tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25909129853497323762024-03-21T14:07:00.540-07:00Better Grip StoriesTrue stuff that happened. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-2219589402467469372012-02-29T13:51:00.000-08:002012-02-29T13:51:12.572-08:00Is Sweeping the Floor Production?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">[The following is an excerpt from the forthcoming book, Ego Wins! by Ken West, used with permission of the publisher, Better Grip Media LLC.]<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nathan was a new stock boy at a department store. His first assignment, when he arrived forty minutes before the store opened, was to sweep the large sales floor. So he began going up and down each isle with the large mop-like broom. At the end of each isle, he’d shake the mop lightly, as he’d been told, to release some of the dirt for pick up later with a dust pan and brush. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Nathan was not your average stock boy or store sweeper. He finished the job, but was determined to sweep the floor more efficiently the next time. Midway through the week he had invented a new method for sweeping the floor that was cleaner and faster. He tested it out a few times more before showing his manager. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t too long after that when Nathan was promoted to assistant stock man. Not only had he revolutionized floor sweeping for the store, but had discovered numerous ways to make the stockroom run more efficiently. Within a few years he was manager of his own store. In another seven years he was a highly paid retailing consultant on modernizing retail operations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In one sense, all labor is a form of production since it is focused on producing a worthwhile result. Production is turning raw materials, intelligence, and action into products or services that people are willing to buy. It is action devoted to creating results. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is also creation—creating new combinations of things. Taking materials and rearranging them, moving them, recombining them in new formulations which are then of more value than the original materials.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Production is organized and consistent action in the pursuit of finished products. Even a more efficient way of sweeping the floor becomes a product when intelligence and action are mixed. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> “Action, if successful, attains the end sought. It produces the product.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">—Ludwig von Mises</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">“In the last resort all our productive efforts amount to</div><div style="text-align: center;">shiftings and combinations of matter.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">—Eugen von Boehm-Bawerk</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> “Physical labor not only does not exclude the possibility of mental activity, but improves and stimulates it.”</div><div style="text-align: center;">—Leo Tolstoy</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://egowins.com/"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>http://egowins.com/</b></span></a> </div></div>Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-60641484264112872202011-12-05T12:16:00.000-08:002016-07-22T11:08:31.431-07:00The Empty Space Inside<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vH9u4MpEgWmRiT9pYKNo0_bwfpAPRV8X_T2DH6sPD4Q2GPFxBzA1kD04JBaq5fXyuzFzo7i1BYBgKHLIZ-o0ak3V2QrploDKyAjI-cORYxvQvSzAoGRdxLhqEer165duTuc61t7oLw/s1600/Vietnam+jungle+patrol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vH9u4MpEgWmRiT9pYKNo0_bwfpAPRV8X_T2DH6sPD4Q2GPFxBzA1kD04JBaq5fXyuzFzo7i1BYBgKHLIZ-o0ak3V2QrploDKyAjI-cORYxvQvSzAoGRdxLhqEer165duTuc61t7oLw/s320/Vietnam+jungle+patrol.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">We were on patrol in the central highlands of South Vietnam. Our job was to flush out North Vietnamese troops who were spotted in the area. Landing in a large clearing, we began our sweep across a field surrounded by dense trees and vegetation. Our M-16s were ready. Choppers flew overhead for reconnaissance.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">As I walked past a small copse of trees near the middle of the field, my foot struck an object on the ground. I looked down. It was a human skull. I picked it up. It was clean to the bone like an exhibit in a children’s science museum. But this was real. It had a small gash on the top which was probably what had killed the person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Some of my buddies came over to look at it, but I didn't let it go. I was fascinated. A human mind had lived in that skull. A person's thoughts, dreams, ambitions, desires, and knowledge inhabited that now empty space inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I pretended to be looking for something in the trees as I wondered what thoughts had gone on inside that once living head. My contemplation ended abruptly. Harsh noise came from across the field. One of our troops with a megaphone was shouting in Vietnamese for someone to surrender.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I placed the skull carefully within the confines of the vegetation, hoping I'd get a chance to look at it again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">North Vietnamese troops—about a dozen of them—came slowly out of the surrounding jungle with their hands held high. We kept our M-16s aimed at them in case it was a ruse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">What amazed me about these surrendering troops were their uniforms. They were clean and crisp. I wondered how they kept them so starched looking in the jungle. We, on the other hand, were a motley group with dirty, wrinkled jungle fatigues that we had slept in for many nights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">The prisoners were lined up in a holding area awaiting choppers to take them away for processing. The rest of the perimeter was checked out. No more North Vietnamese troops were discovered. And, fortunately, no Viet Cong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn’t get the chance to go back to the copse of trees. Soon we headed off to our next destination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">That night, as I tried to get comfortable on my bed, which was a wall of sandbags, I kept thinking about the skull. Of the things I had experienced so far in Vietnam during my short tenure, it made the deepest impression on me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">I still wonder who had inhabited that skull, what their life had been like, and what went on inside that now empty space. Someday someone may wonder the same about each of us. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">Meanwhile, the space inside our skulls is occupied. We have functioning minds, with the ability to desire, plan, and take action. We have the gift of life. Let's use it to achieve the great things you and I seek to achieve during our life span. Don't wait until it's too late. Do it now. Take that next step. Go ahead. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Ken West is a former U.S. Army paratrooper and the author of Get What You Want, available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at <a href="http://bit.ly/alF9vp">http://bit.ly/alF9vp</a>. West is a former President of the New England Chapter of the National Speakers Association, and Association of Objectivist Businessmen. </span></div>
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Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-40448357595856446682011-12-03T11:04:00.000-08:002016-07-22T11:14:21.452-07:00Need Not Apply<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Need Not Apply ©2011 by Ken West<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Back when I was attending night school at Northeastern University in Boston, I got an unpaid internship at a Warner-Amex Cable channel in Somerville, Massachusetts. The News Director had me gather news, write and deliver a weekly broadcast on local politics.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">During the week I interviewed mayors, politicians, school superintendents, and other officials. I also had the opportunity to interview Edward J. King, the former governor of Massachusetts, and Barbara Anderson, Executive Director of Citizens for Limited Taxation. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On Friday evenings I’d deliver a live, half-hour news broadcast based on the reporting I had done during the week. On my first live broadcast, I suddenly went blank as the camera light came on. Fortunately, I recovered quickly, and got better each week. I also continued my studies at Northeastern University in political science.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One of the women working at the station told me about an opportunity for a paid internship at a major Boston Television station. She mentioned that the deadline was fast approaching, and gave me the contact information. I called the phone number she had given me. The person I spoke to at the station set up an interview for the following Friday.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On the day of my interview, I got dressed in my best suit, then drove to the TV-Station which was just outside of Boston. I was excited at this potential opportunity to work hands-on at a major TV channel. The receptionist at the front desk took my name and told me to take a seat in the waiting area.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The lobby was impressive with floor to ceiling windows looking out at the Boston skyline. People came in and went out. I noticed one of their news anchors rushing past me as he headed on his way outside to a waiting broadcast van.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Finally, a man and a woman came out to greet me, but their smiles quickly disappeared as they were directed to where I was sitting.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I stood up and smiled.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Mr. West?” they asked.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Yes, that’s me,” I said, “but you can call me Ken.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We shook hands. Then the man gave me unexpected news.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“We’re sorry, Ken, but apparently you weren’t aware that this is our annual <i>minority</i> internship.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It took me a moment to realize that I was the wrong color. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Oh… You mean I’m not eligible.” </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">They smiled grimly. “Yes, we’re afraid so. But thank you for coming in.”</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I left, feeling like a fool. I wondered why the person who suggested this to me hadn’t realized that it was only open to racial minorities. I drove home and got ready to go into work to do my live TV broadcast on local politics. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I had experienced in a small way what untold individuals have experienced because they are the wrong color, nationality, age, gender, or some other reason not based on ability to do the job. It hurts.</span><br />
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Ken West is a former U.S. Army paratrooper and the author of Get What You Want! available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at <a href="http://bit.ly/alF9vp">http://bit.ly/alF9vp</a>. West is a former President of the New England Chapter of the National Speakers Association, and Association of Objectivist Businessmen. If you would like Ken to speak to your organization, he can be reached at kenwest@bettergripmedia.com.<br />
