C'mon Harry

Finkie had a role and Harry had no illusions that without his lifelong sidekick, nothing would happen. Agoraphobia had even seized control of Harry's dreams. But it didn't end with the big plan, Finkie led Harry out of his basement apartment.

"C'mon, Harry, let's go out. What're you gonna do in here all alone?"

"Smoke a joint and listen to Steely Dan?" Harry might answer.

"C'mon Harry, there's this loft party tonight downtown where they'll be plenty of chicks to bang."

"Is there a cover charge?" Oh how Harry hated to part with a buck.

"C'mon Harry, let's go see Amarcord at Cinema P."

"I dunno, you driving?" Parking petrified Harry, even by valet.

"They'll steal from my car."

"Steal what, Harry? The shovel you bought at Wal-Mart for ten bucks?"

"They'll take my car out for a joy ride."

"An eight year old Dodge Dart?"

But you could always get mugged or murdered. Harry wasn't very portable.

Without Finkie, Harry would've rotted in a social wasteland:

All the women come and go
Dreaming of the lotto.

Bunkered in the basement.

Peril, peril everywhere
think of flunkers
no longer there.

"Everyone will be there tonight, Harry."

Not the flunkers. But Finkie was convincing, and Harry went out that Monday night and met Gina.

Here's a story, aching and blue

About a quiet guy and a lost girl

He met her Tuesday night

At a club where singles go

Here's how I remember it

I has leaning in the corner having a beer

That moment's branded in my memory

She asked me "You wanna dance?"

I mumbled, "I guess so."

And that did me in
                                                                                                                
O Gina, Gina, Gina,
Between your breasts and stiletto heels

A sight that rocked my world

You turned me into an animal, Gina

Made me plunge into your river

The Partnership

Finkie's plan revived Harry, gave him purpose. Now working for the Belt King was just a means to an end, it lost its relevance, it didn't matter. Harry even stopped skimming the cash. So what? It was just money and Harry had socked away plenty.

Meanwhile Harry's role within Shugar Belt expanded when Alvy assigned him the major accounts in Montreal. Not that Harry cared anymore, about the business, about working for Alvy. It all seemed so absurd, so ridiculous, to expend all that energy on something as marginal as belts. Stupid-fucking-strips-of-leather-or-textiles-that-hold-up-your-pants.

What legacy could a legend in the belt world ever hope to leave? Who remembered the inventor of the reversible belt, or the innovator who eliminated stitching with the turned edge, or the commercial genius who made fashion belts accessible to the masses hungry for mid-section couture, when he developed a a revolutionary new material for belts -- recycled leather blended with paper -- and named it bonded leather? Watershed milestones in the history of the belt and yet the visionaries who redefined the modern belt never achieved due recognition for their towering achievements, only indifference from the millions of the Great Unwashed whose lives were enriched from wearing low-priced fashion belts.

Great writers however, went down in history, became cultural benchmarks of eras. Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Hemingway. Literary giants won Nobel prizes, became immortal, eternally relevant. And while that may not necessarily apply to television writers, they at least became rich and that was enough for Harry. Writing his Feldman spec script was all that mattered.

But working with Finkie three times a week tested the limits of Harry's patience.  It meant listening to Finkie's rants about:

Uncle Hershie the asshole, whose boot company was really a front for a cocaine smuggling operation.

His father doing time in a South Carolina prison, framed for his master role in an eight million dollar telemarketing scam.

His brother's ex-wife, the insane hippy, who after losing custody of her kids, kidnapped them, fled to whereabouts unknown and went underground.

Why bother making shit up when nothing could compare to a Finkelstein family memoir?


Meanwhile the writing sessions always ended the same when Harry's debilitating migraines called it a night.

It also didn't help matters that Finkie couldn't write a lick. He may have seen every Feldman episode a few times, read every Feldman script he could lay his hands on and known everything that a script needed to have in order to work, but his ideas, which he'd for fight tooth-and-nail, were...oh man...

"Let's give Gary gonorrhea."

"Let's end the scene with Herb farting."

"Let's make Herb and Crabtree gay lovers."

No, no and no.

The only reason Harry kept their partnership alive was because somehow, someway their Feldman spec script about Gary and Herb dating identical twins was actually getting written.

            TERRI

Do I detect a bit of discomfort?

Does it bother you that Herb is

Dating an exact replica of your

girlfriend?

            GARY

Bother me? It should be illegal.

            TERRI

Gary Feldman. I can’t believe you’d

begrudge your best friend a little

ray of sunlight into the black hole

of his existence.

            GARY

Terri, I believe in The Bill of Rights.

I believe that all men are created equal

in the eyes of God. But if Herb Pulaski
is dating my girlfriend’s twin sister, 
than Armageddon must be right around the 
corner.

          

            TERRI

(SMIRKING) Oh, I get it. If you’re

dating twins, by definition, Herb

is doing as well as you. And that

bugs you.

            GARY

(LEANING ACROSS THE TABLE) If Herb

and Jill make it, Herb will have

effectively seen my girl naked. It’s an

invasion of my privacy. He’s breaking

the unwritten code among men.

            TERRI

I thought the unwritten code among

men was, “No eye contact in public

urinals.” Besides, this is George we’re

talking about. He’ll blow it within a week.

            GARY

What if this time the gods smile
on Herb? He’s due, you know.

            TERRI

C'mon, the gods have more sense than
that. (MOCK SERIOUS) But what if he 

made a pact with the devil?

           GARY

(DEAD SERIOUS, CONSIDERING THE
POSSIBILITIES) Yeah, what if?

CUT TO:

END OD ACT l:

                           

Why Not?

Fortunately there was still Finkie. All the old boys had left town, leaving St. Clair far behind their wake of self-imposed exile. Party over. Finkie, last friend standing. Finkie, Harry's gang of one.

Like Harry, Ronnie Finkelstein was mired in his own cultural, professional and spiritual wasteland. Twenty-seven and perpetually broke, still living at home, shooting wedding and bar mitzvah videos to an ever-dwindling clientele, Finkie was going nowhere. Unlike Mike Winikoff, his former classmate at film school, Finkie couldn't figure out how to leverage his degree towards the yellow brick road of fame and fortune. To his credit, Finkie didn't stop trying. He figured he'd keep pushing until he hit thirty, then he'd roll over and die.

The issue wasn't talent. As a cinematographer, Finkie was brilliant. Every frame, every film he shot, down to the two hundred buck surprise party gig was technically flawless. Taste and attitude though, had a tendency to muck things up.

Finkie had an eye for the grotesque, something he mistook as Fellini-inspired. Whatever the case, Finkie's artistic vision didn't cut it filming weddings and Sweet Sixteens.

Consider the Harris wedding with forty-two minutes of close-ups of men with bad toupees.

"Williard on balding heads. Would've killed at the box office!"

Consider the Schwartz bar mitzvah where he shot thirty-five minutes of the dwarf aunt.

"A dwarf dancing the cha cha? Golden, fucking golden!"

But the pièce de résistance had to be the Fenster Sweet Sixteen.

"Of course the father tried to run you over with his Lincoln, you took a bush-shot of his daughter at her own Sweet Sixteen!"

"That just happened..." he'd shrug.

"Just happened, Finkie? Just happened?! You shot that from under the table."

"An angle shot, that's all. It's not my fault the chick doesn't use Neat."

Finkie always had to have the last word. Yes, the stories were hysterical and Harry reveled in them. But they didn't help business. Finkie's delusion: that he was a true artiste, a hybrid of Fellini and Lenny Bruce.

So if his clients couldn't appreciate that, then, "They could all go fuck themselves."

And that became his new mantra. Before long, the only job that Finkie could get was working as a shipper in his Uncle Hershie's boot factory. Then one week he got a paycheck without overtime pay for a fifty hour week he put in to get out a special Sears order.

"I was a little tight with the cash flow," Hershie explained. "Family's gotta bite the bullet first, just till we get through this quarter."

"So you bite the fucking bullet, Uncle Hershie! You're living in Fernwood Hills, not me!"

"Listen Big Mouth, I only keep you as a favor to your mother with your father doing time. If you don't like it Ronnie, then leave."

Which Finkie did, but not before having an epiphany that he shared with Harry later that night.

"Fuck all this bullshit! We're going to write a Feldman spec script  together, then go down to L.A. and make it big like Mike Winikoff. Now he's writing for Brewski's, probably making three, four hundred grand a year."

True, true, true, Winikoff was making it big in L.A. Then again, he didn't find the yellow brick road by bushwhacking beaver shots at Sweet Sixteens. Winikoff meant business from Day One.

