Them Dawgs Don’t Hunt

“Travel is only glamorous in retrospect.”

Paul Theroux (1941 - ), Washington Post

Another first is eclipsed as I sit once again in the Philadelphia Tarpits waiting for the last possible plane ride back home. Funny my plans never include a trip to Philadelphia, but it appeared as the only hope left in a weather challenged world. I am continuously reminded of the old W.C. Fields quote “I spent a week in Philadelphia one day.” The scent of misfortune hung in the air like a rotting carcass when I looked at the ignorant itinerary a misguided travel agent booked for me. I can no longer stomach dealing with rookie travel agents whose only travel experience is between home and grandma’s house a couple blocks around the corner. They have little idea of what each of the destinations mean as they scroll though the list of possible connections. I have decided to forego using travel agents for the rest of my life. It is my greatest source of aggravation, much like I’m the dog of stupid dog tricks.

The first leg of my ill advised itinerary included a three hour delay in Chicago O’Hara on United while heading to Wilkes Barre. The very first thing they need to teach a new travel agent is the greatest opportunity for complete failure is flying into O’Hara anytime between December and December. In other words the only reason to fly United to Chicago is to get stranded in the airport, get a free roundtrip ticket you will never be able to use and acquire a consolation gift cheap shave kit that will rip the skin off your face like a serrated knife. In other words steer clear of O’Hara like it is ground zero for the black plague. Unfortunately in my quest for simplicity I decided to allow my client to carry my travel cost by using their inept travel agent and travel account.

The brutal carnage in O’Hara is no longer a surprise, if fact the long lines of anger red faced businessmen screaming at arrogant stone faced heartless gate agents surrounded by hordes of abandon families sleeping on the floor seems quite normal these days. The chaos is reminiscent of the fifth level of Dante’s Inferno,a place of constant pain and suffering requiring an eternity to endure. The scene at O’Hara is now so commonplace that it is not really worth writing about on the average travel day. My late night arrival at Wilkes Barre at 1:30 in the morning was only memorable because the airport did not have a single taxi waiting at ground transportation. Apparently the taxi drivers don’t like to drive down from Scranton to wait for fares, so it is necessary to wait for 30 minutes before the dispatcher can convince some bored Somalia to jump in his brother’s car and pick you up. I’m always thrilled about get into my hotel room at 2:30 am, knowing my meeting with the client is scheduled for 8:00 am on the opposite side of town.

The three days of meetings in Wilkes Barre was intensive and demanding with interactive sessions occurring all day then followed by the design team to working late into the night to refine solutions. This rigorous mental activity is always enhanced with sleep deprivation, poor dietary habits and excess consumption of caffeine. Compounding this type of impromptu business gymnastics is the usual array of technological complications, a broken scanner in the business center, the plotter at the printing service with a drive belt on back order, the compatibility issues between the computer networks and blackberry that receives email but won’t send.

On the last day we begin to allow ourselves the luxury of thinking about traveling back home to a familiar environment and some simple comforts. Reading the newspaper during breakfast dispelled any hope that the return trip would be easy with a front page lead story of “Chicago cancels over 400 Flights Due to Weather”. The dominos have been falling for the last 24 hours and there is no place in the entire aviation system that won’t be impacted by this severe hemorrhage. The team members begin watching flight status lists on the internet as the cancellations cascade both east and south. Wilkes Barre is a smaller regional airport with flight options that are extremely limited.

It didn’t take long to find out my United flight back through Chicago is cancelled. The call to our inexperienced travel agent revealed that she that booked me on the only available flight from Wilkes Berre without clearing it with me. With such a proud sense of accomplishment she told me that it was all taken care of and I was rescheduled on Delta from Wilkes Barre to Atlanta to Cincinnati to Kansas City. I truly think she was offended when I told her I would rather have her cut off my left nut and force feed it to me than to embark on visiting all nine levels of Dante’s inferno in a single day. With bad weather already a known factor how can anyone think that going through Atlanta and Cincinnati would accomplish anything but cause me great distress. Delta is the canary in the coal mine for the airline industry, the first sign of trouble Delta drops dead. In biology we would call Delta an indicator species, it’s the first place trouble is evident in a system. This is coupled with five bad experiences on Delta in Atlanta and another four bad experiences in Cincinnati on Comair, Delta’s dysfunctional little sister. This is absolutely the last place in the world to send me.

During one of my long stays in the Cincinnati is decided to look for a new name for the faltering airline. Delta is the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet and in mathematics is the symbol used to represent change. While I like the concept of change and foward thinking Delta is no longer worthy of the name with its frozen brutal uncaring approach. I carefully looked over each of the other Greek letters and their associated symbols and meanings in order to find a new replacement which better represent the airline. I was about ready to pick Iota meaning insignificance when I found that in court transcripts a small Delta represent the word defendant. How appropriate, maybe Delta is named correctly, we just need to change the capitalization.

Talking into my cell phone in a firm but decided tone I informed the travel agent that her first attempt at getting me home was a disaster and she should get back online to try again. Recognizing my own personal need to understand the situation I grab a computer. My first website I pull up is Google maps in order to determine other adjacent airports with better travel options than Wilkes Berre. Newark Airport is a two hour drive east but flights are typically full and most flights to Kansas City travel north into the problematic weather, not a particularly positive solution. Philadelphia is a two and a half hour drive south but it is the “tarpits” , a place where no one ever seems to escape alive. I’m still using solvent to remove tar and feathers from me from my last visit to Philadelphia Airport. However Southwest Airlines does have a direct flight from Philadelphia to Kansas City which is a reasonable option. I notice that driving to Philadelphia we pass Allentown, a city with a bit larger regional airport, which could have some options only an hour drive away.

The next step is to jump on the travel sites and look at available flights from Allenstown. In a minute a long list of options flash on the screen. Scrolling down the list the options, the obvious problem connections are discarded, Chicago already closed, Cleveland weather heading that way, Atlanta just because it’s Atlanta, Washington the delays are already piling up. Wait a minute, Charlotte appears and that airport is never crowded. The flight times are perfect plus they only want $450 for the ticket. This is truly my best option to get home tonight, a one hour drive and a connection through Charlotte. Before I can contact the travel agent, she calls me to inform me that the Cincinnati leg of the flight I was booked on was canceled. I must be psychic to realize that Cincinnati was a one way street to nowhere. It’s not that hard to understand especially if you travel frequently. I make the suggestion to fly from Allentown connecting in Charlotte on US Airlines, only to find in her eagerness to make up for her two stupid move she has booked me on an American Airline flight from Philadelphia connecting in Dallas. It is a lost cause that even Saint Michael could not remedy. Our modern world needs a new Saint for stupid travel agents so I can pray for their souls. The team is already loading the van for our unscheduled drive to Philadelphia. Reluctantly with a resignation of knowing with high certainty what my future is to be, I toss my travel bag into the trunk and jump into the passenger’s seat.

At first I am concerned with the high rate of speed our van was traveling until I find out that since we were switching airlines, the travel agent could not complete the reservation, so we have to get to the Philadelphia gate agent by 4:00 pm in order to convert our reservation into real seats on the flight. I look at my watch and note that it is12:45 with a two hour drive ahead of us. I silently realize that this is not going to happen and decide that it is every man for him self once we arrive at the Philadelphia airport. Without anyone noticing I fire up my computer, turn my broadband card, and start surfing for options out of Philadelphia, because by the time everyone get though the long customer service lines those reserved tickets will be long gone. I focus on a Midwest Airline connecting in Milwaukee. It’s a long shot since the Philadelphia delays may be such that I will probably miss the connection. Hoping for the best I booked the last seat on the 6:45 flight to Milwaukee without anyone in the van knowing what I was attempting. It was a selfish act of self preservation, I not going to the slaughterhouse without attempting an escape.

