‘Run, Barefoot Bandit, Run.’ The story of Colton-Harris Moore, exasperatingly cute…. and as fast as the wind!

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note: I had no trouble at all coming up with the theme music for this article..It’s “East Bound and Down” from the smash 1977 hit film “Smokey and the Bandit.” It’s got toe-tappin’ energy. Go to any search engine, you’ll find it. Make sure you keep the link because, sure as shootin’, there’ll be some morning or other when you’ll wake up ornery and irritable, the world too much with you. This tune will cheer you up in a flash… and make you smile. Just as this article’s going to do….

“a’we gonna do what they say can’t be done!”

You’ll never understand this story until you see the culprit. Born March 22, 1991, “Colt” Harris-Moore was a teen-ager until just the other day. He still looks like a teen-ager, and 16 or 17 at that. And he has the look of a fresh-scrubbed Disney character, all firm flesh and smiles and “yessir” and “thank you, ma’am”.

He’s a big boy; a really big boy, 6 foot 5 inches tall, 205 pounds. He’s a boy’s boy and you know, with that wicked grin, he’d be mischievous… but you’d bet your bottom dollar he’s a good boy, not a mean bone in his body. But there’s a dark side to this story, and it’s a good idea to get that out right away, so you can make up your own mind about this important matter.

“Colt” Harris-Moore grew up in his mother’s house in Camano Island, Washington. It was a zoo there; chaotic, disruptive, a mess. Neighbors said they made several calls to Child Protective Services, believing he was neglected or abused. His father, Gordon Moore, used drugs and was in prison while Colton was a toddler. When he was just twelve years old, his abusive father walked out during an argument at a family barbecue after attempting to choke him.

According to his mother, Pamela Kohler, his stepfather died when he was about seven years old, and from the time Colton was in first grade, she knew there was “something off about him”, “sort of a disconnection.” He wouldn’t listen to his teachers, starting altercations at school and would sometimes deliberately break things at home.

According to a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation, Harris-Moore said that his mother drank and became mean, breaking his possessions. Any way you slice it mother and son lived in a snake pit of anxieties, fears, and dark depressions… a place to avoid and escape from.

At about the age of 7, Colt started living in the wild; it was better than what he got at home.

It was then he learned his craft as an agile, nimble thief, motivated by what he could get, of course, but increasingly, as he sharpened his skills, pushing the envelope, showing himself how far he could go, how good he could get. He was determined to excel…

He started with robbing the vacation homes of people from far away places; rich, they’d never miss the stuff so easy to purloin, all indications of the stable, ample life he could only know second hand and would never have. They had so much; he so little. Why shouldn’t he just help himself? There’s hardly a kid, even those from the “best” homes who didn’t steal something, sometime. But if they were lucky, they got caught and learned a thing or two.

But Colt didn’t get caught — yet. And so he got better and better. And the game more exciting. He wanted to know, he had to know just how far he could go….

And so it began.

The authorities all knew about Colt… although even in his early days he had no trouble outsmarting them. Still, he got his first conviction for stolen property when he was 12; by the time he was 13, he had three more. Now diagnosed with depression, attention deficit disorder and intermittent explosive disorder, he reckoned he had nothing to lose. Each conviction bought him just 10-days in a detention center, or in community service.

In 2003 things changed and the stakes went up. He stole a neighbor’s camcorder; the police found it in his room. This time he got a sentence with bite: three years. He looked in the mirror, liked what he saw, combed his hair… and walked out of a halfway house. It was April, 2008…. and the Barefoot Bandit was about to show America how folk heroes are born….

“We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.”

Now this master thief, gifted by God with a cherub’s face and a dazzling smile, got serious.

With adolescent energy and grit and determination which any entrepreneur could envy, he found his vocation… and ran with it, bare footed. He stole just for the joy of stealing. It didn’t seem to matter what he stole… although he favored toys that could move him on… for Colt was a moving target… the fastest of all.

He pinched bicycles automobiles, light aircraft, speedboats.

He was a boy who liked speed… liked turning it on, turning it up… the wind always blowing through his hair… getting away from mother, from teachers, from court-ordered psychiatrists… and from every other trammel and inhibition.

“I’m east bound just watch ol’ Bandit run.”

He zoomed east with manic energy and no purpose whatsoever except to keep on moving. The crazinesses added up: he stole flight manuals and flight simulators… so he could steal planes…

He would often slip into homes along the way to soak in a hot bath… or steal ice cream. He stole a credit card to order bear mace; remember, he generally slept in the woods. He stole another card to order a pair of night vision goggles for $6,500.

On May 30 or 31, 2011 police found a handwritten note and $100 at a veterinary clinic in Raymond, Washington. The note said, “Drove by, had some extra cash. Please use this money for the care of animals.” He signed it “Colton Harris-Moore AKA ‘The Barefoot Bandit.’ Camano, Washington.” It was just the kind of thing a real folk hero would do.

And so America began to root for this boy who robbed with his shoes off, in the freedom of bare feet. He moved, always fast, through states he saw only as a blur… authorities everywhere eager to nab him…

“… he’s hot on your trail and he ain’t gonna rest ‘tiill you’re in jail”

And so it went…. running… robbing.. running some more through Idaho, South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois… over 100 thefts and counting.

“So you gotta dodge him… you gotta duck him”

And so he did… and while we paid bills, bought groceries, went to work, the image of that boy whirring through time and space grabbed us and grew. We knew he’d get caught…. we just hoped it wouldn’t be for a while yet. We knew he’d go to jail for a long time…. but he had freedom, real freedom… albeit purchased at a staggering price.