Still, Finkie's idea struck a chord with Harry: Making it big. And no matter how far-fetched it really was, it sounded a lot better than selling belts.

So Harry thought,"Why not?"

Over Steak

"Alvy, why do you keep Harry if he's stealing from you?" Frema asked over a Friday night steak dinner at Steak World.

"Because I'm never going to find another in-house salesman who can sell like Harry. This year he's on track to sell for a million bucks. That's a lot of fucken belts..." Alvy looked perturbed.

"You seem bothered."

"I'm still fucking waiting for my Polish sausage! Of course I'm upset!" Alvy stood up from his chair, waved his arm at the waiter and mouthed, "Polish sausage," then muttered, "Jerk-off."

"Last time you caught the shipper stealing from you, Alvy, you had him arrested."

Alvy beamed, reflecting on that memorable moment when the police escorted and hand-cuffed the head shipper, Tommy with the fucked-up tooth, out of the factory while all the 250 Shugar Belt employees looked on in fear.

"Wearing his Che Guevara T-shirt!" Alvy liked to remind everyone. "Vive le criminal record libre, I say," and then he'd inevitably break up into hysterical laughter.

"That was different, Frema. That commie bastard was really stealing. With Harry, it's more like an arrangement--"

"You have a heart of gold, Alvy."

"A weakness, Frema, don't remind me. Harry's family, and besides, I underpay the little prick.  So he tries to make up for the shortfall, but trust me, doesn't come close. A salesman as good as Harry is worth double the money. Easily. So I turn a blind eye. But in the end, Alvy Shugar still comes up on top."

The waiter finally arrived with Alvy's Polish sausage. The Belt King grunted with delight and stabbed the spicy sausage with gusto. A projectile of fat juice squirted out, landing bullseye on his Hermes tie.

"Shiiiit! This is a $145 tie, now ruined. That's coming off the fucker's next paycheck!"

Alvy lifted his left buttock and farted.

"This kid is killing me. First thing Monday, he's out!"

Frema sighed, hoping that Alvy would forget about it over the weekend. She didn't relish the thought of yet another Alvy-initiated family war, especially a couple of months before the wedding of Stacey, their youngest daughter. It wasn't the time to start a family war, the wedding would be held in the Ritz Carlton ballroom and the Shugars needed heads. Afterwards, there'd be plenty of time to pick fights with relatives.

"Mustard!" Alvy barked to the waiter. "What am I, a jerk-magnet?"

Harry's Secret War

Pigeons.

After a pigeon crapped on Alvy's head, he became engaged in a perpetual war against the "winged rats" that nested on the roof of The Shugar Belt Building. But nothing worked; not the statue of the owl, not the poisoned bait, not the barbed wire, not the cat Alvy bought at the SPCA and flung on the roof like a rag doll, and not even the Daisy rifle he used to shoot the shitting birds during lunch.

But for Harry, pigeons were allies, frontline soldiers in his secret war against Alvy. Harry darted outside to the parking lot at 10:35 AM on Day 1 of the war. When the coast was clear, he pulled out a five pound bag of bird seed from the trunk of his car and spread the seed all over Alvy's white Mercedes.

The battleground tactic worked like a charm as Harry looked on through his binoculars from the showroom window on the third floor overlooking the parking lot. The pigeons had an eating and shitting frenzy until they were chased away by the seagulls. By 11:15 AM there was not one bird seed left uneaten on Alvy's car, now scratched all over and festooned with heaping blobs of bird poop. The car had to be repainted.

That afternoon Harry also lauched Operation Commission Recovery, skimming $340 dollars in cash on a sale to a jobber from out west. Harry figured that if he could keep up the skimming on a regular basis then within a year. he could recover most of the commission that was rightfully due to him. He had to be careful, but Alvy was out of town almost every week, so the opportunities were plentiful. Harry vowed to stop the skimming when according to his records, the account was even.

Then he'd quit and tell Alvy to fuck off.

In the meantime, he'd be on his best behavior with Alvy and continue his guerrilla war on the Belt King. Block a toilet, order late night pizzas to the Belt King's Fernwood Hills house, thumbtack Alvy's office chair, the possibilities seemed infinite. War was as exhilarating as immaturity.

The 3% Solution

"Get it on paper," Harry's mother warned him.

But he didn't.

"Don't work for Alvy."

But he did.

"Alvy's a thief."

That he was.

Maybe Harry didn't have a signed agreement with Alvy, but he kept a detailed list of all his sales. After his first year at Shugar Belt, Harry racked up a whopping $672,466 in sales. At 3% commission, that should have paid Harry another $20,173.98 on top of his base salary. But after house accounts, discounted sales, out-of-province sales, cash sales, unreported sales, returns, credit notes, bad credit and bankruptcies, every monthly commission check came up short and each commission statement had a story. By year end, the commissions paid to Harry amounted to a grand total of $5425.62.

"The difference is a car," Harry complained to his mother. But Alvy had another take.

"Five K plus is good scratch for a guy who didn't have a pot to piss in when I hired him," he rationalized to Harry.

"But it's not even close to what you owe me, Alvy. We had a deal."

"A year in the showroom eating cookies with perfumed broads and now he's the big deal maker! Show me the fucking signed contract for our understanding, Mr. Let's Make A Deal."

Harry knew to keep his cool, if Alvy blew up he'd have no chance at recovering any of the money owed to him.

"You offered me 3% commission on my sales, Alvy. That's over twenty grand."

"I never said a straight 3%, there's exceptions. You're pushing goods on every puttana who walks in."

"That's not true. I'm the in-house sales rep, I service the customers who walk in."

"And speaking of walking, Harry. You're always free to walk yourself if you're not happy."

And that's how those types of conversations would always end. Harry would've walked, should've walked, but not without every penny that was due to him. So if Alvy wouldn't cough up the money, then Harry would go get it himself. His way.

New Roles

No one was more surprised that Harry liked his new job than Harry. It was soothing, relaxing, numbing to do something as simple as selling belts. This was gorgeous, that was a runner, the one with the inlaid brass buckle came in both cabretta and suede. All Harry had to do was show up to work. Once he was in the showroom, the rest took care of itself.

Brew a pot of coffee, open a box of poppy seed cookies, place them on the showroom table and let the buyers stuff their faces. Throw in a few jokes, flirt, ooh and ah over the latest styles and by the time the the chi chi boutique owner left the showroom, there was a sale of no less than a G-note.

Harry was plagued with guilt about his unabashed enjoyment selling belts in a showroom. Stupid-fucken-strips-of-leather-or-textiles-that-hold-up-your-pants, as he liked to call them. But what was there not to like about luxuriating the days sequestered away in a comfy showroom with dolled-up sweeties whose mission on earth was nothing more than dispensing good taste?

And so Harry found himself dressing better:

"I love your cashmere sweater, Harry."

Splashing on Holt Renfrew counter colognes:

"You smell so yummy, Harry. Is that Polo?"

Initiating inane chat:

"Did you see what Meryl Streep wore to the Oscars?"

Land of the brain-dead.

It was the role that the strapping, tall dark and handsome Harry Starr was born to play -- belt salesman? And that made him sick.

He could't allow himself to get too caught up in the pleasantries of the job, Harry still had a mission in life, he just hadn't figured out what it was. But it sure as fuck wasn't selling belts for dickhead cousin Alvy Shugar, the crooked-pinkied vulgarian Belt King who was screwing him inside out.

"No commission on Boutique Glitz, that's a house account."

"Commission on the House of Iris, you're kidding? They take a 60% mark-up with a 3% warehouse discount!"

"Of course I docked fifty bucks off your paycheck, Harry! You don't expect me to pay for  getting your teeth polished at the dentist? This ain't Hollywood, pretty boy." That was true.

And so on and so on, until Harry chose to play a new role.

To Be Or Not To Be -- continued

"What kind of job are you offering?"

"In-house sales. I need someone I can trust with the cash."

"But I don't know anything about sales."

Alvy grabbed another dried-out knish from the buffet and stuffed the whole carbohydrate bomb into his mouth.

"Yechhhh!" Alvy winced.

"Tastes like sawdust," he said with his mouth full. Alvy frantically poured himself a glass of Diet Coke, chugged it down in one long gulp, then gasped for air.

"What's there to know, Sir Laurence? I make belts, you sell them."

"..."

Harry didn't know what to say, Alvy had a knack of catching him off guard, of making him feel stupid.

