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Burn Down The House

Tech Snobs, Geek Angels, and Dinobots

Monday, 7:33pm
Reno, NV
“You called me… Bizzaro. Must be my name.” Bizzaro, Superman’s twisted doppleganger (circa 1958)

Howdy…

I think I just created a new word.

Tell me what you think of it.

It came about this weekend while Michele and I were taking her nephew David out for a “grill lunch”. A grill lunch is where you hold someone you care about (but haven’t seen for a long time) captive for a couple of hours while you grill them on every detail of their lives.

When I was growing up, I always resisted such info-mining, and became a petulant, sulking zipped-lipped prisoner, offering nothing. To this day, the worse way to find out how I’ve been or what I’ve been up to is to ask me directly.

Child psych still works pretty well with my type, though.

Trick me into spilling the beans, and I’ll give it all up.

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If you want to stay on the cutting edge of salesmanship and marketing, you can join us right here, and get my free report to boot.

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I’m easy that way.

Nephew David, however, is of better stock. He handles grill lunches with grace and wit, and he’s a joy to hang out with.

He’s also my main contact in the new generation coming up the ranks. He’ll be a senior next year at a major mid-western university, studying subjects that didn’t exist when I was in academia.

That is, he’ll be a senior if his summer “project” doesn’t haul in a million bucks, which it could. The kid is tech-savvy to a scary degree, both as a creator of sites and ideas, and as a cutting-edge consumer of technology. And now he’s honing his business chops, too.

He’s got entrepreneur’s blood in his veins, and he smells the financial adventures ahead.

However, my guess is that, like his other summer projects, he’ll experience some success, gain amazing experience, have too much fun, and finish out his education like a champ.

Or, as he refers to himself: Like a budding tech snob.

In other words: He’s SO wired into the virtual culture, that he has a sixth sense of what’s coming down the pipe… and waiting a bit longer to launch into the business world might be an advantage during this phase of the blossoming online world.

What I’m taking from talking to him… is a cultural warning: Increasingly, the gap between tech-savvy kids and technophobic geezers threatens to become an unbridgable chasm.

However, it doesn’t mean the tech snobs will automatically win.

Take, for example, how the ability to be in “constant contact” with your friends has morphed into something weird and icky: A few short years ago, the dude with the cell phone permanently screwed into his ear — so he could chat with both hands free — was either a cultural warrior bravely navigating the far reaches of technology (as he saw himself)… or a shallow chatterbox, devoid of deep thought (as the people around him thought).

This condition (“Phone-Welded-To-Brain-Itis”) is no longer startling to encounter. You see someone walking around in a distracted state, babbling loudly to no one in particular, and you just shrug. He’s not crazy — he’s wired.

Though, sometimes I can’t help myself from leaning over and telling him to say “hello” to Kathy, and that I sure hope she gets those packages out to Fed Ex in time. I mean, I felt such a part of his conversation (it’s called “cell shouting”, with no known cure), it’s like we’re now old buds.

Anyway…

… cell shouting now seems SO innocent, with the arrival of “micro blogging”.

Texting constantly to people wasn’t enough. No.

Now, it’s critical to keep whole populations of other folks hip to exactly what you’re doing at this very second.

Wow.

I can see where this is going, too.

Once we combine GPS systems, micro-video, and IM with Twitter into something that can be wired directly to your autonomic nervous system, you can be a walking reality show.

Everyone you know will have instant, unrelenting access to your every thought, action, and movement. Like “The Truman Show”, only more invasive. (“Hey, everybody — my iPhone just alerted me that Susie’s blood pressure spiked twenty points, so she must have arrived at the prom… and… wow… looks like she’s gonna fart…”)

Listen: I live with someone, and I often don’t know where she is in the house, or what she’s doing… and I don’t NEED to know.

A little mystery, folks, is not a bad thing.

Here’s some insight from a guy who’s walked both sides of the knowledge divide: When I first met Gary Halbert, I was composing ads on a personal computer (early model), playing hip video games, and totally clued-in to the cultural Zeitgeist… while he was still usng a No. 2 pencil and a legal pad, had zero video-game dexterity, and considered MTV as something akin to an alien invasion of UFOs.

I was in the room when he was ridiculed by other writers, in fact, for his retro-style. Younger, hipper, more tech-savvy writers actually shook their heads and pitied the guy.

That was an important moment for me.

Because I knew that the accoutrements of writing — whether pencils and paper, computers and hard drives, or chisel and clay…

… were irrelevant IF YOU HAD NOTHING TO SAY.

What Halbert possessed was deep experience and knowledge of classic salesmanship… stuff that transcended the physical act of writing. Or talking, for that matter.

For me, it was a major epiphany that still reverberates in my career today.

Technology is fun, and important.

And you very well may be left behind if you refuse to get hip.

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But, dude… it’s still JUST human-to-human communication.

No matter how much electronic whiz-bangery occurs between the thought in your skull and the receipt of that thought by another person… the rather crucial issue of IMPORTANCE still matters most.

I often get blank stares from seminar crowds when I bludgeon them with the concept of learning classic salesmanship early in their quest for wealth and fame. I understand how confusing it can be, too.

