“BYE BYE LOVE.” A SILVER FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH WORTH FAR MORE THAN 1,000 WORDS ENTERS THE LANT COLLECTION.

CHRIS WELSH, ONE PHONE CALL, AN AUTOGRAPHED BASEBALL CARD, AND A SURE-FIRE MARKETING DEVICE YOU SHOULD BE USING TO MAKE MORE MONEY… BUT AREN’T! ‘HOW I LOVE A RAINY NIGHT.’

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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

Author’s program note.

When we left the Dolphin Seafood Restaurant that evening in 1981 it was pouring buckets. The car was blocks away; we had no umbrella; not even a newspaper to cover our heads. Within just seconds, we were soaked. Decisive action was necessary… and fast.

Any port in a storm. Dramatis personae.

There are just four people in this tale. First Chris Welsh, major league pitcher. His beautiful girl friend. Me, tale teller. And you, the immediate and ultimate beneficiary of this incident, now part of the literary repertoire and dinner party conversations everywhere. Let’s get down to specifics…

It all started with a phone number and my desire to have my prospects call me any hour of the day or night. Thus, my direct “call me now” message was plastered on everything from my pens, calendars, brochures, ads, proposals to my business cards (unrepentedly flashy with my count’s coronet in real gold; I kid you not) tee-shirts, envelopes, memo pads. Get the picture?

I liked cool cash and needed copious amounts given my (admittedly) lavish tastes. Keeping the telephone red hot with calls from “I want a piece of you and your brain, Dr. Lant,” prospects was an essential part of my international Master Plan. And get this, the more times I put my moniker and phone number on every bloody thing under the sun, the more responses I got…and the richer I got. It was oh so sweet… and even my fiercest competitors were forced to admit, I was one cool dude.

Then one fine day, I got a friendly call from a guy named Chris Welsh. Didn’t know him. But he wafted some salubrious incense in my direction; lathering me with schmaltz sufficient to choke a horse. Of course, I liked him from that very first compliment… for Chris had all the persuasive moves and that all-important gift of the gab; perhaps a Kindred Spirit.

“The Unabashed Self-Promoter’s Guide.”

As it turned out, Chris was in Cambridge for an important family event. He had a few hours to kill and decided to spend them judiciously in what was then my favorite bookstore, Wordsworth, a grand place which allowed me (and the rest of their fiercely loyal clientele) to hang out, find a chair and thoroughly check out a potential purchase, or sit oblivious on the floor, no offense taken if bottom nudged by others immersed in A Book, a thing of telling force and compelling language. It was an incredible place…

… Not least because it stocked my books and placed not merely one order but, over time, many, many more. What’s not to like? In this place of tales, dreams, reveries where the best and most lyric words were to be found all around you, just fingertips away, Chris Welsh found… me! And (never underestimate this key point) he also found my phone number along with this ultra clear, ultra important message: “I am standing by to hear from you RIGHT NOW. Call me and see for yourself.” I meant every single word of this resonant declaration… and Chris, feeling the force and power of my adamant statement, knew it, too.

He called.

I answered.

He told me he was on Brattle Street, at Wordsworth, and had just purchased a handful off my (weighty) tomes. Could he drop by and have me autograph them; a request no real author, no matter how eminent and renowned, can ever resist… because they know the power and importance of people like you… and so do I. Customer regard is essential for success, cannot be duplicated, and is always welcome, always and whenever.

Wordsworth being just a hop, skip and a jump from my crib hard by the Cambridge Common, Welsh was punctual to the second. I liked that too.

Chris Welsh, charmer, purveyor of my first and only signed baseball card.

Before continuing my tale, I need to make what my many friends would regard as a completely superfluous and unnecessary mea culpa: namely that I don’t know a baseball from a grapefruit, even if my (much valued) life depended on it. There, now you know the worst. Excoriate me, condemn, disdain, but remember I could have taken the Fifth… but chose brutal honesty instead.

Chris Welsh and me, Kindred Spirits.

Chris and I got on like a house afire. Born April 14, 1955 his (comparative) youth allowed me to tower over him, big brother like. More to like and more still when he asked to see all my books and bought all the ones he didn’t have. Like I said, what’s not to like?

And then The Big Announcement, namely that Chris Welsh, born in Wilmington, Delaware, was one of the gods of creation, a certified, real baseball player with teams and colleagues who were all household names. Now at this point, our burgeoning kindred spiritship could have crashed and burned. But it didn’t, not by a long shot. Why? Because I never condescend to merit, whatever field it’s in and I have known all my life that my ears are my most important marketing asset. I wanted to learn; he was glad to teach me. And so the only major league baseball lecture of my life commenced.

Dinner at the Dolphin.

Given my complete and utter lack of knowledge and interest in major league or any other kind of baseball, I have to tell you I was proud of myself; my questions practical, short and to the point, the better to camouflage my sad relationship to the Great Republic’s great past time. And so we passed a useful, companionable hour or so. He then invited me to dinner, ordained the cuisine and asked if he could bring the lady of his life along. Of course, for I am of “the more the merrier” school of entertaining.

And so the night progressed, the lobsters just so, the Chardonnay crisp, the conversation witty, sharp, with that necessary dollop of malice the best raconteurs use to turn conversation to a practised art form.

“”I Love A Rainy Night.”

But all good things come to an end… but not always when, how or where we might suppose. Thus I return to that moment of aquatic superfluity along Massachusetts Avenue in a storm that wouldn’t quit. My new friends said they’d drive home as they were, a pair of drowned rats. I wouldn’t hear of it.