"I'll pay you twenty-five hundred a month plus three per cent commission. Not bad for an unemployed actor, eh? Whaddaya say?"

'Fuck you,' was what Harry really would have liked to say, but the money was decent to start and he wouldn't have to pound on doors looking for a job.

"Can I think about it, Alvy? I need a little time."

"Sure, take your time kid. You don't have to give me an answer till after desert."

Harry opened up his mouth, but the words just weren't there.

Alvy grabbed a used napkin from the buffet table, then wiped more sweat off his forehead before it dripped onto the knish platter. At times, the Belt King could be considerate.

 "Hello? You gotta be able to talk in order to sell."

"Twenty-five hundred a month and three per cent commission?"

"You heard what I said...Twenty-two hundred for February, it's a short month. You'll do well, Harry. You're a good-looking kid, and if you play your cards right, you'll get plenty of pussy."

Alvy slapped Harry on the back and moved on to the next plate of hors d'oeuvres.

"Egg rolls," Alvy grunted, then elbowed a lingering heavyset granny standing guard by the platter.

To Be Or Not To Be

Harry couldn't shake the notion of flunking out. There were practical matters to consider like, what next? But more important, there were matters of the psyche to consider, like how to survive and recover from it all? The Fate of the Flunkers lay heavy on his soul.

True, Harry's expulsion had come at a far more advanced stage than the three famous neighborhood flunkers he knew of, and now secretly compared himself to. That trio never made it out of high school.

Beno Wax, who flunked third grade, got run over at nineteen by a pizza delivery car while crossing the street on the way to Pooties's in Fort Lauderdale, the first time he had ever been to Florida. He never lived to see that Wet T contest.

Kenny Frick, who flunked fifth grade, was shot dead by police at twenty-one while breaking into the home of Principal Cheswick, after taking a dump on the desk in his oak-paneled study. He never lived to savor that attack.

One-Ball Speigel, St. Clair Pool's famed belly-flop artist who flunked sixth grade, met an untimely death at twenty-three, choking on a chicken bone at Tito's Bar-B-Q during his annual bowling banquet. He never lived to hold his MVP trophy of the  St. Clair Adult Bowling league.

If there was some cruel and mystical pattern attached to scholastic failure in Harry's humble neighborhood, then his days were short-numbered.

In the meantime, Harry had to do something -- anything -- to take his mind off of The Curse, even if that meant working for cousin Alvy Shugar with the crooked pinkies, the country's self-proclaimed Belt King.

"So what's the famous actor doing now? I missed you at the Oscars." Alvy asked Harry while chomping on a burnt potato knish.

Harry cringed and regretted going to the wedding. Family affairs were really nothing more than shooting galleries, acquisition showcases and career fairs. Who really gave a shit about how your life was going? And while Harry was forced to play the game, at least it gave him the chance to temporarily resuscitate the acting talents that were once fodder for his dreams. On that occasion he would play the polite but alienated Dustin Hoffman character in The Graduate, only there'd be no fucking any Mrs. Robinsons. Alvy's wife Frema, had the face of a salmon and the complexion of a plucked chicken.

"I'm in between things," Harry answered while counting the knish flakes pasted to Alvy's face, praying that the divine Belt King would finish the overcooked finger-food before spraying him in the face with errant knish shrapnel.

"So you're doing nothing. To be or not to be," he snickered while wiping the sweat off his upper lip with the sleeve of his Hugo Boss cashmere jacket. "Come work for me and put your thespian talents to use."

Oona

Aside from being perpetually glazed in a film of schmutz and not having visible ankles, there was nothing particularly special about Mike Winikoff.  He was just a really nice guy who loved to laugh at funny stories...and invent his own. Harry bought into them all, except for the one about Oona Sweeney, the youngest Oscar winner in history.

Mike was close friends with Ben Silver, whose father was a fairly successful movie producer, wildly successful by Canadian standards.

"You have to swear on your life that you don't tell this story to anyone," Mike confided to Harry behind Bunk 40 during rest hour. "I haven't told this to anyone and never will, except you. Lives would be ruined if this got out."

"I swear to God, Mike, that my lips are sealed."

"Okay. I'm trusting you with my life, Harry. So here's the story: Ben Silver invites me to a wrap party his father's throwing in his house for Target One, the movie that he produced starring Oona Sweeney."

"What's a wrap party?"

"Just a big party the producer throws after they finish shooting the movie."

"Cool."

"So everyone there is pretty old except for me, Ben and his little brothers and Oona Sweeney, who was bored to tears. She also kept on staring at me. Anyhow, I had a couple of joints on me, so I went up to Tatum and asked her if she'd like to smoke one with me."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Everyone in Hollywood knows she's a stoner. One of my contacts there tells me she's done heroin."

"You have contacts in Hollywood?"

"Of course, my Uncle Bernie's in the business. He owns a place that does costumes for the studios. Remember The Munsters?"

Harry hummed the theme song and nodded.

"My Uncle Bernie did their costumes. So he's in the know and at our last Passover Seder, he was telling us that Oona Sweeney was the wildest teenager in Hollywood...So I go up to her and ask if she's having fun. She tells me that she's bored out of her mind. I then ask her if she'd like smoke some mind-blowing weed. She doesn't even answer me, just grabs my arm and leads me outside behind the pool shack in the backyard."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Absolutely. So we smoke the joint which is Thai Sticks by the way. She's fucking laughing at everything I say, thinks I'm like a Richard Pryor. Then Oona starts French kissing me and before I know it unzips my pants and gives me a hand job."

"Oona Sweeney gave you a hand job?"

"Fucking right, but you better not tell anyone."

"Of course," although Harry couldn't understand why Mike would want to keep it secret. Actually he should want anyone to know. And also, if Oona Sweeney was so wild and Harry had no doubt that that was true, why was Mike's story be limited to hand jobs? In any case, Oona Sweeney playing with Mike Winikoff's pecker? That would be like rubbing a dog's asshole.

Harry couldn't wait to tell that bullshit story to Finkie when he got home from camp.

Letters

When Harry signed for the registered letter from the university, he knew that he was entering the realm of "Oh fuck!" Until that point, life had been a cakewalk. If it wasn't for the fact that Harry was tone deaf, he excelled in seemingly everything: school, sports, the arts and his popularity was unrivaled. That was Harry, the anointed one.

And then came The Letter. Expelled from the program for failing Macroeconomics 641. Harry shook uncontrollably until he crumbled to the floor wailing.

It's not that Harry's dreams were shattered by Das Boot. In fact none of them had anything to do with business: not the movie star trip, nor the best-selling author on tour, nor as leader of the free world, brokering the deal finally bringing peace to the Middle East. The real issue was that Harry had fallen in school, the ultimate forum where success and failure was measured. One capital letter could tell a whole story, from A to F.

Harry fought the battle to reverse the decision. First, he had his exam reread and was hopeful when he found out that a Professor Bernt, who lived in St. Clair, would be doing it.

"A neighbor is workable," Harry thought. "He'll find a way to pass me."

"I'm really sorry, Harry. But the extra marks just aren't there. I can't find any fault with Professor Evans' grading."

"Give me a break, Professor Bernt. I only need another seven marks to pass. You can save me from the tight-asses trying to kick me out of the program."

"I'm sorry Harry, I can't."

"No, you can, but you won't. Kapo!"

He stormed out of Bernt's office, slamming the door on the way out.

Harry had one last option. Take the expulsion up with the tribunal where one of the judges would be a fellow MBA student. Since Harry was popular with his classmates, he figured he could garner the student vote and convince one of the two remaining judges, both professors, to support him. Harry had a decent case: He was doing well going into his last semester with a solid B average, there were even a couple of A's. Not bad for a guy with an undergraduate degree in Theater. Furthermore, he was going into the final with an A- average and even with his grade of 43, there were still enough marks to pass the course with a respectable B- average. The final was only worth 30% of the overall grade, although there was Evans' stipulation that a student had to pass the final to pass the course.

"It was a unanimous, Mr. Starr. We uphold the original decision. You can reapply for the program in two years."

"You can't be serious. I had an A- going into the exam and an overall B average. I even had an A in Accounting..."

"There were also three C grades. The program criteria for earning the MBA degree clearly stipulates that any student with more than three C's cannot remain in the program. We're sorry."

"No, you're not sorry, just a bunch of big assholes."

Harry stormed out of the office, slamming the door on the way out. Going mainstream obviously wasn't working.

Three - continued

"Here's what I know about economics," Katie slurred after a shot of tequila. She slammed shut the door to Harry's room. "Two for one is a great deal."