The high speed steeple chase ends with a furious gauntlet in Philadelphia rush hour traffic. Frantically we bolt from the rental car and jump the shuttle bus to the terminal. Each of the team members is balanced between sheer exhaustion and debilitating panic as they fidget in the fake leather seats. At the first stop the shuttle bus driver announces Terminal A which includes Midwest Airlines at which point I jump off the shuttle. I can hear the team member yelling at me that I’m not at the correct Terminal. I turn and reply “Sorry but you all are headed to a fool’s paradise and I would rather try to get home tonight. I release you all from any responsibility for my wellbeing.” Smiling I glance back to see three stunned faces wondering what went wrong with the plan, why the break in ranks?

Finding the Midwest Airline service desk I am the second in line behind an irate older businessman in a dark three piece suit who is reading the gate agent the riot act trying impress upon him just how important a traveler he is. The gate agent is restrained and polite as the egomaniac denounces every aspect of company policy, finally moving on to a personal attack on the gate agent’s character. This rant continues for over twenty minutes as the line of customers grows behind me. Apparently in his ignorance or more likely arrogance, this savvy world traveler decided not to come to the airport to check in since his flight was delayed for three hours and because of this failure to report his seat was released and given to another passenger. Unfortunately because of the weather delays the flight became oversold and there was no longer a seat to give him. In fact all the flights for the rest of the night were oversold and the alone option for this grotesque tyrant is to book a flight tomorrow.

Finally the gate agent realizes that this barking Philadelphia bulldog is not going to leave until he wins some sort of concession from the airline and this gate agent in particular. In a worthless gesture the gate agent decides to get the line moving again by offering Mr. Big a standby ticket on the last flight out. Waving the ticket as a captured enemy flag and cursing the soul of every airline employees he stomps off to spend the next three hours waiting at the gate with his worthless gesture for a flight he will never get on.

Feeling sorry for the gate agent I try to open the conversation in a conciliatory gesture. “Man, how did you ever keep your cool? I’m sorry I would have finally told that jerk where he could stuff that ticket. Why can’t they realize that it’s the weather isn’t not you?”

The gate agent looks up and shows a slight smile relieved from the past hour of abuse “How can I help you?”

Having just over heard the status of every flight heading to Milwaukee, I realize that my flight is also delayed three hours and there is no way of making my connection. I began in a voice which coveys the hopelessness of the situation, “Thanks, I was trying to get home to Kansas City tonight, but I understand that could be a long shot. I’ve got an interview tomorrow and getting to Milwaukee tonight would help a lot. No offense, but getting out of Philadelphia just suits me fine.”

Without responding the gate agent begins to diligently work at typing away at the computer in front of him. After about five minutes he looks up and hands me my ticket with a bit of a funny grin across his face. “You need to hurry and get to Gate 12.” At this point I’m confused since my flight is leaving from gate 17 and I know it is delayed three hours.

My confusion becomes evident and he explains “Don’t tell anyone but I put you on the earlier flight which was also delayed three hours, but is now just getting ready to push off from gate 12. The flight you were originally on is delayed long enough that you would miss your connection in Milwaukee and need to spend the night.” The slight grin on his face erupts into a huge smile as he tells me the punch line. Slightly leaning over the counter he whispers “I gave you the seat of that bastard that was giving me such a hard time. You better hurry it was the last seat on the plane.” I chuckle while thanking him profusely, finally ending our shared secret with a warm handshake. “Can’t tell you how much that makes my day.”

The shock begins to wear off as I hurry to my gate realizing that this gesture of kindness will allow me to make it home less than two hours late. Most gratifying is that it will be at the expense of Mr. Big, the arrogant business traveler that knew how to bully the system and ended up waiting another three hours before he is told of go away and come back tomorrow. Quite an accomplishment all things considered. The travel gods are smiling. Finally sitting in my seat it occurs to me that I was booked on eleven separate flights today and the revenge of the gate agent allowed me safe passage home.

As I’m settling into the seat my cell phone rings with one of the team members. “Mr. Blue, You wouldn’t believe it, we stood in line for almost two hours and when we got to the desk they had given away our seats. We are now headed back to your terminal, they told us there is room on the delayed Midwest flight to Milwaukee, but we’ll miss our connection and need to spend the night. Are you still on that flight?”

With a slight feeling of guilt I acknowledge “No I was able to jump a different flight and will make the Milwaukee connection.”

“Good for you. How did you know to break rank and head to Midwest Airline?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time and I just knew by looking at the situation that dog don’t hunt. By the way say thanks to your travel agent, I think it might be a long time before I talk with her again”

The voice on the other end of the phone sadly confirm the thought “Yeah I know what you mean”

“Travel only with thy equals or thy betters; if there are none, travel alone.”

The Dhammapada

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay

Matthew Arnold (1822 –1888)

Summertime

Self Portrait

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

But till that morning
There's a'nothing can harm you
With daddy and mamma standing by

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

Billie Holiday

Et tu, Brute!

“God defend me from my friends; from my enemies I can defend myself.”
Proverb

The cruelest of indignities is the betrayal of a member of the inner most circle of trust. For me to achieve closure and put a lingering disappointment behind, it is necessary for me to understand that over the course of a long and prominent career your closest business associates will eventually take measure of your success and gauge their own achievements by challenging for your crown. I’ve always been proud of our office culture which provides an environment to develop the most talented and capable professionals in the industry. In doing so our staff of professionals is a highly recruited and a valuable asset in the marketplace. Creating professionals of exceptional caliber requires full disclosure, complete trust and mentoring in every aspect of our vocation, especially professional ethics. I’ve joked with clients for years stating that “I mentor my staff so completely that they will eventually become my competition.” I must now swallow my disappointment and take pride that I now compete in a marketplace that is filled with successful capable professionals that I have nurtured and mentored.

Professional ethics and honor has been the cornerstone of my beliefs. It is only when we hold our actions above reproach that we preserve integrity and public trust. The failure of any of my staff or former staff to embrace ethics as a foundation of the profession is inherently a failure of my leadership, a failure that burdens me personally. It now seems ironic that last week I interviewed for a significant project exclusively against former employees. For the other team, the process seemed to be less about service to the client and more about the personal gratification of putting the old man in his place. I was completely willing to dismiss this amateur and misguided fervor as immaturity and jealousy if we were successful in winning the commission. Unfortunately their zest in teaching me a lesson blinded their business sense and by offering to give their services away at a huge discount under market rate the client felt obligated to put all that cash back in his pocket.

The most painful and sobering betrayal was the fact that the entire revolt against me was orchestrated by an individual that I cultivated to be my heir apparent in the organization. It was the person I vested my greatest efforts and endured my greatest failures, but always was fully committed to development of what I considered exceptional potential. Our relationship began over twenty five years ago when I hired him as an intern out of college. We shared a relationship as close as any family. After close collaboration while he was in various positions with other organizations I decided to open an office for him in another city. He initially took great pride in the fact that he was a principal of an office in his early thirty’s. Unfortunately pride did not translate into a sufficient commitment to make the office successful. Eventually after three struggling years and the personal challenge of his wife finding him screwing the neighbor’s wife, he walked away from the office leaving me a pile of uncollected invoices.

Undaunted by my previous experiences and convinced in his exceptional potential we tried again to open another office a few years later after a period of maturing. I decided that the first failure was the result of a lack of ownership and personal investment so we created a company in which he was majority owner. Understanding his weakness in all items financial, I controlled accounting and payroll. After another struggling three years of me hounding him on revenues, collections and payables, he convinced himself that he would be more responsive if he had his wife assume the accounting responsibilities, which I reluctantly agreed to. Within six months he was out of business leaving again piles of uncollectible invoices, unsecured business loans and worst of all unpaid payroll taxes. This time because of his joint ownership of the company he was unable to avoid the severe personal financial obligations of his decisions. He always rationalized the failure as a causality of the economic turndown after 9/11. In reality he was so distracted by outside personal interests such as coaching his kid’s soccer team and attending community functions what he allowed his employees to run the office. I got never the impression he really invested in the success of his business. Eventually I lost my initial investment and ended up paying over thirty five thousand dollars of his payroll taxes.

