its ugly head again I say, never again. I got lost twice trying to negotiate myself out those winding, Trump-lined corridors. Coffee, please.

One last sweep through the standing room only waiting room and I am once again brought to my injured, deprived, and outraged senses. I wonder what kind of shampoo I’ll need to wash that sight out of my brain. Back home, as I’m over filling my coffee into a 5 gallon cup, I am searching for a new yellow stickie to paste on my bathroom mirror.

O’Hearn: Shut the fuck up!

Jethro Rides Again

 She always called me Jethro. (I have no idea why)

If you listen to me, life should be a shit show. That’s if you’re doing it right. I have blown myself up so many times and in so many different ways, I can’t believe I’m still thumpin’.

I remember sitting in that tiny apartment in Ayer, Ma, after slipping on one of my many cosmic banana peels. Things couldn’t get much worse. I lost everything, felt betrayed, and was a physical wreck with no future. 70 with a fork in me.

I was shaking off the effects of massive doses of Seroquel and horse tranquilizer to keep me from stroking out at the VA. I kept falling over and blacking out. Alcohol and Xanax was doing me in. Could things get much worse? Oh yeah. Someone gave the IRS my phone number.

I was sitting on that dilapidated couch in that dilapidated dump, frozen. If you tapped me at that point, I would have dusted. It was out of body. Then some rock star died. Rich. Had everything. Whoa! Right in my puss.

I’m thinking…. death. The final solution. What a relief that must be. Over. I don’t pretend to have an inkling what happens after this. As long as this stops.

I remember how relieved I felt with that realization. Everything just got relaxed. My respiration returned to normal. All misery has to end at some point. It did. That day.

So now it’s back to work disrupting the planet, being totally ridiculous and unreasonable. For the record: I am not chastised. I am not taking this life serious. Ever.

The clock is ticking and there’s no time to dawdle, I have a shit show to produce. Don’t I? Don’t we?

My mother would have loved all this.

Steady State

Go west, young man:

One of the big reasons for moving back to the state of Arizona, besides being wiped out financially, was the weather. The “Ground Hog Day” repetition works for me because there is never an excuse not to get outside and get some form of aerobic exercise. I’ve barely missed a day in six months. It shows.

The other day I had to put a shirt and tie on and when I checked myself in the mirror I noticed I had an extra inch around the collar. I kept thinking “geek” on my way out the door. I’ll just have to downsize.  🙂

Live and lean.

Regardless of what state you live in, as we age, the need to stay lean is critical. The myriad of disease states that have a direct correlation to not “moving it around” are legion.

If you can find a spot to rest after a long career, where you can remain lean and active, go for it. Your declining years don’t have to be reclining.

There are plenty of excuses to skip the roadwork without the weatherman chiming in. The state of the state is good.


Cleaning Closets (Again)

I woke up Monday morning feeling pretty damn good about myself. I was getting the hang of my very technically complicated, high pressure job. Finally. I have always believed the steeper the learning curve, the more enjoyable the work will be down the road. This was proving to be true. I worked all weekend nailing that theory down.

Monday is also online One on One time. My manager, a breath of hot air if ever there was one, must have caught himself in his zipper that morning, because he was twitching and argumentative, taking cell calls from a family member and hyperventilating.

He told me the plan going forward was to “dig in”. No more ‘Mr. Nice Guy” with clients. My numbers were great but we need to kick it up a notch going forward. He was describing overcoming objections with a billy club. He was telling me how to shame clients to our will. I will have no of that, thank you.

While he’s rambling and arguing with his father, I start pulling my papers together and throwing them in the trash bucket behind me. All of which he can see on his computer screen. I was so done. I can tell you, that was the last thing I expected that day. But once my switch gets flipped, it’s over.

It’s true, you don’t quit companies, you quit managers.