Katie whipped off her halter top, jumped on Harry and wrapped her legs around him.

"Four boobs are better than two," Leslie giggled.

Harry was in complete agreement.

Inspired by Katie's lead, Leslie untied her halter top, freeing her magnificent jiggling rack. She stuffed a stiff nipple into Harry's gaping mouth.

For Harry, there still was the matter of the economics final to consider. That thought flashed through his head for a split second until Katie started unzipping his jeans. The opportunity to star in his own Penthouse Forum story had to be seized.

"Carpe diem," Harry thought. University had made him into an avowed existentialist.

And so Harry spent the next few hours fueled by tequila shots, writhing in a moist scrum of contorted bodies and twisted limbs. He couldn't wait to tell the guys back home. When the girls took a shower together in the bathroom, Harry grabbed for the phone and called Ronnie Finkelstein, his best friend back home.

"Finkie, Finkie," he whispered into the receiver. "I'm having a ménage-a-trois."

"And you're calling me while you're doing it? Siiick!"

"No, the chicks are taking a shower now. They came knocking at my door while I was studying for an exam...I really should get back to studying now."

"Fuck no, you should jump into the shower with them. I was just smoking a joint with my brother Greg and listening to the new Frank Zappa album." Finkie started singing off-key his favorite track, Dancing Fool. "I'm a dancing fooo-ooo-oool, I'm a dancing fooo-ooo-oool."

Then he abruptly stopped. "Gotta get Greg on the phone...Greeeeeg! Get on the phone now! Harry's having a threesome!"

Greg seized the phone.

"Harry! Do you need help?"

"I'm okay."

"Did you eat 'em out? Drives them wild."

"I guess."

"Fishy?"

"Which one?"

"Are they there now? Are you fucking calling us while they're still there? "

"They're taking a shower now."

"Siiick!"

"It sounds like they're getting out now. I'll call you back when I get rid of them," Harry whispered.

Finkie wrestled the phone back from Greg.

"Is this bullshit like the Ruthie Wise behind-the bleachers-story?"

"Fuck off, Finkie. I was a grade nine pisher then-"

"Ten, you were a grade ten pisher."

"Whatever, I'm a grad student now. Grown up..."

Harry heard giggling and the knob to the bathroom door turning. He quickly, but quietly hung up the phone, then opened a drawer, pretending that he was looking for underwear. The girls walked into the bedroom.

"Were you just on the phone?" Leslie asked.

"No, I swear to God I wasn't."

"If you were, you'd be a real jerk."

"A complete dick-head, I agree."

The phone rang.

"Fucking Greg," Harry thought while feeling like he was falling through the floor. "Why are all my old friends such immature assholes?"

Three

It's the night before the last exam of the semester. One more semester after that and Harry's got his MBA degree with some vague idea of going into advertising. No need to kill himself studying, Harry's going into the Macroeconomics final with an A- average and a special relationship with good ole boy, Dwight Evans,the unabashed beer-swilling professor of the course and subject of Harry's acclaimed caricature in the college newspaper.

Harry nailed him dead on; the beer gut, the bushy Fu Manchu moustache, although drawing a blast of air blowing from the professor's behind wasn't exactly tasteful. Actually Harry thought that the rear blast would've been edited out of the cartoon. But the professor was a notorious hard marker and scores of students had axes to grind with him, including the editor-in-chief of the newspaper.

So Harry's confident that he's got the course material under control and a good shot at maintaining his A- grade. A quick review of the material and a good night's sleep should seal the deal. Then there's a knock at the door. It's Leslie, the loud-mouthed, big-assed gal with the glass eye from across the hall knocks at his dorm door. She's holding a bottle tequila with Katie, her hottie redhead friend visiting from back home.

"How'd ya like to do shots with us, Harry? We can play swallow the worm..."

Harry contemplates the wormy innuendo: True, Leslie's glass eye has always made him queasy, but yum yum on the Katie side. He'd have to stick handle his way around Leslie--

Of course there's that annoying exam the next day at 9 AM, you'd have to be an idiot to party the night before.

"Sure, why not? It might help me sleep better."

Maybe Katie the redhead knew something about economics? Harry thought he overheard that she majored in it in college, or at least had taken an economics course. He could review some of the material with her.

Names

Fast forward to a year later. Harry's giving it a shot in business school, but most of the time trying to just figure out what he's doing there. His vague but ambitious plans to be an actor or writer have been temporarily shelved. Harry thinks he wants to go mainstream. For a while it feels good to be like everyone.

He's on the bus one morning going to school and runs into former bunkmate Sheldon "Stiff" Rosenfeld who also happened to be best friends with Mike Winikoff.

"Mike's doing well, living in New York writing on Letterman, but we haven't spoken in over a year. He couldn't respect the fact that I changed my last name to Roosevelt. I mean I'm trying to make it in the diplomatic corps, not so easy your last name is Rosenfeld. They might as well call me Chicken Soup."

"I know what you mean, Sheldon," Harry said, making a conscious effort not to call him Stiff, the kid whose hard ons lasted all summer. "I always wanted to change my first name. Harry's a name for old farts who hang out at Sunday mornings outside delicatessens...So what was Mike's problem with your name?"

"He thought I was being a fake and wouldn't accept the name change. Then his sister's getting married and he sends me the initiation addressed to me as Shlomo Rosenfeld. Fucking guy! My bar mitzvah teacher was the only one who ever called me Shlomo. Mike was mocking me."

"Maybe he was just trying to be funny and you took it badly?"

"Maybe he's just a jerk."

Harry had to give credit to Winikoff, he couldn't think of a funnier way to break up a friendship. Anything for a laugh.

Harry's Big Story Begins

It was apropos that Harry Starr's big story began in the basement. He was after all, a subterranean kind of guy.

There were a few things that Harry clearly remembered about the first break he blew in his basement lair:

Schmutzy Mike Winikoff, wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and reeking of cigarette smoke all the way from the door marching down the stairs.

Schmutzy Mike Winikoff asking for an ashtray as he pulled out a pack of green Export A's from his shirt pocket. Harry never had a friend smoke before in his parent's house. He was taken aback by the bold request and never thought of Winikoff as a smoker back when they were summer camp bunk mates. But then again, they were only fourteen at the time. This kind of growing up didn't sit well with Harry.

Schmutzy Mike Winikoff pulling out a tattered script from the inside pocket of his well-worn lumber jack shirt, then asking, "Do you have any coffee?"

His old camp best friend who was addicted to rafter ball and grape juice, now smoked and drank coffee? And had apparently had also written a script.

"This script is for my thesis film project, I'll be shooting in January. I heard you doing some acting at McGill. I thought you might be right for the lead." Mike contemplated Harry's reaction while taking a hall on a cigarette, then sipping on a mug of black coffee.

Harry studied Winikof wondering if the student film-maker had showered since they were at camp together. Or maybe the greasy look was just artsy.

"Yeah, I've done some acting at McGill. What's your movie about?"

Winikoff  flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray. "It's about a character named Harry who doesn't believe he's a fictional character." He dipped an eyebrow alluding to the brilliance of his idea.

Without Feathers, Harry thought. Woody Allen wrote that play in that book he just read. He couldn't believe that Winikoff would rip off something from someone as well known as Woody Allen.

Winikoff tossed the dog-eared script on the coffee table. "Take a look at it and then let's see hear you read the first few lines."

"Okay." Harry read the first page and was blown away with Winikoff's chutzpah. It was a blatant rip-off of Woody Allen. But Harry didn't want to offend his old friend, Mike Wininkoff, as grubby as he was, was a great guy, one of Harry's all time favorites.

"You'd be working with this girl Wendy, who's not only an amazing actress, but she's willing to go to bed for the part..."

Okay, thought, Harry. Now I know he's totally full of shit. No one would want to go to bed for a non-paying part in a student film with a schmutz ball like Mike Winikoff. What the fuck happened to this guy, he's become so full of shit.

"I want honesty," Winikoff said, cradling the coffee mug with both hands.

I want him leave, Harry thought. This script sucks and Winnikoff is totally full of shit.

Harry cleared his throat and in a most uninspiring monotone read the opening lines.

"I can't believe that I'm a fictional character..."

Harry didn't get the part. Winikoff did bed Wendy the lead actress and the film won Best Canadian Student Film of the year and was later shown at Cannes.

Harry remembered it all and never acted again. God obviously had an arch sense of humour, Harry just wished that He would manifest it in other ways. It's hard to be the butt of a divine joke.