And so we walked home, Gene Kelly like, not missing a single puddle. In Harvard Square, we bought pounds of cheap candy, the kind you only share with your very best friends. Thus we arrived chez moi… with a problem.

“Showers washed all my cares away.”

We were all wet, very wet, needing to do something right away. And so each in turn retired to my Roman-style bath, the better to doff their sodden clothes and wrap ourselves like so many enchiladas in big fluffy towels. Thus did our unexpected evening pass in high good humor and too much sugar for all, until it was time for Chris Welsh and his inamorata to get up, dress and depart.

That was when he autographed one of his San Diego Padres baseball cards and handed it to me with a grin and these immortal words: “Five hours ago you were just a name on a book cover, now my girl and I are getting out of your bed”.

All true. And that’s why I shall never ever take an umbrella to any restaurant on a rainy night and why I whistle Eddie Rabbitt’s 1981 tune, “I love a rainy night,” as a kind of incantation summoning serendipity.

“Well, I love a rainy night… You know it makes me feel good.” I hope it always will.

Envoi

Chris Welsh pitched for the San Diego Padres (1981-1983; Montreal Expos (1983); Texas Rangers (1985-1986); Cincinnati Reds (1986). Known as “The Crafty Left-Hander” because of his distinct style, he has been a sports commentator for the Cincinnati Reds for many years. He remains as charming and affable as ever.

About the author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is well known internationally as the author of over 1000 articles and over 60 books. He is arguably the most well-known author of his generation. He has touched the lives of millions of people worldwide with his inimitable prose style. To see all of his works go to www.drjeffreylant.com.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb

‘BERRIES ARE NICE’. THE LUSH RIPENESS OF STRAWBERRIES AND THEIR SWEET RED ALLURE.

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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. This is a story about a fruit so rich that once you start thinking about it you cannot rest until you are eating some… popping them into your mouth as fast as you can, crushing them… letting the richness of its sweet, sweet juice drip down your chin… glad to have all you can eat… joyfully careless about what you waste… for there will always be strawberries enough for you… you are absolutely sure of that!

But as Deana Carter knows, the lush abundance of strawberries is not unlimited… and so she twangs her tale of high summer, desire, a taste so sweet it maddens you and never satiates… producing a wine you can never get enough of… a strawberry wine… a wine that you can never forget… though sometimes you wish you’d never come to know.

And so, I have selected for today’s occasional music “Strawberry Wine” by Matraca Berg and Gary Harrison, released in August, 1996. Nashville record companies found the song overly long, controversial, and not memorable enough. But when Carter sang her heart out about the summer, the boy… the strawberries and their wine… the record won Song of the Year at the Country Music Association Awards. Go now to any search engine and listen to it. You’ll find yourself remembering… you’ll find yourself craving… you’ll want their taste again… the berries always see to that…. for they are an imperious fruit.

Her Majesty’s strawberry.

On a picture perfect summer day one August I was in Scotland, in the Highlands, at Balmoral… a country castle conceived by Prince Albert, the beautiful German prince loved obsessively by Queen Victoria. For an American used to the White House with its layer after layer of security, Balmoral comes as a rather unnerving shock. “Security” consisted of a single guard, unobtrusive, reading a newspaper. There might be, there must be more… but that’s all I ever saw. He barely looked at us.. smiled… and waved. Thus does Her Britannic Majesty tell you she is beloved of the people and doesn’t need a legion of centurions to protect her… unlike the president of the Great Republic who always needs more… and more.

And so in due course, my friend and I found ourselves in the magnificent park, expansive, serene, as lovely a place as Earth provides. And in the park I found a kitchen garden… the Queen’s garden… and in this garden I saw a strawberry, huge, perfectly ripe, ready to be eaten. And so I reached down to pluck it and enjoy… whereupon I felt a strong hand pulling me up and heard my friend’s voice, no longer amiable, but commanding, imperative, stentorian: “Do not touch that strawberry…. that is the Queen’s berry!” And I realized what being a subject of the Windsors meant, whilst I was the child of revolution and lese majeste/. And so the uneaten berry remained… for the delectation of the Queen.

Even dukes get only leaves.

I was crushed but as my friend was driving I had to give way, and gracefully, too – or else.

Then I had a thought that cheered me up. Even the grandest members of the nobility couldn’t eat of the Royal fruit with impunity. They had to make do with the strawberries’ leaves. And no, I am not making this up. A duke’s coronet proves my point. When a man becomes a duke (and there are only 24 such people in the entire realm of Great Britain) he is entitled to a silver-gilt circlet called a coronet. It features eight strawberry leaves — not one more and never a single one less. Thus does the sovereign elevate ambitious members of the aristocracy… and keep her strawberries for herself.

Other gentlemen of high rank and title are also entitled to strawberry leaves on their coronets. And here there is a most curious conundrum: marquesses who rank just below dukes in the peerage of the realm are entitled to four strawberry leaves… but earls, who rank below marquesses, get eight. What can this mean? For peers, as you may imagine, are protocol mad… and scrutinize their inferiors for any indication that they are claiming rank and privilege to which they are not strictly entitled. You can be sure there’s some fiddle going on here… but if the marquesses are in a pet of high indignation, they have but to look far down at the viscounts and barons who have not a single strawberry leaf between them… and that’s just the way these marquesses mean to keep it — “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”.

Strawberry leaves mean strawberry tea.