It has always been my unalterable believe that you do not abandon family and I considered this individual as family. Upon reflecting on our second failure I believed that he would thrive in a closer relationship in which he was not responsible for business management but could be allowed to fully express his potential. It this point I moved him and his family to town to work in my office. Although this was the most logical arrangement he was mentally devastated by his previous business failures and incredible personal financial insolvency never finding a comfortable position in our operations. After three years of again struggling with meeting financial expectation of the organization and personality conflicts with other senior staff he decided to once again abandon our relationship. I recall his words as he handed in his resignation. “I have chosen this new position especially because they don’t compete with you. Please be assured that I would never want to pursue your clients.”

It is difficult to find the sincerity of his words as he was my project manager for the first phase of this project that we now are competing against each other for phase two, less than 18 months later. How do I release the bitter taste of this betrayal by the closest of friends, of which I have invested hundreds of thousands dollars in his failures? How do I let go of the urge to punish or ridicule this grievous offence I feel? Sadness and incredible disappointment fills my every thought on how little our relationship was valued.

"We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them."

Anais Nin (1903 - 1977)

In the end I must consider their actions as a tribute to the kingdom I have built, for defeating me gives them such immense pleasure. In their minds they have beaten the best and can now rank as my equals. For me it has never been about us, it has been for the greater good of the profession in that a rising tide raises all boat. Longevity is not measured in individual projects but in career of exemplary projects and in preservation of integrity. Success is not measured in individual conquests but in valued relationships maintained along the way.

"In all things preserve integrity; and the consciousness of thine own uprightness will alleviate the toil of business, soften the hardness of ill-success and disappointments, and give thee an humble confidence before God, when the ingratitude of man, or the iniquity of the times may rob thee of other rewards."

Barbara Paley

"It is the nature of ambition to make men liars and cheats, to hide the truth in their breasts, and show, like jugglers, another thing in their mouths, to cut all friendships and enmities to the measure of their own interest, and to make a good countenance without the help of good will."

Sallust (86 BC - 34 BC)

Beyond Sight of Shore

Moon Rise from Deck on the Bay of Fundy, Nova Scotia.

Photo by Mr. Blue.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Life & Death

Photo by Mr. Blue

"To know how to grow old is the master work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living."

Henri Frederic Amiel

Le Bec-Less

Market Street was filled with the Friday night summer mix of tourists, beggars and businessmen as I walked to my extravagantly overpriced hotel in Philadelphia. I had just completed an eight hour seminar for a group of interested professionals who had each paid five hundred dollars to hear me pontificate. The organization for which I am speaking tends to treat their lecturers well in order to keep them interested in undertaking the grueling task of carrying a full eights hours of lecturing without support or assistance. Even I had to admit that my 16th floor hotel suite was stunning.

The sleek and ultramodern wrap around windows provided me a king’s view of old Ben Franklin sitting atop of City Hall in the city center of Philadelphia. This type of luxury and opalescence can easily wash away the hours of drudgery standing before a crowd of thirty. In the back of my mind was a desire to step the experience up a level and treat myself to a guilty pleasure. My benefactors have yet to reject any expense associated with this lecture series, so I decided to find out what levels of excess they might approve. Why not? I had just earned the organization somewhere in the neighborhood of $10,000. With an eager anticipation I jumped on my computer and began surfing the web for the object of my desire.

For decades I have been traveling to Philadelphia for business, conferences and interviews and have always told myself as I walked past its doors that I would one day venture in and treat myself to pure indulgence. Over the years the time never seemed right or I was with the wrong crowd or I couldn’t spend sufficient time to enjoy it. Today however it was impossible to fly back home and I had a five star hotel suite only a few blocks away. Even if the unthinkable would happen and I was unable to physically get back to my sanctuary, I was confident that the able bodied hotel staff would come pick me up and carry me back to my suite if I so required. The stage was set for trip behind the velvet rope into a world that few get to experience.

It was not difficult to locate on the internet. It has been a Philadelphia landmark for almost four decades. In fact it was known as the leader of the "Philadelphia restaurant revolution". Esquire described it as the best French restaurant in America. There it was Le Bec-Fin, which first opened in 1970. Owner and founder Georges Perrier named the restaurant after the French words for "Fine Palate". The restaurant has consistently been rated as America's finest French restaurant and the Mobil Travel Guide has traditionally rated it as five stars.

I stumbled across an article from Peter Wells, the food critic at Food & Wine magazine. “Our dinner reservation was at Le Bec-Fin, a restaurant I've dreamed about since college. When I arrived at the University of Pennsylvania in 1981, the school's promotional brochures bragged about what everybody in town called "the Philadelphia restaurant renaissance." The greatest of the renaissance chefs, the Michelangelo of Walnut Street, was Georges Perrier, who learned his craft at La Pyramide in France and began cooking in Philadelphia in the late '60s as a young man. By the time I arrived in the city, his Le Bec-Fin was recognized, both by the nation's reigning food critics and by the locals, as the best restaurant in town, maybe the best in the country.”

I continued reading. “The entrance to Le Bec-Fin was still as forbidding as I recalled, with a brass plaque instructing us to ring the bell for admittance. Ignoring it, I pulled on the smoked-glass door and it swung open. We were in the world's smallest lobby; it was barely big enough for the hostess to step from behind her station and take our coats. Another door was opened and we were led into the dining room.

I believe we gasped. The new room was all white and gold, like a bride. Restaurants with chandeliers and mirrors usually make me picture either dotty great-aunts or beefy men with pinkie rings. This didn't. It was the kind of room that made you feel smart, cultured and attractive just for being there. At the same time, I wanted to run my fingers across the woven silk wall panels.


This was not the same room I would have seen in my college days. Five years ago, the Mobil Travel Guide demoted Le Bec-Fin from its top five-star ranking down to a mere four. Now, I have never met anyone who based his dining decisions on the Mobil Travel Guide. Who cares what a gas station thinks about food? Well, Philadelphia cared. The day Le Bec-Fin lost the star, TV trucks parked outside the door. And Georges Perrier cared. Boy, did he care. He had a nervous breakdown, followed by severe depression. He huddled with his psychic. He launched an investigation into what went wrong and fired a waiter he deemed responsible. He fired himself, turning over command of the kitchen to a chef from Daniel in New York. He hired a new wine guy, who added 500 bottles to the list. Finally, he tore down the dining room, ripping out the flocked persimmon-colored wallpaper, the fleurs-de-lis carpeting, the wrought-iron banisters, and several walls—everything but the chandeliers.”

Carefully I looked up the other reviews, all of which indicated that Le Bec-Fin was still the heavyweight champion of the world. Life was on cruise control until I read one simple sentence that brought my world crumbling around me. It was a small footnote to one of the reviews which indicated that Friday or Saturday reservations required months of advance notice……..months of advance notice…………. months of advance notice. The words repeated themselves over and over in my head as a black drape of sullen despair covered the room. After a brief but personally intense period of mourning I decided to give up the dream for another day and hauled myself down to lobby concierge.

To increase my bitter disappointment the young gentleman behind the concierge counter spoke with a French ascent as he asked “How may I help you today, Mr. Blue?” At least he should be able to direct me to another French restaurant in the area where I can drink sufficient Champagne Royales to deaden my palette adequately to lure myself into imagining I’m at Le Bec-Fin.