In Lori's House

Here's how Lori got to live in an unfinished $3 million Santa Monica house with eight bedrooms, six boarders, eight dogs - one of which was a dachshund / German shepherd mix with a daschund body, shepherd head and balls so big that they dragged along the ground like a cow's udder. The courtyard was festooned with dog poop and a three inch thick line of red army ants marched to and fro the kitchen feeding on a wide array of spoiled food.

Lori's father, who was now residing in the pokey for fraud, criminal negligence and tax evasion, once ran a chain of traveling carnivals. He raked it in until he got nailed for all of the above, but had the foresight to put the Santa Monica home and the Malibu beach house, both investment properties, in his daughter's name. Lori took in boarders to generate income. Her hold over the homes was however tenuous. The IRS was trying to repo both properties and it was just a matter of time before they would succeed.

Lori, who would've been considered almost cute if she didn't smell like a pet shop with bad air circulation, also made a little extra cash on the side dealing grass, or her special herbal remedy as she liked to call it.

Harry rented the unfinished guest house over the garage on a weekly basis. He was temporarily staying in LA in a valiant but doomed attempt to break into the television business as a sitcom writer. Gomez would later regret acting as Harry's ad hoc leasing agent when Harry fled early one morning without paying the rent.

"I didn't plan it that way," Harry tried to explain to Gomez over dinner at Koo Koo Roo's. "I panicked when I stepped on a huge and sloppy dog turd on my way up to my room. The continuous march of army ants in and out of the kitchen was bad enough, as were the unexpected visits to my room by the gay carpenter, who was allegedly finishing the guest house renovations. I just freaked out after stepping on the dog turd. Another day there and I would've lost my mind, especially considering how paranoid I became from constantly smoking from my stash of Lori's special herbal remedy. Needless to say, it wasn't what I expected or what was promised. The point is I don't feel bad about skipping on the rent."

"You should at least pay her something, talk to her," Gomez said, envisioning his imaginary relationship with Lori going up in flames.

But Harry, still reeling from the dog turd misstep, could find no room in his heart for compromise. Gomez would never understand that for Harry, this incident had become an omen of things to come.

LA Pork

Back in the late 90's, before Todd Zeitz hit it big time with his banal reality show about love and courtship, Gomez brought along Harry for a Friday night dinner at the Zeitzes. To be fair, Todd's wife, Megan née MacArthur, didn't know much about preparing a traditional Jewish Friday night meal, but neither did Todd. In fact, Megan didn't know much about cooking,which is why she ordered in Chinese. Seems like she also didn't know much about kosher food or even kosher style; every dish they ordered was pork. Harry, who ate kosher, ate a bagel with cream cheese instead. Turns out that Todd's cousin, Jodi, also happened to be the Hollywood madam du jour. Harry watched in amazement as the Zeitzes chewed down their moo goo guy pork with gusto. He already knew what he'd tell the Hebes back home in Montreal.

"What a family those Zeitzes. While Todd eats pork on shabbos night, his cousin Jodi's porking on shabbos."

Nasty Basement Story

J was a putz and a goniff, albeit one from the priestly caste. He was also a poor sport at gang bangs, just ask C.

"So we found this really drunk and disgusting chick at a club downtown. There was me, my uncle from Paris and J. When we get home...to my parent's basement- that's where my uncle was staying, (for the wedding)...So my uncle gets first crack at the chick...out of respect you know, he's president of his congregation back in Paris, a major deal. Anyhow he's nailing her while me and C are sitting in the basement drinking scotch watching highlights of the hockey game. Meanwhile my uncle finishes up and then brings me the chick..."

"Did she at least wash up?"

"And insult my uncle like he's some kind of scumbag?"

"    "

"So then it's my turn and she's real nasty...she's going down on me and then before I can really get into it, J's pulling out my thing from her mouth and then then stuffs in his teeny thing. He says, 'You've had enough, now it's my turn."

"You mean he actually held your-"

"Okay, whatever, I'm a good natured guy, so I'm sitting there watching J and it's like, bugging him. He can't get hard. 'Stop looking at me,' he says."

"So did you leave?"

"Fuck no, it's my parent's basement. Besides it would've been rude to just leave my uncle there alone."

Filthy Rich LA Story

It's not like Vero was doing anything special with her life. School? That's a laugh, except for B the heart surgeon,(a family aberration), none of the clan bought into education. Sit in a class and memorize stupid shit taught by underpaid teachers driving Korean shit boxes? Not a fucking chance! Real education was about how to score the best deal in any given situation. Rip off the pizza delivery guy, or con the parking lot attendant, take off without paying the restaurant tab. Then work yourself up to real estate fraud and tax evasion. So if Vero was twenty, reasonably hot, part-time religious, out of school with work absolutely out of the question, than there was only one option: marry a filthy rich tribesman. So mom and dad made a few calls, and set her up with Y, who was studying business at UCLA. (Best way to get a visa). Y was the perfect catch, fresh off the boat from the old country, from the famous Z family whose third world fortune was made from customs and duty fraud. It was every thing that Vero's papa could hope for: a match that was both filthy and rich.

The couple lived happily ever after, had a bunch of kids and bought lotsa properties for cash.

Beverly Hills Jesus with a BlackBerry

Sign in LA Restaurant Parking Lot

LA Short Takes

Seen at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills: A very tall man with beard and long hair dressed like Jesus in a long robe made of sacloth and sandals. No one at the cafe bats an eyelash. The ersatz Jesus leaves the coffee shop and then checks his BlackBerry for messages. Photos to follow.

Seen while entering a popular burger and sandwich place from the parking lot entrance in the back: A large metal container with an official city sticker on it stating that this is a rodent trap with bait. Photo to follow.

LA Stories

Winston made a bad mistake extending a couple million of credit to T, licensor of a hot, but fading LA-based fashion brand. It's hard to collect from Hong Kong when someone just doesn't want to pay you. Winston cries that he may have to close his factory if he doesn't get paid. Do you know of any lawyers who might help? Good luck, but first a phone call to someone with intimate knowledge of T's current situation:

T is downsizing, put up his Beverly Hills home for 12 million, looking to move to a more humble abode in the 5 - 7 million range...but the Bentley stays. Maybe a lien on his home, but act swiftly. Of course chances are that home is held by some bogus trust T set up. And business has been slow, other suppliers also trying in vain to collect.

It's the end of the work day in Hong Kong and Winston is sitting at his desk with a bottle of vodka unable to hold back the sobs.

LA Profiles

M had a heart of gold. He'd lend you 50K if your Chapter 11 didn't quite work out, torch your business if you needed the insurance money, or sign on as a guarantor if you needed bail. Everyone in town wanted a friend like M.

One thing you had to say about Gomez, he sure knew how to keep long term relationships with imaginary girlfriends. He dated Janie, the TV producer for three years. Then there was Bonnie the marathon runner; that pretend four year relationship culminated in an actual backpacking trip together to Asia. And the last big relationship was with Lori, a former gopher on a piece-of-crap TV series, who shared an eight bedroom house in Santa Monica with her six dogs, three boarders and a thick line of army ants marching in and out of the kitchen feeding on leftovers yet to find their way to the trash bin. I should point out here, that Gomez's fictitious girlfriends do exist in the flesh and have had enduring relationships with him, just platonic. But Gomez goes on and has carved out an over-the-hill Seinfeldian life,(sans most of the laughs), in Santa Monica. Long live Gomez and his imaginary girlfriends.

LA Profiles

First visited G in LA some 20 years ago when he was living in a match-box bungalow with no A/C and three kids running around the house shvitzing and naked. While I was having coffee with his wife, G comes home after a hard day's work and announces shamelessly that he just finished doing the math on his Chapter 11. "Honey, we've just lost $534,000...but the good news is that I found an amazing deal on a chauffeur and a used limousine."

I thought the man insane. Fast forward twenty years later, a few more kids, a few more business ventures - some good, some bad - and G puts his dream house on the market for $39 million. Rents it instead to a foreign consulate for an exorbitant amount with an option to buy. Proof that anything is possible in America.

LA Profiles

S, one of the new shmatah princes of LA, divorced dad and man-about-town, is a late arrival to the Thanksgiving dinner. Of course there's a good reason for his tardiness; he had to drive in from Vegas (with his three Russian girlfriends). When S finally shows up, he charmed the remaining dinner guests not just with his jubilant presence, but with his insight into the wonders of Creation:

"First God created man," he proclaimed in between frenzied over-sized face-fulls of smoked turkey and cranberry sauce. "Then he created the Russian woman, and then the other woman."