Fortunately, there is more you can do with your strawberry leaves than wait for the Queen to make you a duke. That, after all, could be a long time coming since the last non-royal duke was his grace of Westminster, in 1874. It’s true that her present majesty when a young woman offered to make Sir Winston Churchill duke of London… but he declined and there the matter rests, perhaps forever.

And you’ll agree, this situation could be more than irritating for those who every morning see in their looking glasses, not milord this or the right honorable that but… His Grace the Duke of… resplendent in ermine and strawberry leaves.

These men, well bred for hundreds of years, offer the correct aquiline features, the correct pedigree, with generations of the right fathers and acquiescing mothers, masters of every arcane procedure, the right words and impeccable cravat, these men I tell you are smoldering with rage, aggravation, frustration, worthies all marooned in the wrong time. For them, each of them only the calming propensities of strawberry leaf tea will do… poured in a fragile cup of Minton, delivered by Nannie who always knows just what to do. “Have some more sugar, ducks. There, there, it’ll be all right.”

And so does Nanny, who loves you best, goes out with wicker basket on her arm, to the places she knows well, where the fresh wild strawberries grow or the sweet woodland berries. Take 1 tablespoon of dried rose petals, 1/2 teaspoon of yarrow, 1 teaspoon of strawberry leaves, a pinch of mint or blackberry leaves. Add 1 cup of boiling water and allow to steep. Choler cannot long exist in the presence of such determined coziness.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886).

It was perhaps in pursuit of these ingredients that Emily Dickinson, mistress of opaque language, stepped out, “Over the fence” …

“Over the fence — Strawberries — grow — Over the fence — I could climb — if I tried, I know — Berries are nice.

But — if I strained my Apron — God, would certainly scold! Oh, dear, — I guess if He were a
Boy — he’d — climb — if He could!”

So, let’s leave it like that, for as Deana Carter sang, “It’s funny how those memories they last. Like strawberry wine… (when) The hot July moon saw everything” and the strawberries were there, bright and beckoning, just over the fence.

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‘I’VE BEEN WORKIN’ ON MY REWRITE, THAT’S RIGHT.’ AN OPEN LETTER TO A YOUNG FRIEND WHO WANTS TO BE A SCRIBBLER.

THE RED, RED ROBIN CAME BOB BOB BOBBIN’ ALONG, MARCH 1.

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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

 Author’s note. To get the most from this article, add the right music. Of course, it must be “When the red, red robin comes bob bob bobbin’ along.” Written by Harry Woods, it was sung in his inimitable way by Al Jolson in the 1926 musical “Don’t forget the doughnuts.” Here is the link to the Jolson version. There are many other renditions… all peppy, upbeat, quintessentially American, but none like the Jolson one.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtkhJ1xqw2o

This morning… just moments ago… the world smiled and became a better place….

All of a sudden, I heard my name being called and an excited little fella, full of his news and lookin’ good, flew onto a branch right in front of me. He said, and he jumped up and down as he said it, “I’m back! I’m back! And I know you’re glad to see me!”

I know that’s what he was saying, and he was so energetic, so happy, so ecstatic that I couldn’t help reciprocating. I smiled. I grinned. I laughed aloud.

This was the sure-fire harbinger of spring, and he was letting me know, personally and in no uncertain terms. that he had returned from his winter sojourn… and wasn’t I glad?

Then he sang me just a bit of his trilling tune, just to let me know he hadn’t forgotten how much I like it… and then, with a bow and native civility, suitably spruce for his high business, he flew on, knowing I would understand that he had many more stops to make; where so many people would, in their turn, look up, smile, and be cheered, to go inside and spread the joy. The red, red robin was home, and not a minute too soon.

The world’s most popular bird? A distinct possibility.

The American Robin also called the North American Robin (turdus migratorius) is a migratory songbird of the thrush family. It is named after the European Robin because of its reddish-orange breast, though the two species are not closely related, with the European robin belonging to the
flycatcher family.

The American Robin is widely distributed throughout North America, wintering south of Canada from Florida to central Mexico and along the Pacific Coast. Three states think so well of this bird and its cheering song — Connecticut, Michigan, and Wisconsin — that they have made it their official bird. It has seven subspecies, but only T.m. confinis, in the southwest, is distinctive, with pale gray-brown underparts.

Some habits

What child, or adult, too, in the robin’s territory has not seen this completely characteristic sight: our tenacious friend, legs firmly planted, tugging, lugging, pulling worms from the ground? Humans like this purposeful sight; it reminds us robins are just like us: industrious, focused, glad to be up and at their work. Yes, we like that.

The American Robin is active mostly during the day and assembles in large flocks at night. Its diet consists of invertebrates (such as beetle grubs and caterpillars), fruits and berries.

It is one of the earliest bird species to lay eggs, beginning to breed shortly after returning to its summer range from its winter range. Its nest is so well constructed that with necessary refurbishing it lasts for years. Robins know just so how to use long coarse grass, twigs, paper and feathers, all smeared with mud, to give them the look and feel they desire. It is a seasonal delight for us, and perhaps for the robins too, to see them at this work. It gives both satisfaction.

Predators

Sadly, robins are not immune from troublesome predators, who see in the well-fed and always well groomed robin, a movable feast, tasty for hawks, squirrels, cats, and larger snakes. When feeding in flocks, robins have developed vigilance and a team approach to danger, which stands them in good stead. The benefits of community work for them… as for us.

A word on robin vocalization

It is the male robins who grab the spot light with their complex and almost continuous sound. This song is called cheerily carol, made up of discrete units, often repeated, and spliced together into a string with brief pauses in between. Robins in different areas have developed regional variations and different delivery times. Artists, they do not like to copy, but enjoy their unique approach to the serious business of song. They sing what they like and render it with style.