I look at him emotionless and mumble, “I really had my heart set on a dining experience at Le Bec-Fin, but I understand that it can take months to get a reservation.”

With an equally cold and emotionless face he replies “Yes, that is true. I know because I also work there as a waiter.” I’m constantly amazed at how small the world is. Without providing me and opportunity to speak he continues, “Let me make a call and see what I might be able to do?”

As the young man whispers into the phone I am reminded of a quote from Vaclav Havel.
“Isn't it the moment of most profound doubt that gives birth to new certainties? Perhaps hopelessness is the very soil that nourishes human hope; perhaps one could never find sense in life without first experiencing its absurdity.”

Calmly the concierge concludes his phone call and hands me a slip of paper. “Mr. Blue I was in deed fortunate to get you a reservation, but it might not be the finest table in the restaurant. The reservation is for 8:30, which leaves you plenty of time to walk to the restaurant.”

I discreetly hand my savior a twenty and joke “You could probably seat me in the bathroom and I’d be happy. Thank you for your effort.” Slipping out the side door of the hotel I am astonished that I was in possession of a highly sought after reservation. I never thought to ask why I would be so lucky as to obtain such a rare opportunity.

On the four-minute walk, I pass Striped Bass and Susanna Foo, two restaurants that muscled in on Perrier's block. The city has renamed the side street across from Le Bec-Fin "Georges Perrier Place," but the town fathers can't do anything to slow the advance of ambitious new competitors with a more modern outlook. As I approach 15th street there appears to be a large commotion ahead of me and it’s close to my designation. I’m unfazed, because it is not uncommon to find some sort of public protest in the streets of most cities. They tend to act as a form of entertainment, sort of a theatrical event to the average city dweller.

As I get closer the motley crew of fifty to seventy five is better organized than most with bullhorns, home-made signs, video equipment and a coordinated choreography to harass their targets of distain. It looks like the event is either just warming up or has just ended because the group is just milling around. I finally get close enough to realize that they are all wearing photos of ducks around their necks and on their posters. Ducks? How strange?

Could it be something with Disneyland and the exploitation of Donald Duck as a capitalist symbol? If that was it the ducks would be more like cartoons. Let me think. It’s not the start of hunting season. There is no reason to make all this noise when you are not allowed to shoot ducks. That can’t be it, I conclude. I know there has been a lot of debate about glass skyscrapers and the fatal impact those structures have on the migratory routes of birds. Apparently hundreds for thousands birds die each year by flying into glass windows on skyscrapers. Maybe it has gotten to the point that they have taken the issue to the streets in protest? Whatever the protest is about always seems to be some fringe issue with little relevance to the daily lives of most people.

It isn’t until I get close enough to read one of the signs that the mystery is revealed with stunning relevance. “Ban Le Bec-Fin from serving Foie Gras”. Another sign shows Georges Perrier in a Nazi uniform standing on the bodies of dead ducks. I need to look twice. It’s amazing what you can do with Photoshop these days. I’m not sure if I follow the connection of serving French cuisine and the Nazi leader, but it seems to be a standard approach for calling attention to yourself.

Glancing across the street the crowd is focused on the single golden door of my desired location Le Bec-Fin and quite surprisingly I wanted to taste Foie Gras from the master. It is singularly one of my most favorite delicacies. If you have not tried Foie gras, it is one of the most popular delicacies in French cuisine and its flavour is rich, buttery, and delicate.

No, no, no, no!!!!!! Not tonight!!!! Why me????? Since my reservation is not for another 30 minutes I decide to cruise by the crowd on the opposite side of the street and get a better look at the situation. The group has hidden small pockets of protester on all four sidewalks leading to and from the restaurant. The hidden protesters are holding television screens showing the feeding and execution of ducks in the commercial production of Foie Gras. This technique has been adopted from the anti-abortion protester to emotionally shock casual viewer. Unfortunately for me it just evoked two thoughts. First was wow, I wonder how long that skinny pimple faced teenage can hold that huge television? My second reaction was probably not what the protesters wanted. Wow look how fat that duck is, I bet his liver is really tasty. It was sort of a dining promotion for duck liver. I guess they need to Photoshop more duck distress and pain into the video for me. Why pick on Foie Gras? Hell half these socially correct protestors probably live on hamburgers. Maybe they need to read Fast Food Nation to get an idea that every food is basically exploiting some species.

The technique of gavage dates as far back as 2500 BC, when the ancient Egyptians began keeping birds for food and deliberately fattened the birds through force-feeding. Today, France is by far the largest producer and consumer of foie gras, though it is produced and consumed worldwide, particularly in other European nations and the United States.

In modern foie gras production, force feeding takes place from 12−18 days before slaughter. The duck or goose is typically fed a controlled amount of corn mash through a tube placed in the animal's esophagus. Due to this force feeding procedure, and the possible health consequences of an enlarged liver, animal rights and welfare organizations and activists regard foie gras production methods as cruel to animals. Foie gras producers maintain that force feeding ducks and geese is not uncomfortable for the animals nor is it hazardous to their health. Scientific evidence regarding the animal welfare aspects of foie gras production is limited and inconclusive. A number of countries and other jurisdictions have laws against force feeding or the sale of foie gras due to how it is produced.

For me its like people that smoke crack, they are not really concerned about how many Bolivian boys are killed in the production of a fleeting sense of euphoria. If I need to give up my Foie Gras in order to save the world, maybe the world is not worth saving. I choose a different hill to fight on for the environment, not on a limited production of some small delicacy that is so expensive that no one can afford to eat it regularly. It’s time to get real.

Rounding the block, I decide to build my courage and make a run for the door. It is almost the exact same time I discover that the protest is not winding down but just starting. The bullhorns start blaring and the crowd chants while surging toward the door. The protestors have now pulled out video cameras to film the event and any customer that attempts to penetrate the golden door. It is beginning to turn ugly as the street is now blocked and the city of brotherly love starts to scream from the overheating cars stuck in the traffic jam.

As I elbow my way through the chanting protestors, I get about ten feet from the door when I notice a handful of casually dressed men with large black revolvers strapped to their sides apparently guarding the door of the restaurant. I can only assume that they were hired to guard the door, but they are now very agitated and nervous. Having grown up in New Jersey, I have witnessed and participated in my share of street fights and know the signs of someone pumping themselves up to deliver an ass-kicking. It’s the way you stand, more erect. It’s the way your arms swing to get loose. It’s the way you pull in big long breaths of air to supercharge your metabolism.

It’s right at this exact moment it dawns on me. What the hell am I doing in the middle of this? Come on it is only a meal, granted a pretty exceptional, once in a lifetime, to die for meal. Well maybe not to die. I can’t imagine myself enjoying the dining experience while the restaurant staff is pulling on riot gear and piling furniture against the door. Although it could be a real French revolution, Bastille Day type of experience, with the aristocracy dining on Foie Gras while the proletariat burn down the town. Discretion must be the better part of valor as I decide to give up the quest to gain entrance.

Walking away I think that if these protestors really looked at themselves they could find all sorts of things to be pissed about. The abused child labor used to make their sneakers; the mining operations used extract the precious metal used in their video equipment, the toxic solvents in the markers they used to paint their signs, the chemical contamination of the land used to grow the cotton in their underwear. No, for some reason they needed to jump all over an obscure practice that less than one in a thousand people might do once a year. Instead I just walked around the block to another famous restaurant and ate some fresh Copper River Salmon without noticing anyone concerned or protesting the likely loss of the wild salmon fisheries. I guess I will have to wait until another trip to the city of brotherly love to experience the magic of Georges Perrier’s culinary art. It was a bitter Le Bec-Less pill to swallow, but it only took three fine Kentucky bourbons to wash the disappointment from my mind.

"Hey buddy, think you could spare some foie gras? Times been tough you know."