S belted out a hearty laugh, then realized it was his weekend with the kids.

Redemption and Forgiveness

I have written far too much about my spat with the gardner, but I'm hoping this will be the final chapter. Like a Toronto exec, I never returned his phone call pleading for forgiveness. Like a Montreal exec, I hid in my room when he rang the bell and never answered. Then I checked out some of the other gardner's prices and realized I had the lowest rate of them all. Made taking him back a tad more palatable. All the while, he continued to work on lawn, finding a way to regain my respect. This afternoon I run into him while he's tying up my cedars for winter and he sheepishly mumbles that he's sorry for hid outburst two weeks ago, he was having a bad day. How could I not take him back? So in the end this trite incident becomes a story of redemption and forgiveness. Not quite as dramatic or well-written as Ian McEwan's Atonement(which I hated and couldn't finish), but in my own little way a complete story from begining to end, something that has remained elusive to me all these years of writing.

Kindle vs iPad Continuing Debate

Can't understand why the Kindle wasn't designed with some kind of back-lit screen option. Yes, I know the copy is supposed to be more like ink quality lettering, which it is, making it a far better outdoor reader than the iPad. But the thing is, where do you do most of your reading? If you're like me, it's in bed, around bedtime when the lights are low. In a darkish room, the iPad is much better, you don't need any lighting. That said, the back-lit screen can be hard on the eyes and I'm even wondering if this is why I've been walking around with a blood-shot eye for two days. Of course, doesn't help that I wake up often during the night and always try to fall back asleep by reading (on my iPad). Spares my wife waking her up with lamp light.

The only other reason, and it is very important, that People may prefer the Kindle is because there is a far better selection of books on it. You can't even compare it to iBook's selection. Take recent Booker winner Howard Jacobson,(whom I only recently discovered thanks to The Rent Collector author, Glen Rotchin. On iBooks none of his books are available, while three or four, (still not enough) can be downloaded off of Amazon / Kindle.

Final note: iBooks has a better selection of free classics, so if you get it in your head to read a James Joyce classic like Dubliners or Portrait of a Young Artist..., you are better off with the iPad. Considering however that the Kindle is only $139 now, it's worth it to have even if you have the iPad. It's still great value...

Online Best Practices

It doesn't matter where a company is on the online selling time-space continuum, whether they are just getting in, or are a seasoned vet. There's a whole slew of best practices in play by the competition, that companies aren't necessarily using. And consequently, losing the competitive edge.

A company might be pleased with their online sales and/or online activities that promote in-store sales. The marketing department might be stocked with Internet experts in SEO, analytics, programming and design, but that still doesn't mean it's running at optimal cyber-speed. It needs to look around.
Here's why:

There is no best practices handbook, not only because there are a seemingly unlimited number of variables to address, but that the landscape is in constant flux. Furthermore, technology is not the panacea to all issues, plain old business strategy and common sense also comes into play.

Consider how influential peer-to-peer recommendations are. The company does a beautiful job on it's product page. High-resolution, zoom-in capability, comprehensive product specs, compare options, pricing - it's all there. Still that product, let's say it's sofa, isn't right for Jane Doe. But it is perfect for her neighbor who's redecorating her living room. Jane Doe would like to fire off an email of that sofa to her neighbor, but there's no email icon next to it to send it to neighbor. An overlooked detail.

There's a Facebook and Twitter share button, but neighbor doesn't dabble in those social networks. The phone rings and Jane Doe is off on a long and involved discussion and inadvertently clicks off the site. The moment, the opportunity is lost. Had there been that little email-a-friend icon, neighbor would have all that wonderful sofa information in her in-box and would soon be considering a purchase. It's all in the details and the only way to ensure that all the best-practices are being used across the board is to systematically evaluate all the best practices in that industry. 

The eReader

So I finally finished reading Freedom, a true accomplishment these days with my ever-dimishing attention span. Before I would carefully keep track of my reading, making sure that I always read a good mix of literary fiction and nonfiction. I'd average about 18 books a year and always kept a running list of them. I'd sign all my books and add notes inside each cover on what was going on in my life. My office was lined with my books and could tell you where I bought each one. Each book was like a little milestone. Was a member of four different book clubs, bought online and could never leave a bookstore without picking something up. Never thought I would go the e-book route, because that would stop my book collection. Then my mother bought me a Kindle and everything changed. I now had access to a bookstore within my lap and instead of reading book jackets,I could download a nice chunk of an excerpt and sample a wide range of books, not to mention all of the classics that I could now get for free. Read a lot of excerpts, while devouring podcasts. Then I moved my office and didn't take my books with me. Enjoy the e-book reading experience much better than paper, easier to read, more portable and more convenient to look up words.can never go back, especially now that I also have an iPad. Paper will go the way that vinyl did with records, eventually becoming nothing more than a collectible. But I got enough stuff already and there's no going back. Next posting will be review of Freedom.

The Mynabirds

One of my favorite of the amazing NPR Tiny Desk Concerts, The Mynabirds

Top Guns Selling Online

You cannot resist The Borg, or at least so goes the saying for the Starship Enterprise's greatest adversary. In business, we often encounter similar situations where there are major shifts in the landscape. Some businesses thrive, while others put on the blinkers and go by way of the buggy-whip. The Internet is today's Borg, it has demolished distribution platforms in music, publishing, home entertainment and now it's busy working on the brick-and-mortar stores. Top players get this, but many other established businesses have put on the blinkers. My recent study of the Top 100 US furniture retailers uncovered a dramatic finding: 70% of the Top 50 in that group are selling online, while only 42% of the second Top 100 tier (those ranked 51 - 100), are doing it. Think this is one metric that needs no further elaboration. Benchmark and evaluate your website against your industry leaders. It may just be one way to resist The Borg.

Direction Toronto

Try asking for directions in Toronto, you just get blank stares, incomprehensible mumblings or wrong directions...even from a lobby hotel employee or building security dude. But it gets worse, TO is the only city where cabbies ask you how to get to your destination.

Example 1) I am downtown in a major office building that has an exit on Yonge St. I'm not sure which exit to to take so ask the security guard, where is Yonge St. He thinks, he actually thinks hard and is stumped. I'll call to find out, Stumper says. Meanwhile I ask his partner and he immediately points me in the direction. And Stumper is on his cell phone searching for an answer. Wonder if he'd have to call his mommy if I asked him where are his socks.

Example 2) Leaving the downtown Sheraton hotel, I ask a car valet guy where is the closest subway station. Sure, he answers, pointing west. Just behind the hotel to the right. Wrong again! The closest subway station on Yonge was 2 blocks west and 1 block north.

But these two minor incidents pale compared to my adventures with cabbies, but those are other stories and I'm now suffocating on the waft of greasy fries and burgers that the schkutz-ball in front of me (on the train) is wolfing down...Wish the hog with the grey ponytail in front of me would stop sneezing...

7 Deadly Web Design Sins

From an Inc article of Oct.29, 2010

1. Putting your brilliant design first.
2. Going overboard with Flash.
3. The unwelcoming welcome screen.
4. The boggling homepage.
5. Worshipping the fold.
6. Not addressing the user's real need.
7. Hiding who you are.

For this article click on:
http://www.inc.com/guides/2010/10/7-deadly-web-design-mistakes.html

Position, Position, Position

If brick-and-mortar is about location, then so is online. A website may have the whole nine yards on their website, but can the potential customer find what she is looking for in a few seconds? Not always; what a waste. Let's look at what most of us would consider to be a rather mundane module, Delivery. What are the terms? Is there free local delivery, free conditional delivery or special delivery? What are the rates and lead times? Basic stuff, but it's not always so apparent. Is there a clickable delivery tab on the home page, is there even a dedicated delivery tab for that matter? For example, sometimes the delivery information may be filed under Customer Service or attached somewhere within the Product menu. Other times it's a "call store" affair. The point is, it needs to be Home Page-dedicated-tab clear, particularly for large items like furniture where logistics can ultimately impact a sale. Online best-practices aren't just about gee-whiz technology, it's also about positioning. The location, location, location of brick-and-mortar. 