Robins in human songs and poems

It seems we humans early became infatuated with robins, who delight in cocking their heads at us, bold, curious, sympathetic to our plight, though we did, for a time, eat them. But they have forgiven us for that lapse in judgement.

Robins feature in literature since at least the 15th century and have attracted notable singers and poets to expound upon their virtues and take off on extended flights of fancy.

The best known of the several songs featuring robins is “When the red, red robin comes bob bob bobbin’ along.” It was the perfect vehicle for the not-quite-yet famous Al Jolson, and he belted it out of the theatre into musical history. Bobby Day in 1958 gave us an entirely different sound in “Rockin’ Robin”; the robins were pleased. They delight in their diverse approaches and are sorry Day is hardly remembered today, though his lively tune is.

Poets, too, write frequently about robins, but not always so upbeat as in song.

William Allingham (1824-1889) is maudlin.

“”Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.”

Robins tell me the pathetic imagery is not to their liking.

They are baffled by Emily Dickinson’s poem “I dreaded that first Robin, so.” (Her dates 1830-1886).

“I dreaded that first Robin so,
But He is mastered now,
I’m accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though —”

However, they have accepted the human explanation that no one really understands her poetry. And so the matter rests.

One poet, however, and one poem every robin knows, and wishes you to know. It is this resounding truth from William Blake’s (1757-1827) “Auguries of Innocence.”

“A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.”

However, let’s end as we began, with Jolson. He matches the soaring optimism of the robins themselves, all great American voices:

“They’ll be no more sobbin’ when
He starts throbbin’ his old, sweet song.”

And I believe that’s true.

***

​About the author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is well known internationally as the author of over 1000 articles and over 60 books. He is arguably the most well-known author of his generation. He has touched the lives of millions of people worldwide with his inimitable prose style. To see all of his works go to www.drjeffreylant.com.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb

OF ADAM B. WHEELER AND HOW THIS YOUTHFUL CON MAN EXTRAORDINAIRE MADE THE WORLD’S GREATEST UNIVERSITY — AND OTHERS — SEE RED.

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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

This is the story of the world’s greatest university, rich, secure, inviolate, invulnerable… arrogant… ripe for the taking.

This is the story of a talented young man, not merely good at lying, deception, prevarication and hoodwinkery… but (though connoisseurs of such matters may cavil) great.

This is the story of a young man so keen to have the good things in life that he was willing to sell his soul to get them… and of parents who so loved their son that they were willing to put him in prison to redeem him.

This is the story of the highest university officials who thought this unthinkable thing could never happen… and who drank deep from the chalice of chagrin and public humiliation when it did.

This is the story of peers who, when forced to confront this tale found that the perpetrator was cute and desirable… and therefore deserving of understanding, absolution, and a date.

This is the tale of Adam B. Wheeler. And I suspect you will find it as riveting as I did for, verily, it is a true tale of our times and, therefore, irresistible and completely appalling. Ole!

Adam B. Wheeler, a boy in a hurry

Adam B. Wheeler, by all accounts, was an average student, neither good nor bad, outstanding in no way, prosaic in all. However, such a boy could dream… and Adam B. Wheeler did so dream… of a place called Cambridge and a college called Harvard, where sport the irresistible jeunesse doree.
Adam dreamt… then despaired… for Harvard looked for the exceptional and Adam was merely average and hence beneath Harvard’s notice.

So this average boy took the first extraordinary decision of his life: he decided to risk all to escape from the usual, the hackneyed, the average, the dull, the prosaic. He decided, in short, to invent the vehicle that would give him escape; he decided to craft himself.

Years later, at Adam’s fraud trial, his lawyer Steven Sussman, Esq. said “There is no answer to why Adam did this. ” But Mr. Sussman, like so many adults involved in this case, was wrong. Sussman has forgotten what it is like to walk high school corridors and be nothing more than one of a mass, faceless, dull, average, forgettable. Adam knew that feeling… and, with growing insistence, was ready to do everything, anything to rise and get out of this situation… to take his place, however wrongly, amongst the best and brightest of his generation. The quickest way to do that, he concluded, was by mastering the potent and practical arts of the fraudulent presentation, prevarication, deception.

And so, Adam B. Wheeler commenced, by diligent study, an ascension of trickery where each step successfully encountered fueled the next. He submitted a plagiarized school essay and winning the prize discovered the ease of deceit, thereby engendering more and greater boldness.

Audacity, he discovered, could be created by successful deceptions, which also delivered a plethora of benefits — money, social recognition, the compliments of teachers and peers, the thrilling feeling that he was “somebody”… and, all important, further insights into how to rise higher still on his new skills and expanding confidence. Adam B. Wheeler was moving… so fast that goals once unimaginable were now within his grasp.

And so he grabbed.

Proud Bowdoin College with its picture-perfect campus gave Adam a place by deceit. But Adam wanted, had always wanted more. For such damnation as he was willing to risk, he demanded the very best.

So, then, fair Harvard’s turn. Adam, now almost through his apprenticeship of deft manipulation, doctored his College Board scores and forged letters of recommendation. These were panegyrics of such transcendence that in a more perfect world they would have moved Harvard to contact him rather than he condescending to contact them.

And so Harvard, confident its summit could not be so breached, became Adam’s trophy, too… and, with its welcome acceptance, gave him, he well knew, life’s ticket to privilege, deference, and open doors everywhere. It was thrilling, heady… dangerous because the very ease and extent of success caused hubris, the most dangerous thing of all.