In many of the first marketing seminars we gave (back when we were inventing the model), we would often get some guy who would stand up and announce that he’d just popped for THE most expensive and tricked-out computer in existence…

… and now he wanted to know HOW to make money with it.

We’d sigh, collectively. And then patiently explain that, no, it’s not the equipment that brings in the bucks. It’s the brains behind the equipment.

In fact, in most cases the equipment is just a side-show.

I do not remember ever having any of those guys do a double-take as we explained all this, and suddenly say “By Jove, you’re right! I need to learn salesmanship and marketing skills!”

Usually, they stared at us without comprehension. Our answer couldn’t find a toe-hold in their brains.

Back to kids and tech: Nephew David called himself, in a moment of rueful self-actualization, a “tech snob”… because he is SO wired into the technological hinderlands, that he gets bored with “dumb” tech (like software or games or devices diluted for the masses).

When you can write code, you have little patience for people who can’t make their new GPS system work in the car. (We call our GPS “Know It All Betty”, cuz the voice sounds like a Betty, and she DOES pretend to know it all… especially when you miss a turn, and she goes into “scold mode”…)

His aunt Michele, however, sees him as a “Geek Angel”. Because he can explain things in ways she can understand.

To her credit, she first takes the technology she wants to learn to the absolute furtherst reaches of her learning curve… so she’s not bothering him with questions she could find out herself.

When she presents a problem she can’t figure out, she really can’t figure it out… because she’s spent massive hours in dead-ends, and needs help.

A Geek Angel will never be out of a job.

He possesses a rare ability to both immerse into the mysterious Tech Culture and thrive… and yet still be able to sit with unfortunate earth-bound tech-illiterates, and reveal some of the magic to make their lives better.

I’ve heard many tech-savvy people complain about the way clueless friends waste their time with incessant demands to “fix” their buggy computers, or detangle the electronic miasma of their TV remotes. (I have 3 remotes for my plasma, sound system and cable, which can all be thrown utterly out of synch when the dog sits on one of them. Don’t you?)

I sympathize.

I learned long ago not to tell people I’m a writer.

Trust me — soon after revealing your occupation, one of the folks you’ve just enlightened will approach you with a killer offer: “Hey, man. I’ve got a great story to tell. How about you write the screenplay, using my idea, and we’ll split the profits from the movie 50-50?”

I’ve had guys get ugly when I’ve begged off, too.

Hey — all I had to do was write up their idea, you know, do that “typing thing” for a few hours. Greedy bastard. How dare you withhold your pathetic little writing tricks from the rest of us?

I’m sure it’s the same when you’re super tech-savvy, among the tech clueless.

And you ARE an angel when you help, though. Consider it a good deed, which will fortify your karma. (But make sure your second help session includes contacting a professional outfit that offers computer help, so your desperate technophobes have an alternative path when their bugged-up laptop crashes the next time, and they can’t find you.) (Or, you don’t want to be found.)

Anyway…

Here’s the new word I invented: “Dinobot.”

It is, of course, a quasi-clever combo of “dinosaur” and “robot”… and I consider it a description of the best place to be in business right now.

Part old-world, part new-world.

It’s important to have a certain level of tech savvy, if you’re gonna do any online marketing. If you’re a newbie, this transition may be painful… but it’s critical.

Technology is a fact of modern life; no need to get gnarly about it.

There is now a world of flesh and blood, and a world of virtual data.

And we ALL need to learn to thrive in BOTH.

Gone are the days when a marketer could proudly proclaim to be ignorant of new tech. (Hey — it wasn’t that long ago when direct mail, print and broadcast media were the ONLY way to go.)

Also gone are the days when simply being hip to the latest and greatest software applications will give you any astounding advantage online. (Again, not too long ago, just having a pop-up squeeze page would so overwhelm a visitor to your site, that he’d give you his email and name out of existential fear.) (Man, those were the days, weren’t they?)

I don’t expect to win over many converts… but I’ve always taught that the best position to be in… is to straddle the worlds of old-time salesmanship and ultra-modern tech.

Thus: Dinobot.

A little bit of the stubborn street-wise classic salesman… welded to a shrewd knowledge of what the tech is capable of providing you in terms of traffic, attention-getting tactics, and practical social networking.

Emphasis on the word “practical.”

Look — I have immense respect for my colleagues in the online entrepreneurial world. Some of these guys are pulling down vast fortunes while literally creating the business model for Web marketing that will be around for decades to come.

True pioneers.

However, the models they’re creating are all based on concepts that go way back. Essentially, online biz is all about finding a hot market, becoming the “go to guy”, and creating a greased slide sales funnel. Just like offline marketing.

The difference, of course, is in scale, and cost. What would have worked in, say, direct mail… and cost you fifty grand to pull in two hundred grand… can now be re-fitted for the Web, and cost a couple of hundred bucks to bring in the same two hundred thou. Or more.

And instead of months using the postal system… you can use email, and get ‘er done in a few days.

The Web has created an opportunity for anyone to become a filthy-rich capitalist from their kitchen table, using a laptop and a few low-cost online vendors for processing orders and managing data.