Follow the People Trail

To paraphrase Grammy-winning, mega-successful entrepreneur, Chamillionaire on episode #26 on the podcast, This Week In Venture Capital with Mark Suster, "Go where the people are." This strategy worked for Chamillionaire as he built up his music distribution business directly online, but it can be applied to any business seeking to draw in customers without going through the traditional distribution channels. Twitter is obviously one of the major social networks, but how do you make it work for your business? It's not enough to slap together a profile and tweet in the hope of attracting a large group of followers, you have to be proactive and "enlist" your followers. It's amazing how many brand name companies are out there on Twitter with anemic follower lists. This is a missed opportunity, particularly for those companies with a national market. That's the beauty of Twitter, it casts a wide net. (1) First, identify the kind of followers you want and start by following them. If it is done right, count on about 50% of them following back and eventually a critical mass will form. 2) Be selective, don't just follow anyone, see who's following the competition and only accept profile with real names and photos attached to them. (3) Tweet regularly and be real, show a little stuff that goes on behind the scenes. Ultimately the size of your following will be a function of allocated resources. Cultivate that following and it will grow and with time the business will have its own broadcasting network. 

Inspiring Billboard

Draining week and all I can think of is that billboard I saw last year on Pico Boulevard in L.A. That had the slogan, "Don't worry. Shabbos is right around the corner!" Could not have said it better. Shabbat shalom.

The Gardner Rings Twice

So I still haven't returned the gardner's call from Saturday, which probably qualifies me for a senior exec position in Dilbertville. Only I'm not dicking him around, still deciding whether to take cement-head back, hire new lead-head or give a shot at shoveling myself like the cheapos next door. But that's not all, I still cannot bear to talk to thorn-in-my-side, especially after learning that another neighbor had a similar experience with him and suspects that he is a drinker, stoner or both. If only I could convince my wife to move to a condo. Never been an enthusiastic homeowner, not the Canadian Tire of guy here. Don't like hockey and hate the Habs. If it wasn't for the fact that I love Tim Hortons and the bland food they serve, and think that Stephen Harper is the greatest prime minister since the founding of the dominion, then you might even question my patriotism. Forgive the tangential rambling, back to the gardner. He rings my doorbell today, but fortunately I was on a conference call and did not answer. Meanwhile he cleans the leaves off my lawn and even bags them. Think I'll make the bugger sweat a bit and let him come a knockin'.

Alternate Lives

I recorded all the Bob Newhart shows (which doesn't include his last anemic one where he played the cartoonist), and now that's about the only TV I watch, aside from SNL. Nothing more therapeutic for my soul than the opening to Newhart, the theme music, the Vermont scene driving down the country road to the inn; it's where I want to be. If I could jump into the screen and live that life, I would. Sweet, gentle, off-beat and hysterical, a perfect refuge from the otherwise shark tank of a world we live in. Also love the idea of a writer as
innkeeper, even if Bob is just a writer of how-to home improvement books. In my sitcom, I'd be a literary fiction writer and dog-breeder, but it would be in a bucolic setting. As I was watching Newhart the other day it struck me that the art, (and I will categorize Newhart as that - it just happens to be a television art form), we love the most is what we can identify with the closest. That's why Catcher in the Rye has such a broad appeal, everyone experienced the trials and tribulations of adolescence. So Newhart becomes for me, a version of my own life, a man of letters (to a certain extent) engaged in his own business surrounded by a cast of eccentric characters, who view in turn view his "normalcy" as "different". Then I thought of my favorite work of fiction, the namesake of my dog, The World According to Garp. Since reading the book (and later re-reading it), I have always been taken with the idea of the fiction writer living in suburbia, fiercely protective of his neighborhood and living among eccentrics. Again, a setting I can relate to, although I am far from being a literary novelist, but another idealized version of my type of world, one where my soul will always be.

Tilt the Planet Now

Not a big fan of Daylight Savings Time and the plunge into the heart of darkness by late afternoon. It hits me like jet lag as I find myself crashing to sleep at 8.30 pm...Then waking up wide-eyed and bushy-tailed at 2.30am only to engage in a futile effort to fall back to sleep. With all the big geniuses in the world today, can't they just figure out a way to adjust the tilt of the Earth so that we can get an even 12 hours of day and night all year long?

Viva la Revolucion!

My snoopy neighbor tells me that I have the second highest electricity consumption on the street, second only to the chubster with the Lexus and pool. "You probably do too much laundry," Snoopy says. "Try wearing your shirts twice before washing them." Whatever you say, Mr. Ring-Around-the-Collar. "But don't feel bad, the city's new assessment of your house is 12 per cent less than mine and 15 per cent less than Chubster Lexus-with-the-Pool." I refrain myself from popping him, also 'cause he's got six inches on me and two strapping sons with black belts. And I thought Facebook was bad. So how'd he get all this what-should-be confidential information. "It's all there online. Thank Hydro Quebec and the City of Montreal." Think I'll pass on expressing my gratitude. How do they get away with this? If they want to publish this information, should we not be able to opt in or out? Just because the city publishes the bloated salaries of the scores and scores of their useless city councillors, who voted to skip the inquiry on corruption in the construction industry and their roles in it, doesn't mean they have to share my confidential information with the world. And ditto for Hydro Quebec; I'm sure there's plenty of dirt there to broadcast. And you wonder how revolutions start?

The Gardner Atones or I Told You So, I Told You So

Trust me, interacting with my gardner, anything to do with him for that matter, is last on my bucket list. I was born with an aversion to these stocky leather-hides. And so did my father, who hated gardeners more than the pooping pigeons on our roof. In fact my big dream in life is to have enough money to hire someone just to manage my gardner and to ensure that I never have to see him. So you get my point, I don't want to spend any time or energy dealing with them. Okay, deep breath, the Gardner Leaves Affair has another chapter and I'm not quite sure how to respond. He quits on me Wednesday rather than clean the leaves from the street and tries to play the tough guy blowing me off. I restrain myself, because...well, Jewish guys who host weekly Torah classes do not generally fare well going toe-to-toe with cement-heads. And I am no exception. Relieved that I am finally rid of the ruddy-faced rat, I start thinking about a replacement and even consider shoveling my own snow this winter, (which I know will never go beyond the consideration stage). Saturday evening rolls in and I check my messages and see that Mr. Leaves called me during the day and left a voice mail. He apologizes for losing his cool and I immediately start jumping up and down like a twelve year old girl chanting, I told you so! I told you so! ...Yeah right- like you've never done that...Anyhow, little cement-head wants his job back, but I'm not so sure...Okay now I'm sure, will keep him, just to avoid having to avoid him on Wednesdays when he services my neighbors on the street. You gotta choose your battles in life, so this time i'll take a pass on butting heads with butt-heads.

Going Public

Social media has turned us all into public figures. That means we have to watch what we publish. You never know who's checking it out. True, it cuts into spontaneity and leaves a film of diplomatic / corporate-speak on content, but it also forces the publisher to become more professional. Stream-of-consciousness postings are refined into more sophisticated communications, the writer looks for a more clever way for expression. Still, this approach may not be for everyone, some high-profilers (like Kevin Smith), can get away with anything and indeed are expected to deliver unfiltered content. But remember they are few in number and backed by stellar track records of success. There are still some regular folk however, who feel compelled to let it all hang out online. One way for them to do it without jeopardizing their professional lives is to create a persona without disclosing any personal information. And when you are just a voice you can say anything.

Chilean Miner Rescue on Nova

Finally had some answers about the Chilean miner story; Nova did a superb job on it. They showed the rescue plan, which was actually three separate drillings. Ultimately one of the plans worked, the other two failed. The obstacles they faced during the rescue seemed insurmountable at times, but their determination and problem-solving abilities never waned. They actually built this towering drilling rig in the middle of the desert and had to truck in water daily just to lubricate the drilling. There was also some good footage on the miners down below. Was struck by how healthy and clean they looked once they started receiving supplies from above. Still, don't know how they didn't flip out amid such darkness, heat and claustrophobic conditions. One thing I would've liked to see was where they slept. Did they have any type of padding or covering to sleep on? Where did they sleep? How did they go to the bathroom? Was impressed with the strong family and Chilean government support given. Almost like they willed it to happen...

Gardner Leaves

Wednesday is gardner day, much to my chagrin. So we pick up from last week with another huge pile of leaves dumped along the road. Seems like it's my gardner's way to express his creativity. Christo wraps bridges, my gardner does road pastiches with leaves. Unfortunately though, my municipality fines home owners $250 for gardner road art. I approach him inside his pick-up, he's scowling and surly. You're not leaving the leaves in the street like that? I say more than ask. Those fucking leaves are not your problem, they're not from your house, he snaps unable to contain himself. You don't have to swear, me then says, just do your job and clean the leaves. Last week I had to do it myself. But it's too late, he's already cashed my check for November and has already been alerted by the gardeners whom I asked for a quote. (These guys actually dissed my gardner on his snow removal services because he lives so far away from our neighborhood. They even drove past my house to figure out what to charge me. Meanwhile when I told them I didn't want to discuss my reasons for pricing gardner services, they tried hard to draw it out of me. Pathetic). Anyhow he then proceeds to quit on me, which is good on one hand. I never liked the (insert your own favorite derogatory term here) in the first place, from day one when he took over his father's run. The downside is of course, that I will have to deal with another cement-head. Note to myself: One mo' reason to move to a condo.