Adam B. Wheeler became an Icarus with no Daedalus to counsel and advise. But even Icarus, with such a wise and seasoned advisor at hand, was so fueled by arrogance and the certainty that only the young possess, even well-advised Icarus flew too high, too soon, too close to the sun… and so, his wings melting, plunged into death.

What chance, then, had still-learning Adam B. Wheeler to know, so soon in life, the virtue of restraint? Icarus-like, he chose to fly too fast, too high, eschewing restraint because constant victories were so exciting and gratifying…and, he had proved, so easy.

However his fall, inevitable though he never knew it, was, in the classical tradition, sharp, painful, ironic. Continuing to want the best, he fabricated a fake straight A Harvard transcript and aimed to grab a Fulbright or even a Rhodes scholarship, much desired, achieved by only the elite, amongst whom he insisted to be.

However, grinning fate was at hand with Adam’s nemesis.

It was his parents, the good, decent, profoundly appalled creators of Adam B. Wheeler, his mom and dad. To save him, they laid him low, beginning his unravelling with a call to the chagrined Harvard officials whose certainty and carelessness had moved Adam so appreciably forward. They, powered by revenge and sanctimonious moralizing, happily pounced, determined to end his career and make sure This Could Never Happen Again. His Harvard status was rescinded… his trial ensued. His conviction inevitable, he plea-bargained, admitting culpability and accepting restitution for all funds and prizes falsely won. Prison was avoided but shame was not. It was the end of Adam B. Wheeler.

Or was it?

In the blog of the Crimson, Harvard’s student newspaper, another stream was unexpectedly running. Here the story took another turn, for many bloggers (not just women either) saw what “Daniel” saw: “He really is totally adorable. He probably gets away with half of his shenanigans because people look into those big blue eyes and see the floppy hair and think he’s adorable”. Ah, too fetching to be guilty, much less locked away.

It was, under these circumstances, no doubt wise of the judge in his sentencing order of December 16, 2010 to prevent Adam from enjoying any financial gains from his story from books, stage, and screen. It’s sad, though, for local boy-made-good Matt Damon, who would have done full justice to this tale of Cambridge, a place he knows so well. However, no doubt in due time, Adam B. Wheeler will find a way around this (temporary) obstacle. I hope so, for I long to see this film.

Musical note

I have selected for the music to this chapter, Scott Joplin’s pep machine, “Maple Leaf Rag” (1899). Pull your hat over your head, go get your best gal, come on down to the court house, where they’re playing the “Maple Leaf Rag” and waiting for Adam B. Wheeler to come in from the hoosegow, and flash them baby blues at you. Oh lordy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pMAtL7n_-rc

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Kiss me once, kiss me twice. It has been a long, long time. In the blizzard of 2017, some thoughts

 

Kiss me once, kiss me twice. It has been a long, long time. In the blizzard of 2017, some thoughts.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

I don’t know why just the right song seems so often to pop out of nowhere. I mean I hadn’t thought of Satchmo (Louis Armstrong 1901-1971) for a good long time. Why then does it feels so absolutely normal, indeed predictable, as the first flakes of our first Nor’easter fell, the grand notes of Satchmo rising at the appropriate time for any snowstorm in the world.

I am standing at the window in my office, The Blue Room, staring out into the wintry scene now developing. There are still tufts of grass that snow has not yet covered, and though there is not at this moment enough snow to justify their presence, the snow plows are here in force with their glaring noises, and air of pomposity. This is the beginning of the blizzard which the avid weather girls now cover, for it is now the day for the cute jeune fille.

For now it is mandatory to deliver weather with sex appeal. They know nothing about weather except what they are told to read from a page. Their job is to make minimum mistakes and look like they are going to a cocktail party even though the time is 6 am.

In days gone by I would at this time of the morning (just about 9 am) be dressed in my adorable yellow all weather outfit, the outfit which when wet smells of dog. I had just enough time before school to make exuberant snow angels. My brother complained as his snow was not always neat as mine always was. I always had first dibs on the pure snow and never failed to make the boisterous model. The incidental fact that this irritated my brother was an extra benefit not to be underrated.

The snow is falling faster now but cannot beat the wild range of remembrances of snow days gone by. It seems to me my life was divided into just two days: winter with its promise of the bountious snow and ice skating on the local pond; summer with scorching temperature and pink bodies soon burnt to the consistency of French toast. Seen one snow day, seen them all, you might say, but you would be wrong, because each day of snow creates a different montage. They may look the same, but there are no two flakes in the universe that ever are the same.

My mother served as Grand Marshal of the snow parade. She knew where everything was to be found. “Yes, Jeffrey, check the hall closet under the green blanket”. No request when it came to snow was too insignificant to produce the desired effect.

A lot of bubble gum could return a sled to service. How many mothers, particularly those of the millennium, could do as much?

She was young and vibrant then. Winter suited her, and Jack Frost nipped at her cheeks and created a thing of joy and beauty.

Although she had a job out of the house, she was always there to provide the breakfast she knew we would need. For once out of the house we were energy machines, paying no attention to anything but the snow which piled up outside our back door.

“Mind the ice!”

The trek to school — for we walked everyday except the worst — revealed new landscapes. Familiar objects were no longer familiar, but radically changed. The snow provided us with a whole new vista; one that we must touch, not just see. Otherwise, we wouldn’t believe. And so the tracks of my mother’s children went one way and another, thereby proving we were great explorers, not put off by the millions of pounds of snow falling from the unremitting gray sky. We defied it.