It all came to an end in Harbour Island, Bahamas, July 6, 2010. He was about to steal a boat, bless him, and local police shot out the engine and grabbed him. Colt had a gun to his head when apprehended. It’s a nice point about whether he’d have been better off using it.

Instead they apprehended him and, in due course extradited him back to Washington State and law and order in the shape of U.S. Attorney Jenny Durkan. She knows nothing of folk heroes and her rage about the boy and his celebrity is palpable. She made sure Colt would never benefit from films, books, or anything else. It won’t matter… we know Durkan is right, doing her job… but she is not the stuff of Americana. Colt is… and she knows it. So do we…. movie, or not.

“Keep your foot hard on the peddle… son, never mind them brakes.”

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About The Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Dr. Lant is also a syndicated writer and author of 18 best-selling business books. Details at http://homeprofitcoach.com/listbuilding

It’s time to celebrate International ‘Get It Off Your Chest Day.’ You’ll feel better if you do.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. For this article Maria Mendez’ recording of “What a difference a day makes” (released 1934) is a must. You’ll find it in any search. engine. And, by the way, Maria is right: the difference is you!

Have you noticed there’s a “day” for everything… for artichoke growers… pizza makers… midgets… apples… moms and dads… you get picture.

However, after exhaustive research ( at least an hour or two) I have discovered an absolutely crucial activity which has not, so far, been granted its own special day.

Thus, I am herewith proposing “International Get If Off Your Chest” Day.

This day was inspired by my nephew Kyle who graduated from college in May 2011. As is customary (at least the graduate so told me) I donated some bucks to the young buck… then sat back (like millions of generous parents, relations and friends) for the effusive letter of acknowledgement, thanks, and gratitude.

I have waited for weeks now (along with those millions cited above) and have received nada, zip, absolutely nothing. It occurred to me that all of us long-suffering folks need an outlet for our chagrin, irritation, and soon-to-be righteous wrath and rage.

But, let’s face it, a special day for the good people who sent money (so far unacknowledged) for commencement would, I think you’d agree be (perhaps) a tad over specific…. even if we extended its focus to be any slothful, lay about graduate of any institution.

So, I put my thinking cap on and brainstormed… to see how the parameters of this holiday could be suitably extended so that more sins of omission and commission could be added.

Then I thought of a no-longer-quite-so-dear friend…let’s call him Thomas Frederick Byrd III… because that is his name. Tommy (for he is not always so formal) borrowed 10 CDs from me, what, an eon ago, making the usual sincere, look-deeply-in-his-eyes promises that “they’ll be returned, Scout’s honor, in a week, ten days tops.” As I said, and as I must reiterate here, that ample deadline has long been exceeded…. hints to Tommy (even quite a lurid one) have gone unanswered… and now the bugger won’t answer my calls. The holiday must be extended to include these miscreants and scoffers.

Tommy’s non-return of my very best CDs is venal compared to William Wilder’s misdemeanors. He put the touch on me for 200 Yankee dollars; I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. I should have listened to Polonius (ok, he’s a trifle windy) about borrowers and lenders. Bill Wilder used to be one of my best friends; now I can hardly think of him without apoplexy… for, of course, he is now in the witness protection program… and my beloved dollars with him.

Near crying at these acid remembrances of people who have let me down, in so remembering I have one “aha!” moment after another, each of which builds the case and need for this deeply sensible day.

There’s Tommy (seemingly a frequent miscreant sobriquet) at the convenience store who has promised me at least half a dozen times to charge back those mildewed strawberries. So far, no action.

There’s my cousin Clarabelle (and no she has no children named Howdy Doody) who has yet to return that lovely pic-nic basket with the (admittedly plate) silver handles.

This list, growing by the moment, represents in miniature just why we absolutely must have a day, perhaps even two, when we can let it all hang out. Such a day would of course feature politicians and the myriad of ways they irritate and abuse us every single day.

“Great idea,” everybody says so.

While writing this article, I have been tending a very busy phone. I emailed a few of my nearest and dearest to clue them in to my Big Idea. I told them their opinion was urgent and expected; my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since with calls from people who have quite clearly mastered the superlative tense; without exception these bright folks want what I am proposing: a chance to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about matters great and small with which less polite and perceptive folks have afflicted them. I am getting used to the constant huzzahs and raucous congratulations.

These, admittedly thrilling, have induced further cogitation on the issue. As I amble and ponder, new facets of this idea emerge and take center stage in my fervid brain; I am like a man possessed.

In addition to the specially designated “Off Your Chest” day… we need a National Registry where aggrieved citizens can post their complaints and miseries; given our digitized age it should be easy to cross-reference these, to create profiles and warning systems for people (even if our nearest and dearest) who have affronted not one, but many, and often.

And, remember, this registry, this most necessary warning system would not be a thing for just a single nation, no matter how grand, but for all the nations, even insignificant little San Marino.

Of course, there might be mistakes… or at least folks claiming they have been victimized.

I am a believer in fairness, a believer in fairness am I. As a result, there must be some means of checking the accuracy of all information and allowing folks to respond. Yes, that is only fair. Of course this will necessitate a very substantial staff; their workload, as is already plain, would be staggering. After all, nearly every person on this planet (except a few Trappist monks) have things they wish, indeed need to get off their chests… and I may be doing a disservice to Trappists who agree. If so, I abjectly apologize.

This is turning into a helluva lot of work!

You know, people like me with good ideas should be designated Super Citizen. After all, WE keep this country, this world, and, may I say, this whole solar system working.