Mr. Blue (June 2007)

Power of One

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed people can change the world: indeed it's the only thing that ever has!"

Margaret Mead (1901 - 1978)

I recently used this quote in an interview and have been pondering it's essence for the past couple of days. It prompted me to read more on Margaret Mead. I highly recommend it. Here's a few more quotes I enjoyed.

"Women want mediocre men, and men are working hard to become as mediocre as possible."

"Man's role is uncertain, undefined, and perhaps unnecessary."

"It has been a woman's task throughout history to go on believing in life when there was almost no hope."

Without a Face

The problem lay buried, unspoken for many years in the minds of women. It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning that women suffered. Each suburban housewife struggled with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night, she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question: 'Is this all?'

Betty Friedan

An Asymmetrical Evening in Black Tie

Photo by New Yorker Magazine

Black featureless figures dance and scurry in front of a luminescent white wall that glows with a mystical soft light that could only originate from the heavens. The scene appears to be an interactive dynamic work of kinetic sculpture as shadowy forms glide on the smooth granite floor. The crowd which number in the thousands has come to watch the birth of a new direction in architecture. Anyone who loves art and architecture is in attendance for the formal black tie opening of the Bloch Building expansion to the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art. High society is out in force, doting like a proud grandmother on the bold and expressive new child.

The sounds of jazz floats on the calm evening air as I approach the entrance. For the past five years I have watched the structure emerge from the ground never expecting the universal acclaim which has marked this opening. I’m unable to recall the last time architectural critics from New York, Chicago, Los Angles, London and Paris have uniformly showered a new work of architecture with such praise and adulation. Paul Goldberger, architecture critic for the New Yorker Magazine, notes that the expansion “is not just Holl’s finest by far but also one of the best museums of the last generation. Its boldness is no surprise, but, in addition, it is laudably functional, with a clear layout, handsome and logically designed galleries, and a suffusion of natural light.”

It is with much humility and a slight sense of pride; I ascend the long gallery to the lobby passing the multitudes in strapless evening gowns and tuxedoes. My role in the project, although important to the aesthetic, will forever be obscured by the enormous legions of team members who have toiled for years on this project. My contribution will be relegated to a footnote, but I’m comfortable with that.

The experience of emerging into a series of flowing white galleries is best described by the architect Steven Holl. “The expansion of The Nelson Atkins Museum of Art fuses architecture with landscape to create an experiential architecture that unfolds for visitors as it is perceived through each individual’s movement through space and time. The new addition engages the existing sculpture garden, transforming the entire Museum site into the precinct of the visitor’s experience. As visitors move through the new addition, they will experience a flow between light, art, architecture and landscape, with views from one level to another, from inside to outside. The threaded movement between the light-gathering lenses of the new addition weaves the new building with the landscape in a fluid dynamism based on a sensitive relationship to its context. Rather than an addition of a mass, the new elements exist in complementary contrast with the original 1933 classical “Temple to Art”.

Photo by New Yorker Magazine

Traversing the hallways to the extravagant long buffet tables I pass three former mayors, one Senator, one attorney general, five artists, two actors and five chairmen of prominent local companies. It is a spectacle of royalty seldom seen in such abundance in Kansas City. Dinner is served in amidst the polished marble columns of Rozzelle Court in the heart of the historic 1933 structure as a band serenades the patrons.

After dinner I stroll down the new galleries that are organized in sequence to support the progression of the collections which gradually step down into the Park continually punctuated by views into the landscape. I slowly explore the new addition until the Isamu Noguchi Sculpture Court reveals itself, establishing a binding connection to the existing Henry Moore Sculpture Garden. Sitting outside in the restrained landscaping of the sculpture garden I enjoy the view while sipping an after dinner cocktail. Darkened forms dance in front of the light under a brilliant full moon to the muted cry of a sensual lone saxophone. The night is perfect as the fleeting moment representing years of effort disappears like the smoke of a cigarette on a breeze. From this day forward this private playground of mine which I have shared only with my associates and construction workers will become the possession of the public. It is with a touch of melancholy I leave this familiar friend to its adoring public. I shall forever retain a sense of fondness for my Asymmetrical Evening in black tie.

"As we look deeply within, we understand our perfect balance. There is no fear of the cycle of birth, life and death. For when you stand in the present moment, you are timeless."
Rodney Yee

Carry the Weight

"All your life, you have heard yourself denounced; not for your faults, but for your greatest virtues. You have been hated, not for your mistakes, but for your achievements. You have been scorned for all those qualities of character which are your highest pride. You have been called selfish for the courage of acting on your own judgment and bearing sole responsibility for your own life. You have been called arrogant for your independent mind. You have been called cruel for your unyielding integrity. You have been called anti-social for the vision that made you venture upon undiscovered roads. You have been called ruthless for the strength and self-discipline of your drive to your purpose. You have been called greedy for the magnificence of your power to create wealth. You, who've expended an inconceivable flow of energy, have been called a parasite. You, who've created abundance where there had been nothing but wastelands and helpless, starving men before you, have been called a robber. Have you stopped to ask them: by what right? - by what code? - by what standard?"

Ayn Rand (1905 - 1982)
Source: (Atlas 422-3)

EC4K

"As I am strolling down the garden path,
I saw a flower glowing in the dark.
It looked so pretty and it was unique;
I had to bend down just to have a peek.

Hello old friend,
Its really good to see you once again."

Eric Clapton

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse Stand before Us

“And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see.

And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.

And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see.

And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword.

And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and saw a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of scales in his hand.

And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.

And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.

And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.”

Revelation chapter 6, verses 1 to 8

What the Future Holds

The following are a few quotes from the prediction of consequences due to climate change.

“As many as 30 per cent of species face an increased risk of vanishing if global temperatures rise 1.6 degrees Celsius above the average in the 1980s and 1990s.”

“Hunger for millions with a sharp fall in crop yields in Africa. It could also rapidly thaw Himalayan glaciers that feed rivers from India to China and bring heat waves for Europe and North America.”

“Global warming could also create tens of millions of climate refugees.”

"According to some estimates, there are already almost as many environmentally displaced people on the planet as traditional refugees,"

"As the impacts of climate change strike home, the numbers are likely to rise considerably, possibly as high as 50 million by 2010.”

“Water shortages that could affect billions of people and a rise in ocean levels that could go on for centuries.”

“Africa will be hardest hit. By 2020, up to 250 million people are likely to be exposed to water shortages.”

“In some countries, food production could fall by half.”

“North America will experience more severe storms with human and economic loss, and cultural and social disruptions. It can expect more hurricanes, floods, droughts, heatwaves and wildfires.”

“Europe will face more heatwaves and drought, with a reduction in crop productivity.”

“Parts of Asia are threatened with widespread flooding and avalanches from melting Himalayan glaciers. Europe also will see its Alpine glaciers disappear.”

“Nearly a third of the world's species of animals and plants will be at risk of extinction by climate change within 50 years.”

“Scientists predict the loss of thousands of species in temperature-sensitive biodiversity hot spots such as the Great Barrier Reef, off the east coast of Australia, if temperatures go on rising.”

“Some species, such as corals, there will no longer be in a climate that is suitable for them to survive. Others, like the North American rock rabbit, the pika, may be unable to reach distant regions that are more suitable.”

“What came out of our exhaust pipes and power stations [from Europe and North America] contributed to the deaths of a million people in Africa, and afflicted 50 million more”

“A Sahara type of climate could be possible in places such as England, while other parts of the world would fare even worse.”

“There was a very serious reduction in sunlight, the amount of sunlight in Israel. In fact, if we compare those very early measurements in the 1950s with the current measurements, there was a staggering 22% drop in the sunlight.”

“The three warmest years on record have all occurred since 1998; 19 of the warmest 20 since 1980.”