Neighbors we might not see for weeks at a time, we would take time to see as the snow fell and the blizzard blew. We all wanted to know what the old folks were doing (for any one above our tender age was certainly old no matter how young they might have been). These neighbors came out even as the first snow fell, so that they could clear the path the falling snow would obliterate in just minutes.

These folks would have to rely now on shovels and patience. Sometimes my mother would say “Knock on Mrs. Jenkins’ door. Make sure she has heat and she is alright.” In such ways my mother demonstrated what the word “community” really meant. Does anyone stop today to find out whether Mrs. Jenkins is comfortable at 88 and frail? Probably not. If she is lucky, someone from Community Services may take a moment to look in, but more often the line is busy. “If this is a life threatening emergency call 911.”

I think Mrs. Jenkins preferred the red-cheeked banshees who sharply tapped the glass and rapped rat-tat-tat, smiling the broadest smile. She would have been delighted to invite us all in for cocoa with little marshmallows, which every marshmallow connoisseur knows are manifestly superior to their bloated bretheren.

I see a hearty traveler on the sidewalk walking diligently, no doubt to his perch in the great University which scoffs at the very idea of Nor’easters. After all, it has lived through centuries of snow and ice and wicked contours which soon become nothing but mud and housewives shouting with asparity, “Wipe your feet!”

It is a wonder to me, after so many years, and so many deserts of mud, especially those creating themselves particularly for my birthdays, that these housewives did not become murderous. A kind of patience, restraint, even sainthood was expected. It was the hallmark of the lady of the house that she did not, as a matter of course, take a rifle off the wall and blow the encyclopedia salesman to kingdom come. We knew they were capable of it; their restraint, therefore, was heroic.

As we neared the school, I sometimes thought of my paternal grandfather, Walter. He was the dark horse of the family. A contractor, he helped build the local schoolhouse… grand in a full display of continental brick work. You see my grandfather, Germanic to the core, liked things that last. And so today, when he is hardly even a memory to anyone, that brick schoolhouse he built stands solid, as good today as on its inauguration. Yes, he was a dark horse. His metier was doing, not talking, and I admire that trait today more than I can say.

I think another word is owed to Grampy. He would sit in my grandmother’s kitchen each day… his chair never touched, much less sat in by anybody else. Each day after four would see him in his special chair. It was not patriarchal. It was made of aluminum, with a seat easily cleaned. This chair was as important as the Pope’s, and was the scene of far more judgments rendered ex cathedra.

Brief, laconic, rendered with a certainty that must be God-like… Grampy dictated the course of world events. There was nothing shy about his delivery. There was nothing shy about where he stood. And if he liked you, you got a double portion of his favorite potation. I often tried to advise his guests that one such drink was enough, but they never believed me until it was too late.

I would arrive in this scene of unadulterated family about the time my uncles appeared (for sometimes they worked for my grandfather and sometimes they did not); no one ever questioned my right to be present; no one hesitated to make some deflating comment if they thought that perhaps I was gaining an unfair advantage. Of course I was, and I dished back just as good as I got, probably even better.

The snow continues to fall. The weather girls are making one silly comment after another. Do we really need to know the temperature in Springfield, Massachusetts, or how many tree branches have fallen off in Arlington? So much information, so little that’s important.

I prefer my grandfather’s way of handling it. He’d listen, he’d grunt, and everyone knew precisely what that grunt meant. No one outside this careful circle ever learned how to interpret what to us was so clear and manifest.

I had one more trek to make, “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” The snow might abide… the drifts might grow… ’til my trusty bicycle was forced into the middle of the roads… dangerous as the sun fell low on the horizon. I was going home, and though I didn’t necessarily know it everyday, it sometimes did occur to me that all the to’ing and fro’ing, all the high flying and the low flying, were nothing compared to a single word just four letters long, “home”. It is a pity that I learned this lesson so late in life. Perhaps we all must be significantly detached before we see what we had, what we have lost and can never regain.

And so, in my mind’s eye I see myself and think on this, my 70th birthday, how fortunate I have been. I have kept more promises and traveled more miles than most. “You’ll never know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you.” It has all been a long, long time.

Musical note

It is hard not to be seized by the wintry scene playing out before me. It is the cause of so many reflections. But when you add Satchmo to the mix, it is overwhelming indeed. That is why I have chosen “It’s Been a Long, Long Time” as the music for this article. Written by Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn, it was released in 1945. You cannot get through it without the insistant tug of memory, because that after all is the important thing… the thing that defines you… and you must not resist it.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8VOABg1a5k

About the author

Over the past 50 years and more, Dr. Jeffrey Lant has written 61 books and thousands of articles on a wide variety of topics. He is the greatest lyric writer of his age. Don’t just read the books and articles, enter into their flow, for they will touch your heart if you allow yourself to have a heart.

To see Dr. Lant’s complete ouevre, go towww.drjeffreylant.com. You will be reminded of just how powerful the English language can be.

Darlin’, everybody hustles. It’s just a question of how, when and where.’ A tale of pre-Katrina New Orleans and your business success.

starts this year on February 27th. This brilliant article will put you in the mood for high jinks.

Darlin’, everybody hustles. It’s just a question of how, when and where.’ A tale of pre-Katrina New Orleans and your business success.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. I didn’t have to look for the perfect tune to accompany this article. I’ve known it for decades. “I’m still here“ from Stephen Sondheim’s incredible musical “Follies” (1971). It’s a song about grit, determination, doing what you have to do with the person you must do it with… to move up, move on, and force the big guys at the top to move over. This is the song you listen to on days when the recalcitrant world is just not going the way you want… it’s the song you listen to when you mean to change that… and try again, because that’s what winners do and losers can’t even imagine.