I’m really ticked off now. My original simple idea has now morphed into a multi- dimensional nightmare. I’m over my head, for sure. All I wanted was to chide a few friends and get some bucks back and my very best CDs. Now people are starting to criticize me, yes ME, as some kind of dictator, FBI, CIA, looking-for-skeletons- -in-all-the-closets. Every time they do, I put them on my list for future SEVERE action. It’s what those friggin’ morons deserve.

I give up.

I’m ditching this idea and am heading in a brand-new direction. I’ve written Kyle’s thank-you note and sent him a copy so he knows what he said. I sent a gift card to Tommy giving him CDs he won’t give up anyway. And as for the 200 smackers, I’ll tell the IRS they are a charitable donation to people with incurable insensitivity.

As for me, I’ve sent this letter to the president reminding him the buck stops there.

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About The Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is  Dr. Lant is also a syndicated writer and author of 18 best-selling business books. Details at http://www.homeprofitcoach.com/listbuilding 

Of Sundays. What we have lost along the way.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

It is Sunday in Cambridge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The forecast is for inclement weather, buckets of rain, wide puddles to jump across, or, if you are of the distracted variety (I’m afraid I often qualify) to splash through unawares. Even with the intermittent rain, Cambridge will be on this day what Cambridge always is: a place of intellectual power, internecine academic battles often on topics of the least significance (hence their abrasiveness); a place, too, where everyone and his brother has either just written a book, is in the middle of writing a book, or is contemplating writing a book that will transform the world as we know it.

It is beautiful… it is exciting… it is lofty and drenched with youth… but there will be absolutely nothing of the traditional American Sunday here… or most anywhere else in America for that matter. That stalwart of our society is dead…. and today I lament its passing and what we have lost thereby. The great American Sunday, sacred to God, family and jackets and ties at an abundant repast, was one of them.

American values, Midwestern setting.

I grew up in Illinois, the most American of states, ultimate home of Abraham Lincoln, the epitome of American values. All states in the Glorious Republic are American, of course; Illinois is the great beating heart of this body politic.

I didn’t know, what child does, that I was, in the ‘forties and ‘fifties living through an inter-related series of cultural transformations which would, after being boiled and scorched in the cauldron of the ‘sixties, strip my family and all the other solidly middle class prairie families of too many of the verities they loved and cherished, believing them to be essential for a life of republican simplicities, moral certainties, and the resounding democratic principles on which the nation was formed. Our Sundays reflected these essential elements and sustained them.

I’d now like to share with you the contours of that Sunday, for it was good, decent, hallowed by tradition yet as fresh as the quips that flew around the highly polished dining table smelling of beeswax and elbow grease, the ample midday fare always abundant, never ostentatious.

Sunday began, for my mother at least, Saturday afternoon. It was then she did the work she hoped and was indeed confident would pass the critical scrutiny she knew her maternal peers would exact on her, her degree of proficiency in the crucial business of mothering, what manner of house keeper, wife, and mother she was, whatever observations made to circulate around the town as fast as, if not faster, than a Western Union telegram.

Fathers could afford to opt out of the crucial Saturday evening tasks for the morrow; children knew they would be called, and often more than once, to “try this on… you can’t wear that… polish those shoes at once and put them in a bag in the car ” to keep them pristine for the absolutely certain community review and commentary. My mother’s standing amidst other mothers and in the town generally depended on what she did and how she did it. And no one, but no one, was more adept at making every fine distinction and conclusion than the matrons of the town. Sure of themselves… their opinions were resounding, incontrovertible, and could never be challenged, waived, or overruled.

My mother, born and bred in Illinois, the stock of immigrants and pioneers, knew all this, none better. That’s why she was busily at work, including doing things even the most lynx-eyed matron could not see… examining linings… ensuring the car was clean inside (outside being my father’s province)…. examining, re-examining, now dubious, now, Mamie Eisenhower-like, concluding with a white glove review and then to her arrangements and personal presentation. No detail, not a single one, was ever overlooked; each according to the standards of her peers, just so.

“God shed his grace on thee.”

I am a WASP, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, my lineage boasting Scots, Germans, and waves of Englishmen. These days it is rather fashionable amidst the ill-informed and worse advised cognoscenti to pooh-pooh and even deride these nation-founding people as limited, prejudiced, arrogant, self-aggrandizing, and worse. If such things were said, even softly, about America’s other ethnic varieties, there would be mass outrage against such bigotry and discrimination. But such things are said of us with impunity, on the same principle as a “cat may look at a king.” My ethnic fellow-travelers sail on disregarding such remarks and distortions. I wish it to be understood that they are as unacceptable as any words of prejudice and bigotry.

The churches of my prairie town were of the usual variety; each had its own constituency and place in the social hierarchy. The Roman Catholics built schools and basilicas on extravagant Roman models. They were, so my grandmother would whisper, full of immigrants from Eastern Europe (the lesser half) and deluded by the incense and fripperies of Pius XII, a Protestant bug-a-bear. Just saying his name could produce a noticeable frisson.

The Protestant churches were headed, such was the residual pull of the nation we had freed ourselves from, by the Episcopal Church. Then a tie between what was still called the Congregational Church and the Methodist Church. Lesser, suspect denominations like Baptists were never discussed at all; a disapproving silence was sufficient. As for religions which sent zealots door-to-door, that was all they ever saw – the door.

My grandparents sternly approved of religion and its virtues, but rarely went to church themselves. In fact, off hand, I cannot remember seeing my grandfather at any other religious ceremony but the marriages of his 4 children and blessed relations. My parents, however, were different; for both, religion was important and as a result theological discussions, publications, arguments, visiting missionaries were commonplace. It was thought only seemly that I should, year after year, win a prize for memorizing the most Bible verses; something which has stood me in good stead to this day, when a Biblical quotation is apt.