We can no longer ignore the destruction of the world as we know it. The information listed above is from over 2,500 scientists representing the world authority on climate change. There was little doubt about the science, which was based on 29,000 sets of data, much of it collected in the past five years. Each day a new stunning revelation about the impact of climate change illustrates the magnitude of the impending apocalypse. Yesterday it was the prediction that the production of maple syrup will cease in the United States within a generation. Maybe we need to see it from a graphic perspective.


“A warmer climate may have significant effect on the forests. Decidous forests will probably move northwards and to higher altitudes, replacing coniferous forests in many areas. Some tree species will probably be replaced altogether, jeopardizing biological diversity several places. (UNEP/GRID-Arendal Maps and Graphics Library)”

“The figure shows a comparison of current vegetation zones at a hypothetical dry temperate mountain site with simulated vegetation zones under a climate-warming scenario. Mountains cover about 20% of the Earth's continents and serve as an important water source for most major rivers. Paleologic records indicate that climate warming in the past has caused vegetation zones to shift to higher elevations, resulting in the loss of some species and ecosystems. Simulated scenarios for temperate-climate mountain sites suggest that continued warming could have similar consequences. Species and ecosystems with limited climatic ranges could disappear and, in most mountain regions, the extent and volume of glaciers and the extent of permafrost and seasonal snow cover will be reduced. Along with possible changes in precipitation this would affect soil stability and socio-economic activities such as agriculture, tourism, hydropower and logging. Resources for indigenous populations and recreational activities would also be disrupted (UNEP/GRID-Arendal Maps and Graphics Library).”



“The transmission of many infectious diseases is affected by climatic factors. Infective agents and their vector organisms are sensitive to factors such as temperature, surface water, humidity, wind, soil moisture, and changes in and forest distribution. This applies particularly to vector-borne diseases (VBD) like malaria. It is therefore projected that climate change and altered weather patters would affect the range (both altitude and latitude), intensity, and seasonality of many vector-borne and other infectioius diseases. In general, increased warmth and moisture would enhance transmission of VBDs. However, it should be noted that any such climate-related redistribution of disease may also entail, perhaps in conjunction with other environmental stresses, some localized reductions in rates of infection.”

“In tropical countries, VBDs are a major cause of illness and death. For the major VBDs, estimates of numbers of people at risk and infected, and of VBD sensitivity to climate are shown in the figure. While the potential transmission of many of these diseases increase in response to climate change, the capacity to control the diseases will also change. New or improved vaccination can be expected; some vector species can be constrained by use of pesticides. Nevertheless, there are uncertainties and risks here, too: for example long term pesticide use breeds resistant strains and kills many predators of pests (UNEP/GRID-Arendal Maps and Graphics Library).”

Within a generation we will witness a cataclysm the world has never experienced in billions of years of existence. On a personal level, I cannot conceive that environments I have experienced will possibly no longer exist in my lifetime. Consider my trek to watch the spawning of millions of salmon in the pristine estuaries of Sitka, if fact wild salmon may no longer exist as a food stable in a short period of time. My photos of the glaciers in Glacier National Park will be my only evidence of a million years of existence. Swimming in schools of fish in the Great Barrier Reef could be a distance memory as the sun bleaches the coral into dead white graveyards. The beaches in New Jersey and Florida that I spent so much of my childhood will disappear under the rising sea level as erosion scours the shore. Islands in the Caribbean where I spent so many winters could we swept away. My childhood ski trips to Hunter Mountain in New York and Okemo in Vermont will be a footnote in some historical heritage museum. When will we decide the threat is real and inevitable? What will spur individuals to action?

The emergence of a small sustainable movement is being hijacked by our consumer driven economy. What is most disturbing to me that everyone is wrapping themselves in a “green” cloak to avoid discovery that nothing much has changed. If you want to really understand what “green” means read William McDonough's new book “Cradle to Cradle”, written with his colleague, the German chemist Michael Braungart, which is a manifesto calling for the transformation of human industry through ecologically intelligent design. McDonough indicts the entire conservation movement as “doing bad things less slowly” and challenges industry to radically rethink its approach. The book makes the case that an industrial system that "takes, makes and wastes" can become a creator of goods and services that generate ecological, social and economic value, but we are running out of time.

The “green“ cloak is really a sedative to convince the public that they are contributing to the welfare of the environment when they are not. The issue is arising everywhere, from green products to green communities. We purchase green to feel good that we are making a contribution without impacting our lifestyles. Commercial office space and multifamily residential properties are only now classified as “Class A” investment property if it is “green architecture” which is movement in the right direction, but for some it is a reason to stop examining other detrimental activities they are engaged in. Poor people have little option to be anything but sustainable, with so little resources to participate significantly in the consumer economy. It is the upper and middle class of society that have the ability to accelerate change, but have convinced themselves that recycling the random plastic container or participating in an eco-tourism vacation will save the world when they run businesses that are supporting petro-chemical post industrial economy. Why do they not recognize the contradiction? Doing the right thing is often inconvenient for the privelged.

How many executives, board members, business owners and individuals in positions of responsibility take great pride in having a second home in Costa Rica or some other pristine environment and traveling on safari to see the splendors of nature, while the basis of their wealth is belching out pollutants in some toxic industrial park? How often to you see the executive brimming at the gala handing over a check to their favorite environmental cause while their company hires lawyers to fight some EPA infraction? Privilege demands accountability and social responsibility. Instead privilege allows them to indulge in dragging their children around the world frantically trying to show them the few remaining natural wonders, before they are obliterated by their own apathy and inaction.

As William McDonough describes it “The industrial framework that dominates our lives now is fairly primitive. It is conceived around a one-way manufacturing flow—what is known as a "cradle to grave" lifecycle. This cradle to grave flow relies on brute force (including fossil fuels and large amounts of powerful chemicals). It seeks universal design solutions ("one size fits all"), overwhelming and ignoring natural and cultural diversity. And it produces massive amounts of waste—something that in nature does not even exist.”

He sees the next industrial revolution as transforming the making of things. “This fundamental conceptual shift leads to design strategies that some might find surprising. For example, instead of minimizing the consumption of energy generated from coal, oil, and nuclear plants, why not maximize energy availability using solar and wind sources? Instead of using only natural, biodegradable fibers like cotton for textile production (a pesticide-intensive agricultural process), why not use non-toxic synthetic fibers designed for perpetual recycling into new textile products? Instead of directing intelligence towards regulation compliance and liability reduction, why not design industrial processes and products so safe they do not need regulation, and direct creativity towards maximizing economic, social, and ecological benefits?”

I am pessimistic that we will change our patterns of destructive behavior so that the story will have a happy Hollywood ending. Society has squandered almost a half a century of knowledge and warning about the impending apocalypse. The road map was clear fifty years ago with Lewis Mumford’s “Values for Survival” (1946), Aldo Leopold “Sand County Almanac” (1949), Harrison Brown’s “The Challenge of Man’s Future” (1954) Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” (1962), Paul Ehrlich’s “The Population Bomb” (1968), William L Thomas’ “Man's Role in Changing the Face of the Earth” (1971). Appalling it has been 15 years since Al Gore wrote “Earth in the Balance: Ecology and the Human Spirit” (1992) which is the fundamental message of his movie “An Inconvenient Truth” (2006) which is finally moving the public debate. It is my fear that the privileged few which can control the economy have recognized the need to react too late to prevent the destruction of the world we once knew. Our children will inherit the wrath of the four horseman of the apocalypse, living in world where they will become environmental refugees as they watch millions of the world’s population die and conduct war for the precious few natural resources left.

It is only appropriate that on this Easter we reflect on the bible to provide us strength for the future we have created. Behold the “Fifth Horseman” for he is the light of the world.

“Then I saw Heaven opened, and behold, a white horse! He who sat upon it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he judges and makes war.

