Homage to my grandfather

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I woke up very early to a raging blizzard outside and the quiet flickering of the Yurseit candle in my dark apartment.

Forty years ago today, Pop, my grandfather passed.

One hundred eleven years ago, he climbed down the ladder of a ship from Russia, a very young Yiddish speaking boy who had traveled alone to New York to find a better life from the shetls of Eastern Europe.

It’s been so so long—and my mom’s recollections are shrouded in very aging memories—that fact and fiction are blended together.

In truth, my memories of him and a few black and white photos are all that I have.

He was, along with my dad, the epitome of what it meant to be a good man growing up.

Pop entered Ellis island as Ycze Ruvyn and walked out and made his way to his relatives in Philadelphia as Sam Rubin.

He lived on Rivington Street when it looked like scenes of early New York in the Godfather. He moved to the South Bronx, then to the West Bronx off the Grand Concourse where the picture above was taken in the 30s.

This was a guy who drove a horse drawn cab in the early days and spent the majority of his life working on sewing machines in the garment district.

3312md-011Who dressed like a businessman in clothes he tailored to work on the line, sewing pieces of clothes together year after year.

He worked hard, loved his family with a passion, loved life and seriously considered himself the luckiest person in the world.

He considered America the land where dreams came true.

Never went to school. Never got an education. He never complained about anything.

Stories and memories abound.

How during WW2, three families lived together. My mom pregnant with my older brother, her brothers wife, Pop and his wife and of course the dog. It was over two years till the men came home from the war.

How he walked to Philadelphia by himself, just a kid speaking only Yiddish to find relatives when he got off the boat.

How on summer weekends, we would pile into Pop’s Oldsmobile and head upstate to the Catskills where my Uncle Harry had an old summerhouse. The extended family meeting there, cars full of kids, bringing bialys and smoked salmon, crumb cake and  lox. Pickled Herring and OJ.

Old lawn chairs, Yiddish banter, cigars and pipe smoke, singing and yelling and a melting pot of generations.

This is the stuff of great movies that our lives in retrospect look like if we are lucky.

Pop was the only babysitter I ever had. The man who occupied one end of the kitchen table, my dad the other every day of my life growing up.

Who early every Saturday morning insured that food from the Jewish deli and bakery were piled high on the kitchen table before anyone awoke.

Who bought the first black and white TV the family had and we would crowd into his room off the kitchen to watch–Bonanza, Million Dollar Movie and Rod Sterling.

I so loved this man.

I still do.

And he so loved his family and his life.

Quiet. Large and strong. Cigar always smoking and dangling from his really large hands.

He stands for what it meant to be brought up in the middle class.

The focus on education from people who didn’t have the privilege.

The insistence on being happy by people who found it without huge economic success. The value of family and what it meant for sacrifice, for support of the members in the face of any circumstance.

I think how fortunate I was to be brought in an age where your grandfather was a part of the life dynamic of the family.

Not down the street or someone you saw on the weekends but who was there from day one, in the room off the kitchen, at the head of the table.

There is something reverential. Something unbreakable and powerful in that connection that bridges you to the parent of your parents. To generational values and wisdom. To something that feels just so right and strong and uplifting.

To something that you lean on when you are young to bolster you. To something that you take care of as all of us get older.

I’m a bit teary as I think of this.

Even today, I can see myself as a very young boy in striped pajamas, sneaking into Pop’s room, sticking my arm in the pocket of his great winter coat, all the way to my elbow, to find the quarters that he always had there for the kids to find.

This is the very good stuff of life.

My homage to a truly great man who will live forever in my thoughts.

Rediscovering storytelling

There is something about the oral tradition of storytelling that pulls the strings of memory, personalized emotions and undivided attention in a uniquely uncluttered way.

I’m not talking about sitting around a campfire weaving tales where the touch of the flickering flames meets the curtain of darkness as the storytellers canvas.

I’m talking about the full immersion of listening to an Ira Glass podcast with buds in my ears at the gym at 5am to start my day.

I was raised in the era where radio gave way to TV, where we listened to baseball games while we did our homework. Where talk radio on car trips was the backdrop to our family life driving discussions about science and sports.

Where the natural cadence of speech and the craft of the repeating refrain, the ending with a take away summary became—and still are—the cadence of a well told yarn and the dynamics of finding the pulse for a thought.

It made me want to be a writer.