Within 30 minutes, I printed off three offer letters while I furiously cleaned my closets. Cleaning closets is a ritual I developed over the years as life would twist its way around me. A cathartic exercise that usually precedes a massive life change. This episode did not disappoint. I am on to another great adventure. Yipee!

Now it’s Thursday morning and I’m sitting in my big beautiful kitchen with my hands folded, watching my sun dappled dog as she eats to her hearts content knowing Daddy will be able to provide. Always.

So here I sit, dazed, delighted, and so full of gratitude, I have to unbutton my shirt.


Sunday morning coming down..

….my heart rate is anyway, as I’m turning the corner down my street after an hour of H.I.I.T. Whew! …felt this one.

HIIT, or high-intensity interval training, is a training technique in which you give all-out, one hundred percent effort through quick, intense bursts of exercise, followed by short, sometimes active, recovery periods.

This type of training gets and keeps your heart rate up and burns more fat in less time.

If I’m going to lace up and head out in the middle of the night, I want the payoff, not diminishing returns, once my body acclimates to the routine.

In the whole hour, after running, jumping and jogging, my Fitbit was never able to fully calculate my heart rate. Glad I’m not the only one confused.

I can always find other ways to torture myself, but this fits one the Arizona weather. Besides, whattaya think i’m doing this for, my health?

A Stand-Up Guy

I have paid dearly for my sense of humor. I have also been paid dearly for my sense of humor. I used to hate the arm around my shoulder from my overly concerned manager because I was disrupting yet another business meeting with my Irish Tourette’s. His problem was, everyone was loving it, and we can’t have that. Can we?

I’m back in the sales game again and I am smokin’. What worked me for then, works for me now. In spades. Humor. Honed from years of stand up and making a goddam fool of myself. Anything for the laugh.

Being funny is key in human interaction. If you want to be good at it, you have to watch your prey. You gotta listen. You gotta have timing and a great big hunk of emotional intelligence. Without that, you’re sunk.

If you can make ’em laugh, you got ’em. I’m not dealing with professionals anymore, like docs, phD’s or scientists who know what they want for the most part, I’m dealing with the uninformed public.

I have to open them up and get past objections, excuses, fear and distrust. My juices are flowing again. Wait’ll they get a load of me.

I used to think I did well back in the day because I wasn’t bad looking. At least that what those female techs told me over breakfast.

Ba Da Bum!

Composing Yourself

Most folks, given a choice, would like to change their body composition. It’s not an altogether neurotic goal. Slimmer in the waist, wider in the shoulders, a couple of toned calves, or at least some that don’t jiggle. Body sculpting can be done if you’re willing to make small mortgage payments. Not wise.

You can aerobicize until the cows come home, but you most likely end up what I call, “skinny fat.” Skinny fat is not attractive. Basically shrinking down but keeping the same shape you were unhappy with in the first place. Been there.

Every time I’ve slimmed down, I get what my mother would call, gaunt. I would lose whatever meat I had on my shoulders and chest, my legs would disappear and I would invariably keep my little pot belly. Same thing, just smaller.

Resistance training changes all that. Proper diet changes all that. What I mean by proper diet, is smaller meals spaced out through the day and not cramming our face until we tip over. ‘Nuf said.

Adding muscle jacks up your metabolism so you can burn calories at rest. Sleep even. It will give you those lumps and bumps in the right places. It will correct bad posture and make your clothes fit the way they were designed, with you in mind.

We are made to work, to move and to struggle. Today’s technology is putting an end to all that, so it’s up to you to compose yourself.


Die, you bastard…

I’ve spent most of my adult life knocking the balls off of my old man. He was violent, quick tempered and I thought, unreasonable. I received my first, (of many) punches in the face from him. He could be deceptively charming, articulate and erudite. He was responsible to a fault.

No matter what condition he would get himself into the night before, which wasn’t often, he always showed up for work the next morning.

He worked in the heat treat department at Carr Fastener Inc., one of the more unfavorable positions at that plant. When he was really suffering, he would mutter, “Die, you bastard” to show he was accountable. To himself.