His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems; and he has a name inscribed which no one knows but himself.

He is clad in a robe dipped in blood, and the name by which he is called is The Word of God. And the armies of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure, followed him on white horses.

From his mouth issues a sharp sword with which to smite the nations, and he will rule them with a rod of iron; he will tread the wine press of the fury of the wrath of God the Almighty.

On his robe and on his thigh he has a name inscribed, King of kings and Lord of lords.”

Revelation chapter 19, verses 11 to 16

Moving Up in the Draft

“The Chinese use two brush strokes to write the word 'crisis.' One brush stroke stands for danger; the other for opportunity. In a crisis, be aware of the danger - but recognize the opportunity.”

John F. Kennedy (1917 - 1963)

Staring down at my dark slacks I carefully pick off a small piece of white lint while waiting my turn in the back of the nondescript lecture hall. Looking around at the two hundred people in attendance I am relieved that I made the correct fashion choice in wearing a jet black pin striped suit with a crisply starched white shirt and a conservative gold tie laced with silver highlights. I had a feeling that the crowd of city and governmental officials would be dressed a little more formal than most. Seldom do you see business suits and ties anymore which I believe contribute to a general feeling of malaise and insecurity in people. There is nothing more empowering than wearing a tailored suit with sharp pressed creases. People will walk more erect, confident and self assured. Maybe I hold this belief due to my father’s career on Wall Street where a three piece suit and a felt fedora was a daily uniform.

A middle aged woman in a stylist business suit seated three rows in front of me turns to steal a glance with probing blue eyes. With a subtle motion I smile and nod my head in acknowledgement of her attention. Slightly embarrassed she turns forward and whispers something to the gentleman seated next to her. The crowd is aware of my presence as I sense an eager air of anticipation. My mind drifts back to the pounding surf and sweet salt air of the Coral Sea. It stuns me to think that it has been 30 days since I removed my sandals and brushed the last grains of sand from my feet. The memories are already fading and becoming indistinct like a misty fog rolling over the shoreline. The images are there but the sounds and scents are disappearing with each passing day. Time is so fleeting and every day life is filled completely with activities that the weeks rip in rapid succession like a sign posts on a speeding highway. This week alone I am speaking in Baltimore, Kansas City, Indianapolis and San Diego. Something has changed in the past few months, a subtle shift in recognition, an ever so slight transformation. It is something I can sense but do not yet understand completely. I need to realize the increased demand for my time and limit my schedule accordingly.

My eyes aimlessly roam the patterned blue gray carpeted floor of the lecture hall when I am amused that below my perfectly pressed slacks is a pair of black wing tips slightly caked with mud from some recent site visit. I am immediately reminded of Frank Lloyd Wright’s quote “You can tell if a person is grounded by the soil on his shoes”. I attempt to discern the origin of the soil by its color and texture. Could it be the northeast or south or even the pacific west. I come to the conclusion that the soil could be from almost anywhere and it is going to be impossible to isolate the moment when my foot touched the moist earth. Quietly I spend the next few minutes scuffing my shoes together in a weak attempt to improve my spoiled appearance, but finally decide I rather like the eccentric appearance leaving most of the red earth clinging to the leather like a cluster of barnacles hugging an oaken hull.

Clasping my hands together slowly my head tilts toward the floor allowing all emotions to slip from my thoughts as if my skull was a sieve. My mind envisions that I am standing before a calm still body of water completely content and relaxed. The water is a symbol of power and adaptability assuming the shape of its container. This has become a ritual for me, a gathering of internal energy and focus exhibited in a brewing of a storm, a force of nature building in the sky. It’s like filling the cannon with gunpowder, canister by canister until the full charge is loaded in preparation of firing. As if being pulled by an invisible harness I rise to my feet as the voice at the podium recites an elegant list of accomplishments. It is always embarrassing to hear the litany of tributes which always makes me feel like the crowd is now expecting someone more important than me.

At a moments notice the crowd erupts into a loud and sustained applause as a roomful of eyes turn to stare at me. In an instinctual response I reach with my left hand to the lavaliere attached to my belt. With a familiar intimacy my hand caresses the wire next to the switch as I turn the microphone on. The fuse is now lit as kinetic energy explodes in my veins coursing like a hot fever. Suddenly I become another person, my alter ego emerges as the confident extrovert I always wanted to be. Somewhere in the recesses of the brain a switch is thrown as the Gemini twin awakes to command the spotlight. I find it similar to the euphoria an alcoholic feels during a blackout. Disconnection of an outer body experience as rambling muses of a madman prepares to extol the depths of his madness. I tease myself that the crowd is entertained as if watching a car wreck. They know something horrible is occurring but are unable to avert their eyes, the sadistic fascination with violence. This statement probably contains more truth than I would care to admit.

For me it is an internal dialogue, a discussion about passion to the point of fanaticism. It is an oral internal debate as opposing dilemmas are resolved on an imaginary verbal chalkboard. Simple proven diatribes strung together into powerful mantras which slither on the ground like cobras searching for a commonly held belief to sink their fangs into. It must be the almost thirty years of interviewing for projects and commissions that allows me to read the emotions of the room like a blind man reading Braille. My gestures slowly hypnotize the crowd as I draw raw emotion up from the earth and cast it over the crowd with each choreographed moment. I have developed a hard rule during interviews that when I ascend to a sequence of reasoning that become so inspiring and so emotional that goose bumps briefly crawl across my arms, its time to immediately shut it down and close. It is that critical point where nothing you can ever say will be near as profound as what you just said. All that is possible after that point in the interview is to talk the selection committee out of selecting you. Live the fundamental rule, stop selling after you have closed the deal.

The shift in recent months is subtle but evident. I have graduated from one of the featured speakers in a conference to the keynote speaker. Five of the last seven lectures were in the role of keynote speaker, a much different position in the agenda. No longer assigned to one of the six or eight lecture halls where you compete for audience with provocative topics. The keynote is the ultimate primetime slot during the delegate’s lunch or during a plenary session with the entire assembled conference attendees. Your name moves up on the marquee, you become the reason why people attend the conference. This increased stature comes with dramatically increased expectations.

A keynote speaker is the life blood of the conference business. It is no longer acceptable to rank along the top handful of featured speakers, but you must demonstrate an exceptional mastery of the craft that excels your presentation far beyond the pool of featured speakers. The keynote speaker must inspire, motivate, and empower the audience to change the world through wisdom, logic, character and antidotes. You must call on the wisdom of past leaders to teach. The keynote is as much illusion as substance with a commanding control of truth as they see it. I’m not sure I’m ready for the jump to the big stage, the center ring, the first chair. The margin for error is razor thin as now television cameras peer from the back row capturing every detail in stone. The words are no longer surreal drifting as a song on the wind, but precise and concrete so that it can be dissect over and over to remove the soft flesh and examine the intricate skeletal structure. Small strips of magnetic tape stream behind the curtain recording very hesitation and stumble.

Once again the Gemini twin explodes into a fiery climax remaining calm and erect as the crowd applauses. The high energy switch is turned off as a dizzying spin back to earth allows fear to grab my ankles. For a brief second I once again feel like the alcoholic confused, awaking from another blackout, wondering if I covered all my thoughts. I search my short term memory to reconstruct the dialogue but find it surprising empty. As I step down from the podium, turning off the lavaliere, my insecurity forces me to seek opinions from the people around me about the message, finding reassurance in the positive reviews. Today I captured the buzz, I succeeded in bringing the crowd new insights by challenging their percepts.

With each step into on this new stage I feel confidence growing, which will allow me to dig deeper into my fundamental beliefs and fearlessly bear more of my soul. It will allow me to stray further into the jungle, to push the madman closer to the cliff, to wade deeper into the dangerous currents to navigate uncharted waters. The next step won’t take long because tomorrow is another keynote is San Diego. This time I’ll put an extra canister of gunpowder in the barrel testing the limits of the crowd’s indulgence as I move up in the draft.