Election Night Horror Picture Show

Love Election Nights, especially when they have no direct impact on me. Wondering why Repubs are red and Dems blue? Shouldn't it be vice versa? CNN kicks butt on the commentator side, Fox on the creep factor. Chilling thought that those Tea Party Palinites are now in control. Nothing scarier than the Fox line up of hosts and commentators...Looks like Rahm pulled a good career move by bailing on Obama. Let's see how he fares in Chicago...

Opening Lines; More Futzing with Fiction

I was eight years old before I realized that a pigeon was not a vegetable. Strewn throughout our garden, between the petunias and the pansies, lay plump purplish pigeon carcasses, the only crop my father would ever harvest.

Signs from Above?

So Rabbi Blech and his delegation finally succeed in getting the Vatican to agree to show them a sampling of what they've got. It's decided that they will show them the original manuscript of the great medieval work of Miamonides, his Mishneh Torah. The thing is it's such a huge compilation and the Jewish delegation will only have limited time to study it, that they are not sure what part or parts of it they should hone in on. After some consultations with the world's greatest scholars, it's decided that they should examine a particular section that deals with the laws of marriage. Seems that there is some uncertainty there about the three conditions of when a woman is betrothed to a man. Understand that this is a monumental work, both in volume and importance and they are concerned about actually locating that specific section. Meanwhile the Vatican returns to the room with only five pages of the manuscript and it's under glass. They can't even touch a page. Disappointment naturally sets in. But they proceed and lo and behold, the first page under the glass is actually that section about marriage. Coincidence? - maybe? A sign from above? I'll let you decide.

On a final note: The rabbi asks the Vatican rep how many artifacts they have in their possession. (By most accounts it's been estimated that they have about 800 manuscripts and an untold number of items, perhaps including the menorah from the temple looted by Titus, as well as the curtain of the ark with the rip in in it that Titus is said to have made when he slashed it with his sword. Anyhow, the Vatican rep says they have some 6,000,000 pieces. Now they may account for this huge number by counting each page of each manuscript as one item, but the figure itself is staggering. And here's the eerie part:six million Jews were killed during the Holocaust...

Meeting with Pope John Paul Rabbi Benjamin Blech (left) and Pope John Paul

The Secret of the Pope and Jerusalem

A digital reprint of a 1996 article by Rabbi Benjamin Blech

THE SECRET OF the POPE and JERUSALEM

By Rabbi Benjamin Blech

VIEWPOINT, SUMMER, 1996:31-32.

I think it's the best kept secret in the world today.

People still think that the peace process is all about politics. The untold truth is that there is something far more significant involved. What's even more amazing is that it is not the confrontation between Arab and Jew that is the most crucial issue. To understand the real meaning of contemporary events is to grasp that what we are witnessing is a theological moment unparalleled in history, pitting the prophetic truths of two major religions against one another. For what is at stake is not simply a claim to territory; it is the claim to eternal truth which hangs in the balance. And with regard to the future of Jerusalem, it is not the Palestinians but rather the Pope who is most concerned.

Perhaps it's about time for us to publicize something the Church would rather not talk about. Surely it is very embarrassing to try to deal with a religious dogma that has been historically refuted. But that is exactly what has taken place in Christian thought. And the aftermath of this shocking truth is what - behind the scenes - is responsible for deliberations and decisions from the Vatican with tremendous import for Israel.

Let me explain by taking you back almost two millennia. It was just about forty years after the death of Jesus that the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans. It was a tragedy as seemingly inexplicable in its day as the holocaust in ours. The Sages of the time sought to find some religious justification for the apparent abandonment of the Jewish people by their G-d. Indeed, guided by Divine spirit, they acknowledged that it was a measure of sin that was the cause of their sorrow. The Jews had been guilty of "Sinat Chinam - baseless hatred." Destruction was not caused by the enemy as much as by our own hand. Lack of brotherly love brought about national punishment.

So went the Rabbinic interpretation. The Talmud identified the particular story which most disturbed the Al-Mighty. And we accepted the fact that when we despise each other for no valid reason, G-d may well choose to respond to us in similar manner.

But the early Christians saw something quite different in the events of their day. After all, if the Temple was destroyed in the year 70 of the Common Era could the cause not be attributed to the Jewish rejection of Jesus as the Messiah? Coming so soon one after the other, it was quite tempting to connect a catastrophe with a religious conviction; the Jewish people who refused to accept Jesus as Savior were condemned to be defeated and cast into exile.

It was this very line of reasoning which became the basis of the pejorative, "the wandering Jew". Throughout history the phrase carried with it both curse and prediction: it is the fate of the Jew to wander evermore over the face of the earth, without permanent residence or homeland, until such a time that he atones for his crime of faithlessness by embracing the truth of the divinity of Jesus.

Accepted as fundamental Christian doctrine, the idea of the wandering Jew represented a very unique and dangerous kind of prophecy. It is after all possible to predict that something will happen at some point in the future and not be threatened by its failure to come to pass. All one needs to say in response is that it has not yet occurred. A request for patience is as valid as the initial pronouncement.

Precisely this is the way in which Christianity has dealt for almost two thousand years with the fact that Jesus, after his death, did not return for the promised second coming. He didn't, they say, but he will - and there is no possible way to firmly refute their teaching.

But what is so very special about the prediction of the Church involving the Jew is that a doctrine of faith made clear that something - i.e. the return of the Jews to Israel from their decreed lands of dispersion - will never take place unless Jews embrace Jesus. If a religion stakes a claim on credibility by affirming that an event cannot ever happen - and it does - it would appear that the damage is irreparable.

That is indeed what happened to Christian theology in the twentieth century. The birth of modern day Israel may have been threatening to the Arab world as a conflict of homelands. For the Vatican, however, the problem was far more profound: it was a conflict of creeds which clearly crowned one as a victor.

It was my revered teacher, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik, ZT"L, who oft pointed out that after 1948 Christian scholars were frantically trying to come to terms with a political reality they had for so long deemed a religious impossibility. In the privacy of scholarly conclaves and in carefully guarded gatherings of theologians, it was decided that aside from the Church not granting recognition to Israel's existence - perhaps if you say it isn't really there you can make it go away - the solution to the "refutation of the prediction" was that Israel without Jerusalem did not really represent a return of the holy land to the Jewish people. Without the sanctity of the holiest city, there is no sanctity to the rest of events of 1967. When Israel won the Six Day War, military strategists were dumfounded - but Christian leaders were devastated. How could they explain now a miracle that wasn't suppose to happen? And how deal with a state that even proclaimed its holiest city once more its capital?

Pope Encounters of the First Kind

I was expecting Tom Hanks to walk into our synagogue any moment, maybe even get an aliyah. You see the guest speaker at our synagogue this weekend was best-selling author, professor and unofficial Jewish liaison to the Vatican, Rabbi Benjamin Blech. He co-authored a book on Michelangelo's hidden messages in his Sistine Chapel fresco (see previous blog post for details), but that's only a small part of the rabbi's Vatican adventures. He's been part of the Jewish delegation to - (and here I must use some very diplomatic language considering the delicate nature of the group's ongoing discussions / negotiations) - reconnect - discover the hidden Jewish treasures that are stored 14 floors down in the bowels of the Vatican. Along the way, he blessed the late Pope John Paul ll, (at the Pope's request), met with the Vatican's innermost circle and dare I say, witnessed nothing less than a miracle. (Next post). It was heartening to hear Rabbi Blech praise Pope John ll in the highest terms: How committed he was to bridging the gulf between Judaism and the Vatican and in seeking forgiveness for all of the past wrongs committed by the church against the Jews over history. Since it was shabbat when he spoke, I couldn't take notes and his stories were so full of intrigue and packed with Da Vinci Code-like characters, I wouldn't quote myself in the New York Times, but I can give you an idea of the kind of stories we heard. One day the rabbi gets a call from the Vatican emissary who gives the American president's private tours of the Sistine Chapel, "What's your calendar like? The Pope would like to see you?" and this is where the next part of the adventure begins...