When our family unit was busting at the seams, 12 people in a small apartment, I often wondered why he stayed. I used to look at him, then the back door, and wonder why he wasn’t making use of it. It was misery. His unhappiness could permeate the walls.

We tried to stay outside for a couple hours after he came home and went to bed. Because once he looked at you, he would remember things. We wanted no parts of that. None.

Because of those traumatic years, it’s easy to forget the goodness in him. Believe me, he could care less what you thought. He kept his own counsel.

Even though I never had a family, his logic and sense of responsibility is still with me. (He might disagree.) No matter how tough things got, he stayed, went to work and contributed to the household. He even died early to make it easier on us.

He was “Steady Eddy.” All the time. He brought continuity. He instilled values and a sense of responsibility. The latter being the most important to me. Because, even to this day, I have never once accused anyone else of shitting in my pants. 🙂

Thanks, Pop.

Thin Ayer

Ayer is a dismal town. And I was in a dismal apartment in that dismal town, under dismal circumstances. Compared to Groton, the town next door, it was an alternative universe. Bizarro. Gritty was what I would call it. I was there to do penance and lick my wounds after an epic fail. A fail administered by my own hand. I have a habit of knocking down my own sand castles when it suits me.

In my thirty-odd years at “The Company” I was hard to manage. I kept having epiphanies. I kept trying to sweeten the pot to whoever would listen. Sometimes, they listened. I was afforded a lot of opportunities. I had a lot of jobs. Some, I created. But it seems it was never enough. I kept trying to make it up as I went along. I was in plays, musical endeavors, even put out a safety record. But still, my Jones kept coming down on me. Everything, all the time.

I resigned three times. The last time, for good. First time, I damn near doubled my salary. The second time, I tripled it. At least! Didn’t sit well with the V.P. of Sales at the time. Captain Queeg if there ever was one. He could make goldfish turn on each other. I was making more than him as a video consultant, so you can imagine.

Still, I was never quite satisfied. When I was told my name kept coming up in the Executive Board Room, over how much money I was making, I doubled down and threatened to quit. Loudly. I could feign outrage with the best. You could hear me all over the executive offices. Ha! Bite me! It worked. The finance guy got a kick out of me. Then he paid me.

The last time I quit there was nothing to spoil over. They went from streaming live video around the world, to using a flip chart. Mr. Rogers had to keep turning the chart so everyone in the cafeteria could see it. Tick…tick! I kept my car running in the parking lot. When I went out that gate the last time, I didn’t even turn around.

So now I’m walking down Main Street in Ayer with my little dog. Cold and broke. I walk by a hair salon and look in the window and who do I see in a waiting chair, but I guy I used to pick up the phone with back in the day. He’s still there. Now, it’s beginning to snow. It’s starting to trickle down my neck but I can’t move. I study him close. I’m transfixed. He’s grayer, heavier, more placid. I look in his eyes. Nothing. It’s just another day for him.

He was a good guy, always did what he was told. Towed the company line. His wife works there too. He’s got a bunch of kids and he’ll probably go down with the ship. But at least he belongs somewhere. He didn’t detonate his security. He’s not coming up with big, uncomfortable ideas.

But I know where he’s been every fucking day of his life for the last forty years. Is that a price I was willing to pay? Not so much. Poor guy, I thought.

I picked up my slushy little dog and headed back to my cramped quarters to plan my escape. It was time for a new plan. Was it ever.


A Nice Cold Dish

Most folks will tell you that revenge is a very unhealthy thing. I beg to differ. I stopped turning my cheeks years ago. I think there is a huge benefit in getting into such an unreasonable state. First, it banishes fear. Fear brings everything to a halt. Fear makes the stool go runny. Fear is not your ally. Fear can make you ill. I’m not ill.

If you get mad enough, been trespassed enough, or slyly stuck with an unfortunate circumstance, it is motivating. It focuses you. It makes you feel insanely alive.