“Great wisdom is generous; petty wisdom is contentious. Great speech is impassioned, small speech cantankerous.”

Chuang-tzu (369 BC - 286 BC)

place by the sea

"A place by the sea is where I want to be,
where distant dark mountains would watch over me.
Where clockwork tides would refresh the shore,
the sands yellow fingers would reach my door.
I would watch the art of the sky both day and night,
from the blue to the stars as the clouds play with its light.
But I am already there at my place by the sea,
these are my visions of you as inspired in me.
For you are my vision that has brought to be,
you are my mountains my sands my place by the sea. "

rob pocock

Gondwana and the Daintree

Torrents pour from the sky like a warm soothing embrace as I stand alone in silent reverence for what’s before me. At times the soft fog and falling rain obscure my view and turns the landscape into a surreal dream conjured up from a science fiction novel. The rich sweet organic air is so humid that I can imagine myself breathing underwater as a feeling of contradiction between sheltered security and wilderness vastness is sweeping over me. Sounds of raindrops hitting leaves as they migrate to the swollen earth roar in my ears like a million small drums beating out an ancient tympanic symphony. I listen attempting to discern a primal pattern, but I am but a foreigner in this diverse forest. My eyes do not know what to look for; my ears can not tell me what I hear. I have no understanding of this pristine Eden I have entered; I am but a new born helpless and vulnerable in the womb of nature.

I’m unsure if it is tears or raindrops flowing down my cheeks as emotions cascade through me like the small rivulets of rainwater that caress my feet on their way to the Coral Sea. In all my dreams I could have never imagined stunning beauty and inspiring diversity like what is before my eyes. I am of no concern to the Daintree Rainforest which has existed for a 100 million years. As I look out at the rainforest within my field of vision is eight species of plants that are so rare that the world has classified them as extinct. I have a difficult time comprehending the magnitude of what I’m seeing. In the entire world there are only about 70 different species of mangroves, 35 of them live together in the Daintree.

The tall thin palm-like plant next to me is a cycad which began life sometime in the Middle Ages and is estimated to be over a thousand years old, equally as amazing is that it will live another thousand years. Cycads like this one, predate every plant in the world’s temperate forests and predate every plant in the world’s coniferous forests.

“The Draintree Rainforest’s history starts 120 million years ago when the giant continent Gondwana was covered in dense rainforests and dinosaurs roamed around the jungle. 55 Million years ago this continent split up into several pieces and the piece that we now know as Australia drifted south and amazingly, for the next 120 million years the rainforest in this area survived climate changes and ice ages and that is why visitors to the Daintree nowadays can still see what the world looked like more than a hundred million years ago. Although most of the dinosaurs are gone the cassowary has survived until today (when you see them walking you will notice the likeness to the creatures in Jurassic Park) and the crocodiles are still around (they have been around for that long they have seen the rise and fall of the dinosaurs). There are also ancient tree species like the king fern and the Idiospermum, which had been thought to be extinct for millions of years until it was re-discovered by a farmer. Along the coast there are fringing reefs which were living coral reefs long ago when sea levels were higher before the last ice age, now they stick out of the water at low tide.”

We climb up a ridge to a patch of brightness in the forest. Sounds of dozens of species of birds are echoing in the canopy of the forest as the rain begins to abate. They call to each other hidden from view, piecing the dense foliage like an arrow. The forest is abundance as I notice the vast variety of mysterious tropical fruits that hang providing a bounty for all. As we crest the long ridge the rain abates revealing the sun in timid soft rays. Within moments the sun’s heat drives the moisture from the air into a wispy white still haze so that you feel like your walking in the clouds. A powerful whining hum fills the forest as Cicadas compete for attention. Through a small open gap at the top of the ridge I can peer down the long slope of the Daintree until it reaches the Great Barrier Reef.

The coral white sand is draped on the aquamarine and azure water like a discarded ribbon. This is where two of the most diverse and complex ecosystems in the world meet the Daintree Rainforest and the Great Barrier Reef, only separated by narrow finger of sand. The contrast is spiritually overwhelming, standing in the dense sheltering greens of foliage and white clouds of mist immersed in a cacophony of sound, staring out on the vastness of brilliantly clear blue green water that sparkles with light and billowing sculpted clouds which extend uninterrupted to the horizon in relative silence. Peering about the foliage to my left there is a long mountainous finger of land floating on the Coral Sea, called Cape Tribulation.

Cape Tribulation was named by the great explorer James Cook in 11 June 1770. “He had been sent out from England to Tahiti to observe Venus passing in front of the sun. Thanks to his measurements scientists could now work out the distance between the earth and the sun and a range of other things. But to justify the expense of the journey the British Crown had decided that he was also to take possession of New Holland to expand their empire. Cook sailed up the east coast of Australia and did quite a bit of surveying and drew up numerous charts, as so far he only had a fairly basic map from the Dutch explorers that had been here 160 years before him. Things ran fairly smoothly until one night after passing this area his ship struck the reef. The Endeavour came very close to sinking, luckily a large chunk of reef had broken off and remained in the hole and actually worked as a plug, this together with a sail covering the hole, the crew pumping like mad and the dumping of all non vital heavy things like cannons, they managed to keep the ship afloat. So when Cook looked out on the coast at first daylight he was not in the happiest of moods and named a few features with not the most cheerful of names; the cape he could see was named Cape Tribulation (tribulation means trouble) and the mountain behind it Mount Sorrow. The reef the ship had struck was named Endeavour Reef and a bay to the north where they rested while towing the ship up the coast with row boats was named Weary Bay. Finally they found a river to go up and beach the ship so it could be repaired, this one was then named the Endeavour River and that is where Cooktown is located nowadays. After seven weeks of repairs, some run-ins with Aborigines and discovering the kangaroo, they headed further north where they planted the Union Jack and officially took possession of this country. This makes the striking of the reef off the coast of Cape Tribulation all the more significant; had they sunk here they would not have been able to claim Australia later on and it could have still been New Holland nowadays”.

Saddened that my time is over and I need to make my way back to civilization, I turn to glance once again at one of the world’s great wonders from one of the world’s great wonders. Tomorrow it will too easy to forget this special feeling of rapture. Inhaling deeply for the first time I can taste both the rich organic humus of a million years and the biting salty crispness of the sea breeze. This is the best thing I can do, for memories filed away deep in the mind are always connected with the sense of smell. I shall return here in my mind when ever I bring a moist handful of humus to my nose or when I catch the slightest whiff of salt air. For that brief moment I smile and whisper to myself, I don’t think it can get much better than this, when some movement and color flash in the corner of my vision.

In the monochromatic display of greens from foliage and moss filtered through the soft lens of grey mist a brilliant piece of the bright blue sea flutters by. This is startling because the bright blue is such a contrast to the muted forest greens. All of a sudden, before my eyes the rarest of all sights appears, the Ulysses Butterfly which is found in no other place in the world than the Daintree Rainforest. It hovers before me and then lands on a branch not more than two steps away. I reach for my camera knowing that so far the rainforest has been so dark with such low light that not one of my pictures has survived. Out of reflex I take one step forward and touch the shutter without focusing. A quickly as it appeared it disappears into the mist. This picture you see below is one of the very few photos that survived the day. There was a lesson the Daintree was teaching me. Do not preoccupy yourself when you’re with me, you only have but a moment, but I have a million years. Immerse yourself in my abundance for I am the origin of life.

"It is not much for its beauty that makes a claim upon men's hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanates from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit."

Robert Louis Stevenson
(1850 - 1894)

Secret Friend's Caress

"The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveler to the shore.
And the tide rises, the tide falls."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)