It drove me to work in pirate radio during my college days. It was my view of global politics and culture during my hippy back to the land phase in British Columbia where radio was my sole listening post to an outside world.

And for all the years of building businesses and communities on the web, driving engagement around blogs and idea walls, designing conferences and workshops, and weaving in video as a shareable object, I had simply forgotten the power of this quietude.

Till just recently.

A series of year-end promises and randomly searching out an old Ira Glass podcast that had been in my head for years have opened a perceptual door for me.

I’m rediscovering the power and whispering eloquence of waking up to shared stories in my head.

Stories that waft into my very being in ways that unfathomably fill my head with innuendos and language cues that are driving me in unexpected ways.

It is the complete opposite of starting your day looking for something of interest on the social nets.

Podcasts are an oddity in today’s fully visual world.

It’s not at all like listening to the audio of a video stream while working.

It’s more like committing to a call, yet unlike a call or a  post or movie, it requires no suspension of disbelief. It’s immediately real.

It’s yours from the first moment of silence and embrace of the words.

After a few weeks now of starting my days with tales of Sinatra, or a Taliban prisoner, or a father who recorded every phone call of his kid to manipulate reality to keep him off drugs—it’s changing my attitude completely.

It’s like food for your brain that makes you smarter.

What’s unique about this medium is that besides the cadence of thoughts and language, it encourages you to do something else with your body (like workout or walk).

The mental takeaway is also counterintuitive.

I listened to the famous Ira Glass podcast on Sinatra from the mid 90s yesterday while doing intervals at the gym.

Beyond the amazing story of how he redefined himself  from a struggling torch singer to a rhythmic super star and became the jazzy epitome of cool masculinity for an entire era, my takeaway was almost orthogonal to the subject matter.

With oral storytelling the medium is the message completely.

It’s like understanding the power of breathing in athletics or playing a wind instrument.  Or the importance of relaxation and poise when presenting.

What I learned is less about Sinatra and more the embrace of nuance, of rhythm and the importance of saying less when telling a story or communicating an idea. Of insuring that you embrace the pauses in language and the vagary of thought.

It’s akin to the communications truth that you need to allow the reader to find themselves, not you, in their response to what you are saying.

It’s the craft of sharing subtlety and innuendo by inpsiring the listener with open expressions of your thoughts that invite them in not shut them out.

I make my living as a communicator. My mediums are blogs, emails, the social nets and often a stage with a podium. These settings encourage too much synthesis, too many lists and a fear of leaving things open for interpretation.

I’m relearning the power of leaving open spaces and things unsaid. The importance of sharing the innate subtlety of ideas as the true power of connecting.

I’m liking where this is taking me.

I’m not inspired to become a podcaster but by listening to others—and please share your favorites—it’s made me a more careful communicator.

And a better listener not just to others thoughts but to my own.

How I fell into marketing as a career

I can’t tell whether it’s the season for introspection or simply that time of life for me.

But I’ve been preoccupied, thinking about my career as a marketer and free associating anecdotes about projects and product launches, surprising successes and some very painful duds.

Musing about the why of what I do and where it all started for me.

I’ve been thinking about how I grew up in a pre-web world, an English and philosophy major who ended up being the brand and community builder for such a broad array of tech companies.

How my natural comfort zone is at the intersection of technology and consumer behavior with new platforms for delivery and commerce but I was already a very young adult when I played my first video game on a trs-80.

I’ve wanted a big aha, like the successful salesperson who can point to themselves always hustling as a kid, or the CFO thanking their biz school professor.

It’s not that simple for me.

For years now when asked about how I came to define marketing as I practice it, I’ve used the story about my first job in tech, walking into the server room at Atari Corp, to manage their massive BBS enthusiast community.

How community as the core of how people act commercially just clicked for me.

It’s a true story but like most things of import, the backstory turns out to be a lot more nuanced and less poetic.

Very early on, I was a writer and freelance radio commentor for hire.

One of these gigs was ghostwriting early childhood education textbooks and grants for a prominent behavioral psychologist at U of W in Seattle.

I ended up managing a grant for the professor, whose funded mission was to aggregate groups of parents who were writing very early educational software programs for their special needs kids.

I created support groups for them, wrote documentation then published the software through Library of Congress.

I was a community manager of sorts, traveling around engaging with small groups of passionate parents, sharing early publishing tools, creating community platforms.

I fed organic growth for the project by marketing the very software products that I published back to their own local communities. Creating local heroes of the developers (the parents) and an interest group in schools to support the kids.