My parents were sometimes parishioners in the Methodist Church, sometimes in the Congregational. My first memory of the latter is a stack of folding chairs suitable for the frequent church socials, all stamped “Congo.” I supposed, being geographically inclined, that meant Belgian Congo, an exotic destination of my imagination. In due course I came to be disappointed, learning it was merely an abbreviation for the church itself. Still, since many of my thousand best friends went to the “Congo,” I liked going there the best. It was simply another school, filled with familiar faces.

Arrival at church, “Congo” most of all, was an event. My parents and I pretty much knew everyone because we were related, friends, school mates, neighborhood buddies. This was the importance of Sunday, for here God, family, country all came together, scenic, vital, reassuring, important. It was the heart of the heart of America. We needed more of this in our challenged land. Instead, we have far less.

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About The Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant . Dr. Lant is also a syndicated writer and author of 18 best-selling business books. Details at http://homeprofitcoach.com/listbuilding 

‘More!’ The exclusive story of Tiger Woods and Rory McIlroy. When having everything is not enough.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Today Tiger Woods, golf legend, gazillionaire, the man of the million watt smile, from whose talents an entire industry grew and flourished, sits alone, wondering, pondering, reviewing every incident and detail.

The emperor of golf has not won a title since November 2008. In his palatial mansion, filled with the tokens of esteem and triumph which, once, seemed his to command and augment at will, a DVD player runs endless renditions of the glory days of his life… The tapes run…. but he hardly glances at them. Instead just one question runs in his brain, over and over: why?

Now thanks to this exclusive article featuring Oberon and Titania, taking time out from their long-running “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” world tour, we finally know the answer.

Frolics and hijinks of the forest elves, fairies, wizards, gnomes, et al.

The forest folk, whose antics were captured so well by Shakespeare in his play of 1590, have a problem that we humans do not share. Having eternal time at their disposal allows these immortals to do whatever they wish; problem is, there is always too much time, never enough to do…. and so, to fill the endless vistas of their limitless days, they turn to the mischievous, which they have crafted into an art form and sport.

Tiger Woods is one of their most successful creations, showing just what they can do, for good and ill, when they put their minds to it.

Titania found her 1975 Christmas presents from Oberon insufficiently magnificent and entirely unsatisfactory. Being the Queen she let him know in ways petty, irksome, and irritating that she was unhappy. The smallest traces of the herb tauri were sufficient for embarrassing oral purgings, always at the least convenient moments. He got the message and offered her whatever she wanted… She told him she wanted a human child to shape, coddle, adore. And she had just the one in mind she wanted. Burping, Oberon agreed…

Titania thereupon scheduled a great party, to take place December 30, 1975, the birth day of Eldrick Tont Woods.

Every forest dweller ever presented to Their Majesties was invited to appear, wearing full regalia, all orders, ribands, decorations and, should you be fortunate to have them, the red heeled shoes that arrested every eye and made those without writhe. Titania wished this to be her finest festival yet… and so it was; not least because each guest had been commanded to bring a gift, an attribute or skill they would bestow on the newborn child.

Much consideration went into these gifts; each wanted his to be unique, memorable, something that might catch the eye of Titania and result, it could happen, in the instant bestowal of red heels and the universal envy they occasioned.

Titania, resplendent in gossamer spun by bees at the exact moment of sunrise, a crown of iris flowers set with diamonds in her hair, greeted her guests at the top of a staircase lined with dragonflies in full iridescence, Oberon at her side… the Court Chamberlain, a Monarch Butterfly full of years and honors, announced each guest’s arrival — and gift. The cricket orchestra unveiled a new grand march….

“You will win the U.S. Amateur title 3 times.”

“You will win 4 green jackets and the excitement of the world.”

“You will drive 350 yards at will to the mortification and envy of all your colleagues.”

And so it went as afternoon merged into evening, the line of guests never slackening… each one presenting Titania with their special gift for her ward and favorite, then handing it to a powdered flunkey who artfully arranged it amongst the mound of prior presentations.

“Your balls will always avoid water and sand.”

“Every putt will appear straight as an arrow.”

“You will win more PGA events than legendary Sam Snead.”

But there was more, much more… each following their Queen’s commands to the very letter:

“You will win more majors than Jack Nicklaus.”

“You will be the only golfer to win all 4 majors in a row.”

“You will win each major (Masters, PGA, U.S. Open, British Open) at least 3 times.”

Then these…

“You will become the richest sports figure in history.”

“You will marry one of the world’s most beautiful women.”

“You will be called Tiger and the world will cheer and honor you , glad for your success, never envious.”

Now the long receiving line had dwindled; the guests rather attending to the dainty foods and cups of potent nectar. And the orchestra, weren’t they splendid tonight?

Then, as a black presence emerged, all went silent. It was Nemesis…. slow moving, her wrinkled face but little seen, swathed in black, the essence of discontent, mayhem her specialty. Titania was called, her iris headband askew, she was no friend to Nemesis, and partly feared her. “My invitation must have gone astray,” she said “I have a gift for your Tiger, too,” her voice deceptively calm, caressing. There could be no reason for refusing though Titania wished to refuse, but why spoil such a divine party? Thus Nemesis, with care, placed her gift in the cradle. It said simply: “More… Having everything will never be enough.” She then waved a wand.. and every guest fell to sleep, to awake (as partied creatures so often do) with recollection of nothing.

Year after year, the attributes so bestowed came true, the man beloved of the world, nothing too good for him, nothing begrudged. He was star-kissed, Fortuna in his pocket.