Yes, I’m still grieving over my dog. Now I’m bitter. And resigned. But it brings other issues to the fore. The unfairness of life, the cruelty of other humans when it benefits them, lack of character and a willingness to twist the knife to gain advantage.

I was living in a state of panic off and on for more than a year. Not any more. I have scores to settle and miles to go before I sleep. There is a spring in my step.

When I pull into the gym parking lot in the early am, I plant thoughts of retribution into my head that make me squeeze that barbell for all its worth. It’s cathartic. It works.

Like all sin, it feels good.  I can’t go to a hell I don’t believe in. Gonna be a great year.

You’ve been warned. 🙂

2018: Independence and Relevance

I’ve had my go at marriage, partnership, commiserating, negotiating, sharing and house playing. The goal from here on is to remain relevant and independent. That means healthy in body, mind and spirit. It means a doctor visit once a year, not once a week. It means continued learning, discovery and health.

As boomers, we are entering uncharted territory, if actuarial tables are to be believed. I am not a big fan of hanging around here in less than optimal condition. I see enough end result here to keep me awake at night. I would like to go quickly, not horizontally tubed up and praying for death. In most cases, when it comes to our well being, A for effort counts.

To remain relevant, I have to acquire new skills, a new approach, and keep the spring in my step. At 71, on paper, I figure I’m dead in the water. Unless I get the chance to show up. Just the Vietnam Era contribution on my resume is telling. I’ll draw my own conclusions, thank you very much.

The 5-30-30 is my way of nipping both of these buds. Five days a week I devote a minimum of 30 minutes to vigorous exercise and 30 minutes to self improvement. Right now, I’m studying for a nutrition certification, reading Hemingway and staying current on the many software programs I use on Lynda.com.

I don’t want to spend these years waiting for the bus. It’ll be here before I know it.

Don’t Be A Lightweight

“I mistrust all frank and simple people, especially when their stories hold together. – Hemingway

When I had my sales territory, I owned it. At least my customers thought I did. I was affectionately know as Mr. Dupont. I took care of business. All customer requests came through me. And some of them were doozies. None were dismissed out of hand.

I was asked for scholarships, bail money, to lay off gambling debt, plane tickets, graduation parties, honeymoon expenses, and rubbers and bubble gum.

From the sublime to the ridiculous. Never once did I say, “unfortunately.” Ever. Good clients were hard to come by and I wasn’t about to give them the flick of my wrist. They deserved to be listened to without slamming the door.

I never came right out and refused. I would always give them some time to think about what they were asking. Most times, it worked out.

I never wanted to be considered a lightweight, an errand boy. Sometimes I could help, sometimes I couldn’t, but I gave it a go. The ridiculous stuff was easy. But I never said no right off the bat.

Some people like to blame “them”, the management, company policy, or some technicality to absolve themselves of ultimate responsibility, but it only makes you look ineffective. An errand boy. Your boss isn’t going to help you gain or maintain business. Or bolster your reputation.

Rules are made to be broken. If you can’t do anything, at least look like you’re trying. Scrub “unfortunately” from your vocabulary. You own it.

The Numbers Game

I’m lacing up my sneakers. It’s pitch black out. Another four hours before daylight. Someone told me recently that I might, given my present physical conditioning, be on track to live well into my upper nineties.

Nothing interests me less. I have no designs on being a non-productive potted plant and just punching up some long numbers. There are no trophies for that particular feat. Only punishment.

Where I’m living at the present moment, Sun City, feels like some elephant grave yard where the denizens come to suffer, not enjoy the fruits of their previous labors. I’m getting a glimpse into the future that shakes me to my core.

But we accept it. We scratch our heads at the physical ailments that start to plague us a few weeks after our first social security check. I hear the conversations all the time. The apnea, high blood pressure, diabetes, heart disease, arthritis, a myriad of mysterious aches and pains, things that might be mitigated with a little preventive strategy.