Most everything I do today was there in a very embryonic and analog state.

I was using community as both supply and demand.  Letting the innate dynamics and formlessness of these small groups gel into its own variant of a self sustaining market.

I was tapping into collective human behavior as the true essence of community.

And that marketing both internally and externally was the organizing and communications bridge between individual ideas and market connection.

This was a long time ago.

As I dug through old resumes tracking this down, I also realized that in most every brand and product I’ve built since, some nascent bit of tech was leveraged to coax out and platform developing behavior, community formation and market change.

For this instance, it was software tools but I can easily list out every data type from then to projects I’m considering right now.

It’s my definition of what ties the tech world together.

Constantly changing waves of tech but a dynamics of adoption that carries through them all.

That’s marketing as I practice it.

Professor Haring, all academic and convivial as I remember him, gave me a chance, and I fell into something about myself that still drives me today.

Not with a big bang.

Not with the buzz of first love or instantaneous attraction, but with some uncanny muscle memory when you find what you are good at.

When that tool or musical instrument or the organizing principle feels just perfect in your hand. When you stand up in front of a group and feel perfectly at ease and exactly where you should be.

To the professor a lifetime ago.

To every board I’ve ever worked with.

Every CEO and VC, every entrepreneur that’s put their faith in me to lead them to make it happen anew, in a unique way.

To the people and teams I am planning on working with in the new year.

All I can say is Thank You!

It’s going to be a great new year.

Commercializing the common good

I woke up thinking about myself as a consumer and how out of whack to my beliefs my spending has been this holiday season.

How while I am passionate about a great many things from animal rights to transparency of what is on our food labels, none of this is reflected in my holiday gift giving.

How the platforms for expression and certainly the capabilities of commerce have evolved dramatically but not it appears around charities, or better said, collective fundraises for common causes.

Our very culture has changed.

Never has it been easier to share our views. Feel connected to communities. Have instantaneous access to that which delights us personally and that which collectively terrifies and angers us as a society.

And never have the building blocks of commerce been so malleable. So easily integrated, so transparent and such a no brainer to us.

Add to that the ability to wire in data to our decision-making process and we have somewhat of a perfect storm of both opportunity and capability.

So I’m wondering while on platforms like Facebook where I’m fairly outspoken about many of the things that matter to me, I find myself discovering new brands in my feed and buying everything from comfy stripped socks to boxer shorts to widgets.

Yet while I view an infinite number of animal rescue videos so far this season I don’t think I’ve made a donation.

Why when I hail a car, it’s a push on my phone but to respond to the homeless as the weather chills I need to find an ATM and drop dollars in a cup or in the guitar case of a performer in the subway?

Why there is a such a gap between the technology and commercialization of commerce and the harnessing the same to collectively change things than matter on a softer social front?

Why we as a culture have flocked to support projects on Kickstarter yet not so to channel this into causes or even societal needs?

This post is rant wrapped in a dose of holiday sentiment yet I think real.

In the last few months, contacts within my networks have battled health issues. Have gathered in sentiment to support a popular wine writer battling cancer with collective hugs and genuine feelings.

Just yesterday in a NY Times editorial it became clear that Monsanto was going to win another victory in the gmo transparency fight.

I’ve gestured support for these from the heart but honestly done very little.

I’m wondering why.

Wondering about the relationship between want and action, between commerce and the things we as consumers should be able to easily support.

And whether this commercialization of the common good is not in many ways an untapped frontier for both innovation and for change.

Whether the gap is not technology nor the intent of the consumer, but the expertise of the organizations on how to do this.

Whether they really understand the very people that would love to support them.

Those of us that are marketers have long understood that in a world wired by social nets and where communities are the markets themselves, how we approach people has changed.

The key to community commerce is about the empowerment of the individual within a broader structure of the community. It is about a collective power manifested in the importance and control of each person.

Underwear and car manufacturers, Hollywood and the wellness market get this for certain. Apple of course as well.

The first thing we learn in business is to feel good about what we are charging for. Create value, position it as want not need, and to make people feel positive about themselves making the decision to buy it.

But when donations are asked for it always feels sheepish, always a bit uncomfortable, always a big ask—when indeed it should be a natural response.
To make a difference even when they do only what they can.

I’m fairly certain that on publishing this I will get emails from buddies that say all of this is already done.

Not so.

It is not the responsibility of consumers to search for anything. It is the job of businesses whether they sell widgets or fund raise for cancer research to get the opportunity in front of the right people in the right way and make it not only easy, but also empowering.