Go to any search engine now… go into a room all by yourself, the better to turn up the volume to the ear-shattering range… and let Sondheim’s incredible music waft you to the place of your dreams… then listen to what you have to do to get there.In the days before Hurricane Katrina, I used to frequently teach marketing communications at the University of New Orleans.

My classes were held on week days downtown and on Saturday’s on Lake Pontchartrain, whose name I loved, coming as it does from a great French statesman who had the infinite good sense to be painted by Robert Le Vrac de Tournieres (1667-1752). I loved that picture from the first moment I saw it… and I loved New Orleans, too, its people, its spirit, its often painful madcappery and self destruction.

When I came to know about “A Confederacy of Dunces” by John Kennedy Toole (published 1980), I read it with an avidity fed by its macabre history; (the author had to commit suicide before any publisher would condescend to review it; it then went on to win the Pulitzer Prize).

From the very moment I left my hotel room (where I spent the absolute minimum amount of time) adventures were drawn to me, because they knew I was completely receptive to them.

Her name was Yvette…

On my very first day in New Orleans (it was a Friday), I stayed in a big, fancy hotel just off the French Quarter. I never made that mistake again; on my many future visits I always stayed in a little hotel in the Quarter, steps from the wonderful people I met who filled me with admiration for their zest for living and unadulterated joy under unremitting duress.

The first person who met me (note the language) was a person who looked to me like Tinkerbell on something. He walked up to me and said, “Honey, I can tell you are new to La Nouvelle Orleans. Let me be your guide”. I had never, and I mean never, been spoken to like that… but I recognized in these words Fate’s distinctive messenger. I accepted, bought my guide a drink… and in due course, having gleaned without difficulty but with some incredulity that I was a writer, he said, “But you must meet Yvette.” Of course, I must. That too was Fate…

She was, as the French say, a woman of a certain age; that might have been anything from forty into eternity. I knew at once she had that unmistakable quality the Parisians call “chien”. Yes, I know that means “dog”, and its English connotations are not good… but she had, and unmistakenly, that mixture of age, chic, dress sense, allure and brass that forces one involuntarily to look back and be sad that vision is rushing to be with someone else. But this time, perhaps for the first time, this woman with a Past was going to influence my future… and I was ready to hear whatever she said.

The conversation turned to life… it always does in the French Quarter with such people as Yvette. With each drink (and there were many) came another piquant observation that convinced me “real” life and I had only a nodding acquaintance. Yvette knew the vicissitudes of life inside and out… and I was bright enough to pay close attention to her observations, often as diamond sharp as Madame de Sevigne (1626-1696). This one completely arrested my attention:

“Darlin’, everybody hustles. It’s just a question of how, when and where.” It instantly occurred to me that this is precisely the element missing from far too many of my business students and people starting and running businesses generally. They are running businesses; they are not hustling for success as if their very lives were dependant on it… and that was the reason so many of them were barely getting by and wondering why, when they were such good and proper folk.

It’s because they were missing what Yvette had to spare: hustle. In short they wanted success, but they wanted it on their terms… which just ain’t gonna happen.
YOU say you want success, but (for whatever reason) you are not willing to work all the necessary hours it takes to achieve success. SUCCESS says, “You will work as many hours as it takes to capture me… not merely the hours you wish to work.”

YOU say you want success, but are not willing to work evenings, week-ends, even standard holidays. SUCCESS says, “If you want me, you must be willing to sacrifice time you’d like to use for other things. Choose!”

YOU say you want success, but you’ll only do jobs that make you such-and-such amount. SUCCESS says, “If you want the money, stoop to conquer. When you’ve got the money you want, then you can afford to be so picky. But that day hasn’t dawned yet.”

YOU say you want success, but your spouse is doing everything but put you in a cage to make sure you can’t achieve it. SUCCESS says “Sugarbabe, there are more good women and men in the sea than those who’ve come out. Dig my meaning?”

YOU say you want success, but you’ll only look at business opportunities that cost you nothing. SUCCESS says “Lambikins, ain’t nothin’ ever come from nothin’. You’ve gotta invest to get a return on that investment.”

Still more…

YOU say you want success, but you are not willing to do the necessary homework and due diligence to ensure that what you do delivers the substantial rewards you want. SUCCESS says, “Quit trying to beat the system. People who make money are constant, never-ceasing students of success. They review each and every thing to understand how it works… then follow the directions EXACTLY to achieve success. They are not trying to cut corners, because they know that doesn’t work.”

YOU say you want success but once you get some, you don’t gun it to get more. SUCCESS says, “Every successful person on earth has a success system. They know that if they do X, they will get Y results. Thus, as soon as they are successful and can prove their system delivers the desired results (or even better), they arrange their time and resources so they can replicate their successful system over and over again, each time reaping the expected (and ever increasing) benefits.”

YOU say you will study successful people to see how they do and how they work because you understand that the achievement of success is inextricably linked to studying the successful and making a point of then doing what they do. SUCCESS says, “Well, are you studying the successful? I certainly haven’t seen you around anyone but your low-down worthless friends. The only time they’ll appear in the media is for robbing a convenience store! Dump ’em.”

YOU say you want success on the Internet. Good for you; it’s where lots of people nowadays get big bucks and worldwide, too. SUCCESS says, “You’re all talk and no action You don’t have anyone to help you. You don’t have the necessary tools you need; you don’t have the training. And, as for your traffic, that’s a joke that you don’t know how to fix. Moreover, you have no way to profit 24 hours a day in this demanding 24-hour-a-day environment.