Until one day in November 2009, it all unravelled, in the testimonies of a stream of women delighted to dally with a legend, he more than they careless of his celebrity and position. The revelations were steamy, sordid, specific… the man who had everything now had universal execration and criticism too… and a whopping $750 million dollar divorce settlement to boot.

As his gilded world imploded, he asked himself as the world asked him: why had he imperiled so much for so little? It was beyond reason, beyond rational reckoning. And as he thought, the stories grew more frequent, more lurid, more damaging.

Then flashed the message of Nemesis: “More,” she reminded, the caress still in the voice, “everything will never be enough.” And now in darkened room, focused solely on this, he wondered at the trick of fate that had given everything, so ordered and ordained that it could never be adequate, satisfactory or fulfilling.

At that moment, he hears again on the television, a name he has been hearing a lot lately, Rory McIlroy, the commentator extolling his many skills, many outdoing his own. At this moment Rory is advising Tiger to stay out of competitive play, focusing on recovering his health. The sentiments are, perhaps, well intended, but their calm condescension rankles. It was then that he sees something on the floor; it’s a aide memoire from Nemesis with this message: “Not invited to Titania’s party for Rory. Crash party with usual message. It worked so well with Tiger.”

And so it does. The man with everything still has more than most anyone… but he hankers after the most important thing, whose loss will hurt forever: he no longer inspires hope, admiration, even reverence. Even were he to get everything again, these — as Nemesis conspired — are truly gone forever.

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About The Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant Dr. Lant is also a syndicated writer and author of 18 best-selling business books. Details at http://homeprofitcoach.com/listbulding

I chose life… and so should you. 347,000,000 adults now diagnosed with diabetes. How one man’s story can help you at once!

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

The number of adults with diabetes worldwide has more than doubled in three decades, to an estimated 347 million a new study says. The study, led by Goodarz Danaei of the Harvard School of Public Health and Majid Ezzati of Imperial College, London, analyzed diabetes data from 1980 to 2008. Their analysis found that 153 million people had diabetes in 1980; this number had swelled to 347 million in 2008.

Much of that increase is due to aging populations — since diabetes typically hits in middle age — and population growth, but part of it has also been fueled by rising obesity rates.

With numbers climbing almost everywhere, experts said the disease is no longer limited to rich countries and is now a global problem. Countries in which the numbers rose fastest include Cape Verde, Samoa, Saudi Arabia, Papua New Guinea, and the United States.

More alarming news.

These figures do not reflect the generations of overweight children and young adults who have yet to reach middle age. This will create a massive burden on already severely challenged health systems.

The most alarming news of all… Each of these people could take charge of their disease, but too often don’t, thereby triggering even graver health problems.

“A disease of the mouth.”

I like to say, tongue firmly in cheek, that diabetes is a disease of the mouth: open mouth, insert enough of the wrong things, get disease and all its myriad of complications. I should know; I’m one of the world’s aging diabetics. Now 64, I was diagnosed about 50.

The day my blunt, most direct physician delivered the news he asked me one question: “Do you want to live longer or shorter?” I chose longer; he then laid on me exactly what I needed to do to achieve the objective of more time and that of the highest quality. While hardly an ideal patient, I was more than willing to make the necessary changes in diet and lifestyle. Not only willing but committed and determined to do so. Once over 205 chunky pounds, my 5′ 10 1/2″ frame is now a lean 157 pounds… with all other numbers appropriate; something to write home about, especially since I can wear the same trousers I wore in graduate school 40 years ago! Can you?

What I have learned along the way.

I want to say, right from the get-go, that I am NOT playing physician here; you need to consult yours at regular intervals as I do. Still, diabetes seems to me a disease tailor-made for personal management. There are things, lots of things, you can do to improve your situation. Here’s what works for me:

1) Take ownership of your disease and decide whether you want to gamble with your life by doing little or nothing.

The great thing about diabetes is that its improvement or deterioration is very much in your hands. If you take charge in a positive, pro-active manner you are going to improve. if you persist in fighting your diagnosis and what you can do, right at home, too, you won’t. In other words, you can be adult about it… or select adolescent petulance.

2) Don’t try to change everything overnight; do start making changes at once. Remember, diabetes and what you do to manage it is a marathon, not a sprint. This is a disease without (just yet) a cure; it’s a disease that’s with you sleeping and waking. You cannot, therefore, do something today and then ignore it. With diabetes you’re fighting a war, not a battle. Treat it accordingly.

3) Clean out your cupboards… clean out your refrigerator.

If you don’t have readily at hand the destructive things… the high sugar drinks, the cakes and bakery goods… all the things that work against your success and create long-term problems, so much the better.

If you don’t have readily at hand the bad things and have to make a special effort to go out and get them, you will, perforce, ingest less.

4) Don’t think in terms of diets and deprivations. Think in terms of the additional life and time you’re getting.

We live in a culture that screams “I want this and I want this NOW!” We are all influenced by the “I’m worth it and I’m going to have it” mentality. Thus you need practical ways to overcome these insidious influences.

To start with, never call what you’re doing a “diet”. Diets are about depriving yourself; think instead of buying your life back from the pawn shop. When you eat bad things you’re cutting time off your life; when you make the necessary changes, you buy yourself back.

5) Count to 10.

Before you drink that sugary concoction or take another bite of your favorite confection, count to 10. This gives your brain time to remind you that you probably can live without the indiscretion you are about to make. The sequence goes like this: want. stop. count to 10.

Now, if you do this and still eat the offending morsel, even two, don’t collapse with guilt and recrimination. Just resolve to do better next time… because you can be sure there WILL be a next time, and many such.

6) Eat all day.

Still eating big, set meals that leave you breathless and bloated? These constitute an assault on the body. Stop it now!