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Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-5692074122056072902011-10-19T07:58:00.000-07:002011-10-19T07:58:09.726-07:00Forty Years Late by Ken West<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 20px;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Grieving is a strange thing—we all grieve differently.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My wife can grieve instantly. When her mother died last week, she cried as soon as she got the news of her mother’s death. We had just come home from the hospital after seeing her.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I didn’t cry. I still haven’t cried for the death of my mother and father, even when I wrote and delivered their eulogy 18 years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(Don’t get me wrong—I can cry. Parade music makes me cry. Certain movies get to me. I try to hide my tears when the lights come up.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But when it comes to grieving, it takes me a long time. I don’t know why.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Let me tell you a story to illustrate this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">When I was 15 years old we had a dog—a boxer named Pammy. We had gotten her fully grown. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">She was a gentle dog, but very excitable. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When our doorbell rang she would go to the door to greet the new arrivals. She’d get so excited she’d shake her butt and her jowls at the same time, doing a strange dog dance.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sometimes she got so excited that she would throw up on our living room rug. My mother and dad never got mad. They just had me clean it up. Eventually our rug took on a strange shade of beige.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I’d take Pammy on walks around the neighborhood. If another big dog came by, Pammy could put on quite a show of bravado, getting up on her hind legs, ready to box her way to fame and glory.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At night, she’d sleep with our cat, who would curl up at Pammy’s tummy. They liked each other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Back in those days you could let out your dog without a leash. People also had below ground garbage pails. Sometimes the lid was left open and dogs would help themselves to the bounty of leftovers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Since Pammy already had a nervous stomach, it didn’t take her long to get a stomach infection. We got medicine for her and she was getting better. At least I thought so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One day when I came home from school, I didn’t see Pammy. I asked my mother where she was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“She’s gone,” said my mother.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“What do you mean?” I asked. “Where is she?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Dad had to bring her to the vet to be put to sleep.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“You mean—she’s dead?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Yes,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I didn’t cry. All I could say was “Oh…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When my father got home he was obviously upset about it. He told me that it had to be done because of the stomach infection. From then on no one talked about Pammy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I didn’t cry or grieve. My cat showed more emotion than I did. She wandered around the house for days looking for Pammy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I never had another dog.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Flash forward forty years.<span> </span>I was in our living room in a coastal town in Massachusetts. I was 55 years old.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was looking out our front window. Wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. A young boy walked by with a dog. It was a boxer that looked like Pammy.<span> </span>I suddenly thought of my only dog. I could see her in my mind’s eye coming up to me, shaking her butt.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tears starting streaming down my face. Forty years of pent up emotion broke through. I started crying.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Pammy, I miss you so much. I love you Pammy. I wish you were alive today,” I said to the empty space inside of me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I cried for over 20 minutes for a dog I had lost forty years ago. <span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Grieving is a strange thing—we all grieve differently.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">If I had my choice, I’d choose the way my wife grieves—and do it right away.<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 20px;">Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is the author of Get What You Want!, available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at <a href="http://bit.ly/alF9vp">http://bit.ly/alF9vp</a>.</span></div>Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-22687190110560851562010-09-10T04:58:00.000-07:002010-09-10T08:00:53.601-07:00The Marketplace, Orwell’s Mistake, and Homeless Entrepreneurs<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The Marketplace, Orwell's Mistake, and Homeless Entrepreneurs, ©2010 by Ken West</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One thing we can take for granted is that in order to make an exchange in the marketplace of goods and services we must offer something of value. It’s fundamental to capitalism and to life itself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">George Orwell once commented on the hardships that a beggar encounters. Orwell wrote that a beggar works just as hard as someone pursuing a job, and that a beggar deserves remuneration. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With all do respect to Orwell, one of the great political thinkers and writers of the twentieth century, he had a socialist misunderstanding of basic economics. The missing ingredient in the case of the beggar is value. He offers no direct value for the money. He seeks alms, a handout, charity, without offering anything in return. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The fact that a person may work very hard at begging—standing or sitting for long hours in difficult circumstances—doesn’t make up for the fact that he offers no value. Of course, the person passing by may give the man money and feel good about his charity. But the beggar has not given anything in return, except perhaps a thank you.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Those who are homeless face this fact every day as they seek money to survive on the streets. Instead of begging, some try to offer value, such as holding a door open for people entering a store. Or they may get creative as a homeless acquaintance of mine did on the streets of Boston. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For the longest time he sat in the same spot near the corner of two busy city streets. He was a fixture there. Each day he would have a display of some sort set up to catch the attention of passers by. For instance, one day he had a signboard behind him congratulating Frank Sinatra on his 80th birthday. He had written down a short history of Sinatra’s career.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Other days, he would list all the famous people who had birthdays (and their age) on that day. He also had books of jokes that he had written down on every conceivable subject. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I developed a friendship with this man and would talk to him each day as I passed on my way to work. He’d ask me to give him a subject, such as politics, or baseball, and would then tell me a joke about it. He’d consult his books and come up with many jokes on the subject. Some were quite good. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He suggested that I tell his jokes at the office when I got into work. I’d usually give him pocket change or a dollar. He had given me a value in exchange. The world was a little better and more interesting because this man was there, pursuing his “trade.” He spoke openly about this being his work.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, so I was surprised one day to see that he didn’t have his usually display of interesting things. Instead, he carried a sign that read “Homeless, drug-free and sober.” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I asked him what had happened to his usual signs and interesting displays. He told me that a cop hassled him about it, asking him what he was selling, then demanding to see his vendor’s permit and sales tax log. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He told the cop that he wasn’t selling anything, but this officer of the law threatened to give him a ticket which would fine him for vending without a license. Yet holding up a sign saying “Homeless, drug-free and sober” was perfectly all right, since he was now obviously begging, not trying to offer anything of value to those who passed by. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I tried to convince him to go back to his displays and pick a new spot. But, he was now convinced that he was no longer a free man in a free country. </span><br />
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[For a related post, see "Homeless Entrepreneurs" at my Roadbrains blog: <a href="http://bit.ly/dA9v1c">http://bit.ly/dA9v1c</a> ]<br />
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Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is the author of Get What You Want!, available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at <a href="http://bit.ly/alF9vp">http://bit.ly/alF9vp</a>.Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-25127008555149610472010-03-03T10:08:00.000-08:002018-08-06T07:35:15.144-07:00Friar Tuck's Friend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXaGl0q907_hXnOHKjrv3vrPLRsy2QtIFLLQAo_2qbEW5oEJWmHnDi2_Tr5mAfIBShEqV4PhvvYjvQK_TzXd27oqdESFoRNeBNY28YufcmSRMyuM8oxzAgNbfaIyP5j72bZBlO38JrdQ/s1600/Photo+by+Daria+Nepriakhina%252C+at+Unsplash+2.jpe" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="935" data-original-width="1600" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXaGl0q907_hXnOHKjrv3vrPLRsy2QtIFLLQAo_2qbEW5oEJWmHnDi2_Tr5mAfIBShEqV4PhvvYjvQK_TzXd27oqdESFoRNeBNY28YufcmSRMyuM8oxzAgNbfaIyP5j72bZBlO38JrdQ/s640/Photo+by+Daria+Nepriakhina%252C+at+Unsplash+2.jpe" width="640" /></a></div>
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Photo by Daria Nepriakhina on Unsplash</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Have you ever wondered why some guys have a hard time making friends. Consider this...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After a busy day at the bookstore on Washington Street in Boston, we’d go around the corner to Friar Tuck’s, a tavern on Province Place. It was crowded after five with everyone from the surrounding jeweler’s buildings and retail shops. The jukebox was always going. The horseshoe bar buzzed with conversations about work, sports, sex, politics, and gambling. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We’d go over as a group of three or four, all minimum wage booksellers ready to drink beer and complain about our jobs. One night I found myself sitting next to some guy who worked in the Jeweler’s building. I had seen him before. He always had on a dark suit and tie, but didn’t look like a big-shot. He looked more like a mid-level kind of guy.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We struck up a casual conversation about the Boston Red Sox, but eventually moved on to the state of the economy and the world. We seemed to be in sync on many things. The beer helped. Meanwhile my fellow booksellers had drifted into other corners of the bar.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Friar Tuck’s was a place with many waves of patrons coming in throughout the day and night. The after-work crowd would be thinning out in a while. New patrons would be drifting in. I was still talking with the guy. He was married and had two kids. Lived out in the suburbs somewhere. He told me about his rich mother who lived in Connecticut. They didn’t get along very well. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Somewhere we crossed an invisible line in our conversation. We seemed to be verging on a potential friendship. Perhaps the beer was exerting its influence. Suddenly he began talking about what would happen next when we became friends. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">He mentioned all manner of things, from inviting me and my wife over to his home, seeing each other after work, introducing me to his mother who visited now and then, talking on the telephone, going on trips together, chartering a fishing boat, going to football games… and his mental checklist went on and on and on. He was starting to scare me.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Friar Tuck’s bar crowd was thinning out. The next wave of drinkers hadn’t arrived yet. It was time for me to go home. My new friend was going to stay a bit longer, perhaps to contemplate the numerous things that must be done to transition to a full-blossoming friendship.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I avoided going into Friar Tuck’s for about three weeks. When I finally resumed going there after work, I was careful to avoid the part of the bar where the guy usually sat. I didn’t see him on my first week back. About a week later I saw him sitting in the same seat, thankfully conversing with someone else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We never talked again. </span></div>
Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2590912985349732376.post-24214373488027274602010-03-02T12:24:00.000-08:002014-07-20T09:51:32.837-07:00Patrick Henry Speaks to the Police<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br /><br />I was taking a Saturday morning class at Northeastern University in Boston, Massachusetts. It was a public speaking class and most of my classmates were police officers, both local and state. They were taking this course as part of their educational requirements for promotion. They were a friendly group, yet I had no doubt that they would handcuff me and shove me into their police cruisers if I were arrested. Most were big, strong, and formidable.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Our assignment for this particular Saturday morning was to recite a small portion from a famous speech. I had chosen the last part of Patrick Henry’s “Give me Liberty or Give Me Death” speech. Most of the cops were not particularly gifted in their ability to do dramatic readings. Many tended to speak in monotones, as if giving a police report.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">My turn came. I got up, walked to the lectern, and glanced at my speech. I had triple spaced it and marked it up according to its high and low points for voice inflection and volume. I was ready. I loved this speech.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I almost knew my lines by heart. I began reading, making sure that I looked out at my audience as if I were talking directly to them. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“They tell us, sir, that we are weak—unable to cope with so formidable an adversary.”</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Heads popped up. The tone of my voice and Patrick Henry’s words had their attention.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“But when shall we be stronger? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and a British guard shall be stationed in every house?” </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">This normally boisterous group was silent and still. There was tension in the room. Patrick Henry’s words seemed to mesmerize them. I raised my voice and paused at certain key moments of the speech.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery!” </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">My voice was rising. “Our chains are forged! Their clanking can be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable—and let it come!” </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I suddenly lowered my voice to a loud stage whisper. “I repeat it, sir, let it come!”</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I had the rapt attention of my audience. They didn’t move a muscle except for a widening of their eyes. I paused to let the words sink in.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“Gentlemen may cry, ‘Peace! Peace!’—but… there… is… no… peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms!” </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I looked at the faces of these tough cops. They looked like deer caught in the headlights. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God!”</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I had the feeling that my audience was about to rise up. They seemed tense, but remained still. It was time for me to speak one of the most famous lines in American history. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">“I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!” </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I said these last words making eye contact with one of the biggest and toughest cops. There was a pregnant moment of silence. Then everyone burst into applause. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Later, as the class was breaking up for the morning, the big and tough looking cop told me that my reading of Patrick Henry’s speech had given him goose-bumps. Some other cops standing nearby told me that it had the same effect on them. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">It’s good to know that the power of well-chosen words, spoken with passion, can move people. Patrick Henry knew it, and delivered a burning fuse that ignited the American Revolution. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">On that Saturday morning in Boston those cops and I felt just a momentary tremor of its power.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">*****</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ken West, a former U.S. Army Paratrooper, is the author of <a href="http://bit.ly/alF9vp">Get What You Want</a> available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. Ken is currently the program manager for an international training and consulting firm. </span></div>
Roadbrainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11014120988450233936noreply@blogger.com1