Yeah, infirmity will visit, but its intensity can be lessened if we put the work in. Now. That’s my angle and I’m sticking to it. The upper 90’s thing does nothing for me if I can’t participate and contribute.

My goal is to step off the planet with the least amount of needless suffering. Have a pleasant evening, go to bed with a smile, then hopefully… wake up dead. 🙂

Camera Monkey?

About a year ago, I took almost all of my video gear and sold it back to an outfit called Adorama for pennies on the dollar. I had had it. What a nutty way to make a living. Dragging gear all over the country, up hotel stairs, down hospital basements until I went out of my mind. Everyone was a latent Spielberg or a Tarantino. No respect.

I started Double O Creative back around the millennium with hopes of making it an integral part of my company at the time, Bristol Myers Squibb. They didn’t know what to do with me. Even after they relocated me.

I was just a camera monkey to them. My contemporaries in the video world didn’t help the image either. Plumbers and landscapers by day, they drove pricing and quality down to the nub. That was it for me, it was rinse and spit. No mas.

Until I arrived out west. One thing we always knew in radiopharmaceutical sales, was that folks out west were early adopters. A new product launch would always see adoption spreading left to right. Always.

Out here, I’m finding that video production is not just a “nice to have” like it was back east. Out here, it’s a “must have.” Out here, it’s a valuable sales, marketing and training tool. It is valued. Who’da thunk?

Everyone from banks to boardrooms are looking for that one (me?) someone that can make the screen come alive with relevant information, to reach, teach and inform. Someone that knows how to craft a message and bring the best out in their talent and get that message heard and seen. I know business, I know video, and I knew how to present it.

Out here, they know, understand and appreciate this modality. How refreshing. Who knows? I’m might snap off my lens cover once again. I put almost 20 years into this discipline, it would be nice to man the director’s chair again. Where’s my beret?


Vietnam was a gift

For me. That war got me pulled me off the street just in time. It kicked me in my flabby ass and stood me up. It broke the descending trajectory I was in and most likely saved my life. When other young men had designs on marriage or college, I watched from the outside. No interest.

I was hanging with dangerous people, experimenting with drugs and was an alcoholic for at least five years by then. I was going nowhere in a hurry. With a bullet, as they say.

In 1966, I was a machinist’s apprentice and had a government deferment. I was safe. But my drinking and carousing got me fired and the government’s bullseye became firmly affixed to my back. When my “Greetings” letter from the government arrived, I was ready for a hospital, not a barracks.

I was finally drafted. At 19 I weighed 190 pounds. I should have been 165. I was soft, flabby, chest congested and didn’t know a push-up from a pull-up. I vomited every day for weeks. They damn near killed me.

The change came weeks later during a six mile run. Something was different. The run didn’t feel fast enough to me for some reason. I started to run backwards. Then the guy next to me started. We looked at each other in amazement. What was this? Then the grass drills started to seem like fun. (I said started, OK?)

We all smoked during those days but we were leaner, faster, confident and coordinated. Then we started to get neat. Daily inspections will do that to you. You got your shit together.

The olive drab started to fit better. Tight in the right places. When we partied on weekends we would practice facing movements and even foot race each other. The change had come.

Eighteen months later, I stepped off a plane in Boston after a year in Vietnam. I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face when she looked up at my tanned face. She held on to my arm for dear life. I was her man.

In an alternate universe she wouldn’t have been looking at me with such unabashed pride, she would have been posting bail.


Growing Old Greatfully!

Life expectancy has just decreased for the second year in a row. Overall life expectancy for a baby born in 2016 fell to 78.6 years, a small decline of 0.1 percent, the National Center for Health Statistics (NCHS) team found. At the same time, mortality from drug overdoses rose by 21 percent. The opioid crisis raises its ugly head. That’s not the only thing killing us off.