Instead eat frequently throughout the day, small portions that satisfy and which your previously overworked body can handle.

Start eating fresh fruit… nuts… small snacks of maximum protein and nutrition, minimum sugars, calories, carbohydrates. Make the portions small but make their ingestion frequent. Your body knows its work. Don’t overfeed… graze instead. All day long.

7) Make breakfast your most important meal.

You’ve got a lot to accomplish today. You’re going to need a lot of energy and stamina. Thus, you must make breakfast your most important meal. Don’t even dream of stinting here. Breakfast constitutes the launching pad for a successful day. Treat it accordingly. By comparison never, ever eat your biggest meal at the end of the day or evening. Your body can’t handle it and shouldn’t have to try.

Before bed, give yourself a snack, fruit (raisons are always a treat), popcorn. You get the idea. Go to bed satisfied, sleep satisfied, wake up in productive good humor.

You’ll start seeing — and feeling — results at once.

The great thing about managing your diabetes is that if you follow these sensible suggestions, you’ll start seeing results at once. For one thing (and very gratifying it is) your weight will start to drop… reverting to your body’s natural weight. And as you see and feel that occurring, you’ll be spurred to keep on truckin’, towards the Promised Land.

As you go, as you achieve results, reward yourself. You deserve it, not least because you are doing what every one of the 347 million afflicted should be doing… but aren’t. Now that you are on your way to success, print this article and share it with a friend. It’s one of the privileges of your improved situation and state of mind. Use it… and help someone you know and love. Someday they’ll throw their arms around you and tell you you saved their life. And it’ll be true…

* * * * *
About The Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Dr. Lant is also a syndicated writer and author of 18 best-selling business books. Details at worldprofit.com and JeffreyLantArticles.com

out Worldprofit Home Business

Click to verify BBB accreditation and to see a BBB report.At Worldprofit, our business is making your online home business more profitable. Since 1994, Worldprofit has been helping people around the world build their own successful home based business. From humble upstarts on a kitchen table, Worldprofit has grown to become not only the # 1 choice for an online home business but also the most comprehensive source for training in online marketing and SEO strategies.  Our customers have come to refer to us as,  the Home Business Experts.

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Original co-founders of Worldprofit Inc., Sandi Hunter and George Kosch are all involved with the day to day activities of this company.   These two  put their faces and skills out there to meet with customers and dealers daily to help them build their business.

Worldprofit Inc., is an Accredited Business, and longtime member of the Better Business Bureau of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada.



by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s program note. Today is the first day of spring. I open the shutters, strictly closed against the dreary winter just passed. It is vibrant… it is radiant… it is the sun as we have not seen it for some months now.

Of course, being that we are in New England, we must take nothing for granted. The calendar says spring, but I reckon winter has at least one great blast left for us. Heavy wet snow in the morning, melted by afternoon.

Spring is to me a reminder, personally delivered, saying summer visitors are just around the corner. Prepare. If you’re not organized, they’ll come anyway, but you’ll be forced to tell each of them the facts that follow. This is time consuming, and results in visitors being given different “tours”… some long and leisurely, others rushed, because I have other things to do.

This year I intend to approach the matter differently. And so I am writing for you, dear traveler, the facts I feel that you must have and know about this place you are visiting. For this is no ordinary place, as you will soon see, and it would be most unfortunate if you came and went without knowing why it is so distinctive and significant.

How history should be told

I have been a writer on historical subjects for over 50 years. I am now clear on what it takes to write history that people will read and understand. For the goal of history is never to exult the writer, but to inform the reader.

The worst possible way of doing this is to rely on dates to carry the story. Pilgrims came here on such and such a date. Abraham Lincoln visited on such and such a date. George and Martha Washington were resident here from such and such a date to such and such a date.

This is not history; this is a historical obstacle course. It may work for crossword puzzles, but it does not do if you want to know and retain something of significance about this or any other place. Dates are significant only to provide clarity on just when certain things happened. But if you say nothing but dates, you must perforce bore your audience.

It is hardly any wonder why so many youngsters in our school systems rate history at the bottom of their favorite classes and groan about the dates they were forced to memorize.

But history is not a matter of dates alone, it is a matter of people… what they did, when they did it, how they did it, why they did it. And so history becomes the greatest subject of all, for it is about all of us, each in our turn, each in our way, each in our time.

So now I want you to join me on the north side of the Cambridge Common. It is where I have lived for the last 40 years or so. This does not necessarily mean that I know anything about the place, for the mere passing of time or close proximity does not confer insight or a credible understanding of what is all around me on any given day.

It is my intention that when you put down this article and come and visit, you will be prepared for the great stories that took place just steps away, and which shaped a nation and the lives of millions.

We begin.


The Pilgrims landed in North America in 1620. Most were sick. All were debilitated. Many died. No one emerged unscathed. These people came through the terrible North Atlantic in pursuit of the God who governed and directed them.

They landed at Plymouth Rock, and were so bereft of provisions that when they found a few Indian graves near the beach, they ransacked these tombs for corn and other foodstuffs and devoured the contents. The colony hung by a thread through the long terrible winter of 1621. The spirit may have been willing, but the bodies, frail and pathetic, were weak.

It took them a full decade to arrive at what was then called Newtowne. Sir Richard Saltonstall, from a prominent English family, landed his party at a bend in the Charles River. And to show you how little time has elapsed from that event, I used to banter with Senator William Saltonstall, a direct descendant, in summers at Manchester-by-the-Sea. We must not, therefore, think of the Pilgrims as far distant, but as much closer to us than we usually allow.