And what of Yvette?…

Let’s just say my appreciation for Yvette and what she taught me did not flag as the hours advanced. And as for her profound insight into the sustained hustling all true success seekers must engage in?… why that has now gone from just Yvette to me… and now from me to you… for my next adventure… and, by grasping this article and its recommendations, for your faster, greater, truly impressive success.

Musical Note: I have selected as music for this article, “When I Die, You Better Second Line” played by Kermit Ruffins, founder of the hellzapoppin band Kermit Ruffins and the Barbecue Swingers. Founded in 1992, this is one New Orleans tradition that rode out #Katrina with style and bravado. Don’t hold yourself back!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_awCl-qYM0

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About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant has taught marketing and related subjects at over 40 US Colleges including Harvard. He is the author of over 1000 articles and more than 60 books. To see his work go towww.drjeffreylant.com

Healthy Exercise Habits – Better Late Than Never

Did you know it’s never too late to make changes and incorporate healthy exercise habits into your daily routine, the sooner you start the sooner you will have the body you’ve always wanted. Most of us are motivated by our appearance more than ‘just’ getting in shape. Of course, that isn’t so true if you have had some health problems in the past, but under normal circumstances we want to look good for our spouse, or just fit into that cool pair of jeans you just saw.

Whatever your motivation may be, the number one thing you can do to make it work for you is to find something that you enjoy enough (or at least don’t hate) to stick with it for a period of time. You won’t get in great shape in just a week or two and maintaining your good health will mean that you have to make permanent lifestyle changes. Some people may freak out at the word ‘permanent’ but remember, you are doing some sort of exercise that you actually like doing so doing if from now on won’t be a big challenge.

So, where do you start? How do you go about creating healthy exercise habits? Well, a good place to start is to make an appointment with your doctor. Make sure that you’re in good enough shape to start working out. Even if you have some health issues, working out can do you a lot of good, but you may have to modify your workout to accommodate your underlying health problems. So a talk with your doctor is always a good idea.

Next, you want to figure out just what type of workout you should start with. Only you can really answer that since you want to pick something that you think you would like to do. It’s important to think outside of the box. Don’t get in the rut of thinking that you have to do your 30 minutes of cardio on a treadmill and than lift some weights. There is nothing wrong with that workout but there are a lot of other things you can do too.

No matter what type of workout you start with it’s important for you to remember that your body will get used to whatever you do on a regular basis. So you if you are doing one type of workout for a month it may be time to ‘mix it up’ and try something new. That will allow your body to be ‘surprised’ and you can get great results if you do that on a regular basis.

Just remember, if you want to incorporate healthy exercise habits into your life, you have a ton of options from which to choose. The two most important things to keep in mind is that you need to find something you enjoy and you need to get your head around the idea that this is a lifestyle change and not just a quick fix. The better your attitude when you go in, the more you’ll get out of it.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb

Hangover Vitamin – Yep – Kill Your Hangover

There is one hangover vitamin you should take if you plan to drink too much and want to avoid a hangover and that is a B-complex vitamin. Obviously, the best way to prevent a hangover is to not drink at all but if that is not an option and you want to go out every now and then to tie one on then prevent your hangover with a B-complex vitamin.

In truth, a B-Complex vitamin is a combination of eight different vitamins including folic acid, biotin, niacin,thiamine, riboflavin, pantothenic acid, pyridoxine, and cyanocobalamin. Granted these are all found in the food we eat everyday but if you do tie one on and expect a hangover the next morning then an extra pill or two may be necessary to prevent it and give you an energy boost.

The way to make this as effective as possible is to:

1. Stay hydrated. This is important because alcohol will cause you be dehydrated and can increase your risk of getting a really bad hangover. Another benefit of drinking plenty of water is that you will be drinking less alcochol and may not drink too much in the first place.

2. Take a B-Complex vitamin when you wake up the morning before the night you want to go out. Take it with a full glass of water and eat a good breakfast.

3. Continue to drink water throughout your day and take another B-Complex vitamin after you eat some lunch, again, with a full glass of water.

4. Keep a B-Complex in your pocket when you go out and take the hangover vitamin when you are ready to have your last drink. Just drink it with a full glass of water, not the other drink you have in your hand. Vitamin B-Complex will help restore your energy while you sleep. Either before you go out or while you are out, get some food into your stomach. Food slows down the absorption of alcohol by 80%.

5. When you wake up in the morning, take another B-Complex vitamin with as much water as you can handle. You will probably feel fine but this last vitamin can’t hurt.

You may be wondering why B-Complex vitamin works. Well, it is just the way these vitamins work in your body. The thiamine works to calm your nervous system and helps metabolize any alcohol left in your system. Riboflavin works to lessen the red eyes of the morning after. Niacin helps break down the food you ate late, pyridoxine works to lessen any cramping from dehydration and cyanocobalamin works to fortify your red blood cells.

Do not forget the most important thing here, drink lots of water. The B-Complex vitamin will work so much better if you are not dehydrated to begin with. In fact the B-Complex vitamin needs water to work effectively in your system. This is because they are what’s called water soluble vitamins so they need the water to dissolve in to become an effective hangover vitamin.

FREE consultation ($150 value). Expert shows you how to make money online.Call (757-647-2886) 24/7 Or Skype me homeprofitcoach NOW! Profit today!” Your success guaranteed.http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=kr2fDPDb