I have been living in the land of the walking wounded here in Sun City, Arizona and I can see why the orange bottle reigns supreme. Seemingly healthy individuals are walking from their cars or golf carts, to occupy motorized shopping carts. Quite a few look disoriented and have trouble making a buying decision, while backing up the aisle traffic at Fry’s.

Checkout can cause you to leave your shopping cart in the middle of the floor and go home.

This isn’t a call to action for physical exercise, though it should be. The same old words always fall on the same old deaf ears, so we can skip the pretense. Living long ain’t what it’s cracked up to be if the denizens of this community are any example. It’s an exercise in pain management.

We are made to move. Failure to do so will cause the body to atrophy and cause a myriad of problems throughout the human movement system. You see the results every day. When care and feeding is applied, the body responds in kind. The designers took careful consideration.

Thanks to the Directors of Misinformation on the news and TV, we have the tendency to look at an exercise program as some big, impossible, complex campaign when actually, it’s just one foot at a time.

So the new life expectancy is 78.6. If those numbers are true, I will have to pass on the green bananas. But I’m not gonna take it laying down. Tomorrow is promised to no one.

Backhand Marketing (Bob’n and Weavin’)

“Give ’em your backhand”

backhand |marketing|
Creating awareness of your offering without clearing a room.

I’m sitting in Starbuck’s yesterday, doing what I do best, eavesdropping. Four women are having a chat and discussing a house one of them had just sold. The seller was complaining that she had a tough time engaging a real estate agent she could trust and feel comfortable with. One of the women pipes up with, “I’m a real estate agent. Been doing it for years, off and on.” The seller expresses shock and disbelief and says she wished she would have known. Huh?

This would never happen to me. No matter what I’m doing, everyone in my circle of influence knows exactly what that is. I do what I call weaving. I weave stories, anecdotes and belly flops into all of my conversations. I entertain. I inform.

I don’t separate business with pleasure or every day life, because all of my experiences are life experiences. I’m interested in what I do and share stories. I will even post a blog about my adventures. I have been disappointed in the past as opportunities evaporated because people were unaware. I go to great lengths to avoid letting that happen. Again.

I never wait for the absolute right time to launch an elevator speech. Life doesn’t work like that. Awareness is key. I have been surprised and delighted to get a late night call asking me if I still produce corporate video or put executive communications together or personally train clients. Those opportunities arose from not waiting for the right time to share my wares. I use a backhand approach. I am not direct. I tell stories. I entertain. You should too.

I harvested at least a dozen little stories out of this corporate shoot last spring and reaped the rewards.



I’m sitting in a doctor’s office watching a couple of guys running over their sales script for when they get in to see the doc. One is the manager. He looks road weary and somewhat worse for wear. A road dog, that one.

His young charge looks fresh but shaky. He has on one of those impossibly tight suits they’re wearing these days, which means you can’t button the jacket, complete with a John Dillinger haircut. Buttoning the top button of his fitted shirt has produced a bulging blue vein on his temple. He fidgets as his boss whispers words of encouragement. Taken as veiled threats by his liege.

The doc, the target of all this pre-call planning, walks out into the waiting room. He only has a minute, so he tells them to start talking. The kid holds up the sales piece and gives the factory approved speech in his best monotone. He’s trying to cover all the bases because he’s actually pitching to two people. In probably the longest 45 seconds the doc has had to endure since the last rep, he smiles, takes the sales piece and begs off.

Not before he looks over at me and rolls his eyes apologetically. Seen that look before.

Once the doc re-enters his battlefield, the manager slaps his grasshopper on the back and says, “That’s the way ya do it.” I quickly look down at my phone.

Then I think about all the times I had to do that sort of thing. I remember hitting the field without the required coat of vanilla most reps get shellacked with. No formal training. No business experience. No degree. No fear. I was too dumb to know what I had gotten myself into.

So I rolled my own. I brought every skill and fancy to the show. I told jokes, I flirted contagiously. Secretaries swooned under a barrage of compliments. I upstaged waiting rooms, I wined and dined maintenance people. I couldn’t tell a surgeon from a fry cook. The world was my target.