The Pilgrims were motivated by two great objectives. One, and always prime, was their direct relationship with God. They also wanted to know what was “out there”. To understand these early days and what has come since, we must do the conjuring trick of erasing from our minds any idea, anything we consider modern, and put ourselves precisely in the shoes of the Pilgrims, whose survival on this continent was not guaranteed, and for whom longevity seemed an elusive possibility.

Nonetheless, they regularly sent out scouting parties to see what they could see of the natives, who they knew were there, and of the many things they knew nothing about at all. Thus what takes the modern traveler just about 53 minutes by car, from Plymouth to Cambridge, took ten years… with no path, no guide, not even wayward hearsay and gossip to enlighten them. We must never forget how far they went when going anywhere at all was a matter of faith and determination.

In due course, they arrived at Newtowne, a place of swamps and disease. Their needs were basic and immediate… which leads to the first macabre tale. On the south side of the Common, just up a bit from what much later became Harvard Square, you will find a cemetery… unkempt… a place for vagrants… an outdoor urinal. Thus showing there is no respect for the dead.

This, curiously enough, was a Puritan belief as well. The first cemetery that was placed on that sight offered no reverence for the dead. Pilgrims who died were thrown over the parapet to be eaten by beasts. There is no demarcation left of just where this way of burial was handled. The marks have been lost over time.

It often puzzled me why the bodies were treated with such scant respect… but then I began to think of all these Pilgrims had to do to keep body and soul together under the most unhappy circumstances. There was simply too much to do, and too few to do it to worry about whether the mourning niceties had been kept. Thus once the spirit left the body, the body was thrust away, a thing of no significance whatsoever, and treated accordingly.

Created in 1630

The Cambridge Common was created in 1630. It was a place for the members of the congregation to pasture their cows and other livestock. The enclosure movement, which rocked English society in the 18th Century, was not yet common in North America. The communal land that constitutes the Common was therefore at the heart of their way of living.

It was not that they necessarily liked each other, it was that they needed each other. And perhaps the worst thing that can happen to a people is they no longer need each other, and so become careless about their relations, thus leading to terrible social consequences.

On the Common, just 8.5 acres in size, more was going on than just tethering animals on common ground. When you stand in the middle of the Common as I have done so many times over 40 years, you must be aware of the great events that occurred all around you.

First, in the 17th Century, the sheer arrival of these people and their inspiring trek to religious freedom for all constituted an event of epic importance. This was the first place in the world where genuine freedom of belief came to exist. Of course, it didn’t happen without incident or tragedy. No great event involving religion has ever taken place without brutality and intolerance. It seems that every culture says, in its own way, “I love me, so I have no regard for thee.”

The true message of New England and of the Common is that here, people finally came to grips with the necessity for tolerance and diversity… which ultimately became the 1st Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. Look around you now… if you are a believer, you are welcome here to believe. If you are a non believer, you are welcome here to believe nothing more than you care to. These are grand ideas, by no means inevitable.

Unfortunately, of course, not everyone agreed. And so, on the perimeter along what is now Massachusetts Avenue, there is a plaque, so often covered with weeds, commemorating the migration in 1636 of the Reverend Thomas Hooker from his intolerable situation.

It is worth noting that not only was religious diversity advanced here, but the rights of women too. Anne Hutchinson (1591-1643) was not only a significant theologian, but she was a woman doing the theological work of men, suffering accordingly. This is why, when you look upon the Common, you must see first intolerance, then slowly diversity. Cambridge showed the way and still does.

Education, the next great event.

The first thing the Puritans had to do was secure hearth and home. This took some time, but as soon as they had done so, they created an educational system not just for themselves, but for, in due course, the general public.

Here, the significant name to keep in mind is John Bridge (1578-1665), Puritan. John Bridge had a goal, and that goal was to see an educated people… people who could help themselves solve problems and run a democracy where each man had a vote… an idea which had lay dormant in ancient Greece for 2,000 years.

He believed that there could be no salvation without understanding, and there could be no understanding without education. Bridge was obviously a very talented, even charismatic leader, though little in fact is known about him. He arrived in Cambridge in 1632, where he became the supervisor of the first public school established in Cambridge (1635). He served as deacon of the church from 1636 to 1658, and represented the people in the Great and General Court from 1637 to 1641.

As a result of his leadership, Cambridge quickly became the most intelligent and well educated town in North America… a designation it has never lost in over 350 years.

To commemorate his groundbreaking work, which became a pattern for the new nation, and for every other nation, a large and imposing monument was erected on the Cambridge Common on September 20, 1882. It was given by Samuel James Bridge, of the sixth generation from John Bridge. It stands there to this day… certain, arresting, confident. Here is a man who dared to dream the great dreams, and his great dream was to uplift the downtrodden, the needy, persecuted, and disdained. The public school you went to, wherever it was located, owes a debt to John Bridge and his work in Cambridge.

N.B. John Bridge’s descendants kept up their work in providing impacting and instructional monuments. Each was the embodiment of a great idea. Thus, when Harvard College decided in 1884 to depict its founder, John Harvard, there were no likenesses to be had, for there are no known pictures or other representations of the founder.

As a result, Sherman Hoar (1860-1898), a member of the class of 1882, was selected as the model for the seated figure known worldwide, a symbol of youth, determination, and idealism. The Bridge family financed this great work by Daniel Chester French (1850-1931), the famous sculptor who designed the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C. Lines of people queue for the privilege of rubbing his boot for luck.


In 1775, Cambridge had a population of about 1,500. It was a town where education was valued and God was revered. It was also a town swept by the hot winds of freedom, liberty, justice, and equality… every one a key concept of the late 18th Century intelligentsia.