This opportunity is I think substantial.

The reality that companies selling stuff we wear understand this more than communities we belong to is a bit crazy.

That we use Uber to get around yet in New York fundraising can still be someone ringing a bell outside the Salvation Army on 47th street is truly a paradigm of contradictions.

This is something well worth changing that could make a really big difference.

 

Sixth anniversary of my blog

There are things in life that start with a simple idea—often just an impulse—and then take on a life of their own.

My blogs are that to me.

I started them in the Fall 2009 while renting a small villa in Castelnuova Berardenga outside of Sienna.

Part transition into a new line of work. Part self discovery. Part a core belief that the best marketing channel for me was something that aggregated cross my passions and experience.

I hung a marketing and web blog next to a wine one off the same URL and just let it happen.

Led by the belief that the community would discover a unique value in experiencing the aggregate of the two core passions in my life.

On one side continually reinventing marketing as the web evolved the very behavior of the marketplace itself.

And for wine, chronicling how the web itself was enabling an artisanal market for a more natural approach that paralleled the rising of a global ethos of taste.

That these two would morph into a single brand and form a hybrid community of interests.

It worked.

But blogging was hard for me to find a comfortable pace.

I was subject to my own demons, like most of us.

Self consciousness of course that we all get over.  But my obsessive drive for perfection was my nemesis.

I wrote scores of long, well researched and nuanced posts. Gained a fair bit of traction, gathered a strong community but they took way too long to write. Momentum eluded me.

Lapses of weeks happened.

I started a Tumblr blog and built a community on the short form because it was quick.  I aggregated a large Facebook following across various communities because it was easy. But I simply couldn’t find a pace for this blog that felt right.

Yet little made me happier than publishing here. Few things let me focus like working on this blog.

The big aha for me a while back was that writing is not the same as blogging.

Writing is a craft and something I work at and aspire towards excellence.

Blogging is a state of mind. A poise to capture your thoughts within a frame of time.

The discipline to blog a number of times weekly, before first light, with samthecat on my lap, riffing on my thoughts is what blogging has become to me.

Three core realizations came together to make this happen.

First–the downside of a connected world is the debilitating distraction of the social nets.

Beyond the symptoms of wasted time, the nets create a culture of being a follower, not a creator.  Even the content creators on these nets are more than anything else, writing to gain immediate reactions. Following in a closed loop of gestured responses.

Blogging in the long form is the antithesis of this.

It’s your own thoughts. Your own form.

It’s the mental training ground for making each day your own. Letting what wakes you up stylize how you approach what you do.

It’s a powerful way to cycle thoughts and discover your  own point of view as it develops.

Second–blogging is not about writing.

It is about communicating a thought in an episodic format.

Discovering and delineating that thought so you can share it with your community. Getting input through comments that leads you somewhere else.  Each post is a mini chapter not a book. An episode of sorts.

This liberated me and removed the distance between my thoughts and the words themselves. It lets me just jump in without hesitation.

And Third–perfection is largely aspirational and mostly counterproductive.

Perfection in expression does happen but it is not a framework for blogging I can demand of myself each and every time.

When it happens it is a wonder certainly. But often the imperfect posts, probing for an idea or more often with a bit of self confession in them are equally as important.

Learning to accept this, accept that less than perfect is more than acceptable was a bit of a revelation to me.

Feeling free to fire up my ancient La Pavoni expresso machine while the city sleeps. Blogging and publishing being both personally empowering and a necessary exercise in overcoming anxiety.

I care if my posts get read or drive comments certainly. I am a community builder by nature and love when engagement happens. But the act of expression needs to stand alone first.

I’m blogging consistently now and loving it. Comfortable with my web and marketing blog, still finding a new pace for my wine one.

Considering renaming, rebranding each of them. Nervous about this actually.

Considering letting buddies who are experts publish short posts that lead others to their writing. I like this a lot.

I’m harking back to my days as an English and philosophy major and channeling Marshall McLuhan in this instance.

Realizing that the more I embrace the medium of the long-form blog, the more it empowers me to make it my own. That the process in itself is valuable.

The more I let go and find the expression for the thought, the easier and more fluid the process becomes.

Writing this post has been a perfect start to this day.

Now I get to to push PUBLISH and move on.

Both anxious and excited and with a sense of time well spent.

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Writing this post at 4am this morning with Samthecat.

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