Dupont, what have ye wrought? What happened to better things, for better living? Oh, that was GE. I came right off the dock. I was their own private kamikaze. They needed warm bodies in those days but they forgot to take my temperature.

Then the calls started coming in, glowing, most of them, but with some concern. Ginny Standiford, a radiology manager, is quoted as saying, “Tell him to stop boinking my technologists.” I went at the job the way I thought it was supposed to be gotten at. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to get at a decision maker, an economic buyer, a coach, or the next victim.

On one of my last sales call in Las Vegas, I was sitting in a rep heavy waiting room when the director of the department motioned for me to come in first. In front of the other reps who were clearly there ahead of me.

I asked why I was there ahead of the other beggars. He said “Man those guys make me tired. You make me laugh, you f’real.”

Yep, I was a legend in my own mind…..and a nightmare in everyone else’s.


The Disconnect

Still looking for my dream job. My calling. Thought I found it. Not only did I fill out the online resume, I called them. Immediately. I couldn’t have made this position up. It was perfect. I had to wait a week for the phone interview. In that time I had delusions of grandeur.

I would see myself on a mission, interacting with their…uh, my, clients, solving problems I cared about, and using technical language it had taken me years to master. How could this not work?

The logical conclusion would be to start working for this outfit, like…. tonight. Let’s get this party started. When I shave and shower for a telephone interview, I know I’m excited. I hit the call button on my phone as soon as the second hand swept onto 12.

I was so jazzed, I was afraid I would start making involuntary noises in my throat. When I heard the phone pick up, I was ready. I became myself. Game on.

Then it goes something like this:

Reality. From the first few sentences, you start feeling the ground move under your feet. Not only are you not on the same page, you’re not even reading the same book. You flail around trying get your balance. To no avail. The chest gets heavy and confusion enters the discourse. It’s cold in the room all of a sudden.

You’re not answering their questions. You’re trying to change the direction of the inquisition but they’ll have none of it. They know what they’re looking for. The blinders are on. No room for improvisation here, bucko.

It’s scheduled for 30 minutes, but you’re done. The kitchen clock is not working with you. You want to pull your hand back out of the fire. Whoops! Sorry, wrong number. What just happened here?

There are a few spaces I’m comfortable playing in and this was one of them. I would have absolutely killed this position. They would have been high-fivng each other tonight at happy hour. No…friggin’…..doubt. But life has other plans. I guess.

It was mine to lose and I lost it. It did wake me up to possibilities for me that I hadn’t considered before, in the corporate video/multimedia world. As business development. This is where I belong. I’ve made my bones in this industry.

I’ve had tough interviews before and always been pleasantly surprised when they call back with a change of mind. But this time, I’m not waiting by the phone. I can’t afford to. I’m off on a new mission.

Sorry, Charlie.



There are a lot of mentors out there who will tell you how to inflate yourself to prospective employers. I’ve seen advice ranging from what to wear, what to say, how to act and even emulating the postures of your interviewers like some sacred kabuki dance. Once you’ve donned your peacock feathers, you can only hope you won’t be exposed during the trick question portion of your inquisition.

But what of your inquisitor? What’s their strategy? Their responsibility? Besides onboarding you into their ant farm, how are they positioning themselves? Well, puffery works both ways. When you read the posting, you will think these folks are onto the cure for cancer and you will be joining the ranks of the business elite.

Do you wait for the big reveal at the salary negotiations? If they want you, and want to get you at a bargain, they can resort to cannabilising their own mission statement. Right in front you. I just had someone say, “Why would you even want this crappy job?” They tell me the day-to-day can be murder on my sanity and my home life. As long as it doesn’t murder my bank account, we can keep talking.

Puffery works both ways. Be aware of it. Do your due dilligence. That way, when they open the curtains you won’t be surprised…..or crestfallen.