Later, the famous English poet William Wordsworth (1770-1850) said of the French Revolution “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven!” That sentiment, if not Wordsworth’s exact words, defined Cambridge in the years of Revolution. Revolutions, after all, are made by the youth who believe the resplendent sentiments which enthrall, captivate, and bewitch them, so motivated no discomfort matters.. nothing matters… but the great thoughts which are the very gospel to them, and which justify anything.

This was Cambridge, on the threshold of revolution. Look before you, and consider the situation as the participants must have done. This great idea came alive on the Common. On these grounds, now more accustomed to frisbees and soccer balls, General George Washington took plow boys and transformed them into soldiers, and ultimately these soldiers into victory.

Washington moved daily from his grand home on Brattle Street, confiscated from the town’s leading merchant Henry Vassal, who remained loyal to the Crown. Washington on a pleasant day like this would walk to his office in what is now Harvard Yard, just a few blocks away. He was a great man. He was a man who might have been king. Nonetheless he stopped along the way, to check on the well being of his troops. This is what good leaders do.

When you see the Common, you must imagine it as it was in its various stages. Troops during the Revolution slept under hastily erected tents, which might mean bringing the materials from home, since the commissary of the newly formed United States was meager, and there was no money for amenities. Men grew hardened under such circumstances or they died; there was no middle ground.

What you must consider when you look about the Common is how they lived their lives. Many of them died through disease. The biggest problem of course was what to do with all the human waste, and that of the horses. It was noisome… it was dangerous. And the camp on the Common teetered on the brink of demise from disease.

The great figures of the Revolution were not nearly as important just then as the people who discarded the waste and kept disease at bay. But the great figures came nonetheless. In due course they included the household names of the Revolution: the Marquis de Lafayette (1757-1834), Washington’s pet, who returned to Cambridge as part of his great American tour of 1825… General Tadeusz Kościuszko (1746-1817), who came to America with liberty on his lips… and General Henry Knox (1750-1806), whose men brought more than 60 tons of cannons and other armaments from Ticonderoga to Cambridge, approximately 200 miles, step by aching step… an achievement of genius.

We should remember, too, Martha Washington. She was in 1775 age 44, a lady of great charm and resources, who brought jellies and other dainties from Mt. Vernon… her kit packed with smiles and cool hands.

Last words

I hope now through these brief words you understand why I regard these handful of acres as among the very most important and significant in our entire history. Personally, I feel blessed at the thought that I am able to advance and maintain the work necessary to keep the true meaning of this worthy place vibrant and alive, forever.

It is a thrill and it is necessary, for without people who remember history, there will be no history to remember.

Musical note

I have selected to accompany this article the “Old 100th” hymn. Composed in 1551 by Loys Bourgeois, it is arguably the most well known hymn in the Christian repertoire. It is very probably the first hymn rendered by the Pilgrims upon their arrival, although because there are many versions of the lyrics, we cannot be sure which ones the Pilgrims used.

“All people that on earth do dwell,
Sing to the Lord with cheerful voice.
Him serve with fear, His praise forth tell;
Come ye before Him and rejoice.”

And so, taking their strength from God’s mercy, they found the wherewithal to confront another day.

Click here to listen.

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.


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!



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

Money-making Schemes with Your Captivating Ebook

You can never underestimate the power of the ebooks. After all, there are too many benefits a reader can get from them. First of all, they?re quite easy to make. As long as you have a topic to write about, outline, and a compiler or converter, you?re good to go. Also, you can allow your ebook to earn higher revenue for you and your business.

Here are the different ways on how you can increase your profits by selling or creating your own ebook:

1. Create your own ebook. This is one of the traditional ways on how you can earn your money through your ebook. You can then sell them for a good price, depending on your topic. Easier ones can go as low as $5; those that are more difficult to discuss can be as expensive as $20. Nevertheless, you can?t simply produce your own ebook. There are a number of things that you have to consider. First of all, it?s ideal if you can develop your outline. This is to ensure that you don?t get lost while you?re in the process of building up your pages.

Because you?re banking on your contents, you also have to focus on your writing style. The best-sellers are those that sound conversational, where technical terms are carefully explained in layman?s terms. You can also try to add some images and tables to further emphasize the different points of your ebook. Don?t forget to include subheadings. It will be more convenient for your readers to scan and read your ebook. After all, you can?t really expect them to read the ebook from cover to cover.

2. Sell your ebook rights to your buyers. When it comes to your ebooks, you don?t have to limit them to your direct customers. It can even be viral if you can allow your buyers to resell them to their own targeted customers. Moreover, it will also increase the traffic going into your website, if you have embedded links into your ebooks.

3. You can carry advertisements in your ebook. Do you have some free space in your ebook? Why don?t you sell them to different advertisers? This is also one of the best ways on how you can practically earn more money through your ebooks. However, don?t wait for your ebook to be near completion before you can actually look for advertisers. Even in your planning stage, you can already approach some of them. Nevertheless, because there are a number of them who may not be too keen on having their ads on your ebook before it?s finished, you can talk to your webmaster-friends. Surely, they?ll be glad to put up some of their banners and text ads in your ebooks.

4. Sell your licenses. You can actually sell the license of your content to companies and markets that may be related to your chosen niche. A good catch, though, is to provide a license fee for your ebook. This way, they can make use of the data and information in your ebook to further their growth while you continuously earn from their usage of your material.

You see, there?s definitely money in ebooks. What?s more, you don?t have to settle for long pages. What?s basically essential is you can express your thoughts properly and concisely.

Howard Martell is the Owner of http://HomeProfitCoach.com“. Check us out anytime for marketing tips and a free subscription to our cutting edge newsletter. Check out CashBlurbs ->  http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=gl6G20HS