I have been one lucky son of a bitch to have a front-row seat for much of this current marketing revolution, too.

I make no claims for exceptionality, other than I have remained open to opportunity my entire career… and I happened to start in the old-world model of direct mail and infomercials, and smoothly segued into the new-world model of online marketing.

And from this cat-bird seat, I can tell you without doubt that the guys raking it in… are all using classic salesmanship, welded to a basic understanding of the current technology. They are NOT geeks. They hire electronic cowboys to wrangle the technological details.

It’s an important realization.

The world is fast moving to a new class system:

1. The top layer will be the guys who know how to USE the technology to their advantage… and they do not need to be masters of the code and electronics.
2. The second layer will be the geeks who roll up their virtual sleeves and immerse in the Grid to keep the tech alive.
3. The bottom layer will be a tiered mess of technology consumers. Some will be mostly clueless. Others will be wired to the max, with a satellite connection installed in their brains.

But they’ll still be “just” consumers.

You wanna grab a seat at the top?

Become a dinobot.

Dude, I’m telling ya. It’s the path less trod, but it’s the way to go.

Okay, I’m done.

What do you think?

Stay frosty,

John

 

 

Lying Little Weasels

Monday, 9:28pm
Reno, NV
“You can always tell when he’s lying to you — his mouth is moving.”

Howdy…

Has anyone lied to you today?

Have you loosed a zinger yourself?

Do you have a sophisticated grading system for your own non-truths, so you can ameliorate any guilt you feel when you only lie a little tiny bit? Or only lie to, you know, spare someone pain? Or keep them blissfully in the dark?

I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about lies and the miserable bastard weasels who use them as tools for doing business and for controlling their social lives.

One of the hardest lessons to learn, while I was sculpting my career, was how to deal with lies. In all their myriad forms and nuances.

I hung out with shrinks as much as I could — both as paid listeners and as biz colleagues (cuz most psychologists desperately want out of the job of professionally raking the muck in other people’s brains and hearts… and every time one would sense an opening through Halbert or me into the entrepreneurial world, they jumped at it). (Some of the weirdest stories I have entail shrinks and marketing misadventures.)

Dudes who study human behavior (and all its sordid and disheartening variations) professionally know some amazing things about people. For a salesman, this is fabulous insider knowledge, and we crave and seek it.

And one of the main things I picked up from a shrink wannabe-entrepreneur… was his idea of how to divide the human population into three basic categories:

1. Those who saw the world as mostly safe…

2. Those who saw the world as mostly dangerous…

3. And those who had a well-defined, balanced view of things as they really are.

This last group might well be called “adults”. Not as in “you’re just turned 21, so you’re now an adult”… but rather “you’re the only guy in the room who isn’t driven and tortured by demons, guilt and sick needs.”

I must say: Growing up as I did… snug in the biggest bulge of the post-war Baby Boom and nurtured by parents devoted to giving their kids a real childhood (without spoiling us)… I treated the entire world around me as a big, mostly-safe playground. I easily took too many risks, pulled too many completely stupid stunts, and contantly put myself and others in situations where somebody could have gotten seriously hurt or killed.

Living through it made us stronger. Amazingly, no one suffered any permanent damage (other than a few nasty scars, busted bones and popped vertebrae).

My cousins (co-agents of adventure with me throughout childhood) and I are just stunned by the leeway we were given: We absolutely had to be home at certain hours, and we never dared break that taboo. We had to be polite to grown-ups, and do what we were told. We had a few chores here and there, and any added responsibilities that came up were to be done without complaint.

Other than that… we were like little Viking mauraders, unleashed on the neighborhoods to pillage and lay waste to everything we could tear up, burn, or steal.

Mom would wave goodbye on a typical summer day, warn us to be home for lunch… and then she would not have a clue where we were or what we were doing for the next four hours. We’d show up, dirty and panting (and maybe a little bloody), gobble food, and leave again until dinner.

No questions asked, no information offered.

The world was ours. As far as the folks were concerned, kids needed to be kids… and you just sort of hoped some sense or help from angels or something would intervene in any serious danger.

(Once, exploring New York City with my pal David Deutsch, we started chatting with a couple eating pizza next to us, because David has a couple of kids nearly the age of their two young boys. I was shocked to learn that the oldest boy — who was almost thirteen — had NEVER been out of their Manhattan apartment without adult supervision. NEVER! They talked excitedly about maybe allowing him to take a walk around the block or even — gasp! — ride the subway for a stop or two… alone. Maybe they’d let him do that, in the near future. Maybe. I’m still stunned at that — kids growing up without the space to get in trouble, and figure out how to get OUT of that trouble. I don’t think that’s a make-up skill you can master very easily, once you’re an adult…)

Anyway, my point is that I grew up with this possibly exaggerated sense of how safe the world was. This caused some problems as I got old enough to drive… and challenge other boys for the right to date some girls… and try to find my place in the hive.

We started losing friends in car crashes. I myself was in around a dozen bloody wrecks before I left college, and I’m pretty sure our Boomer sense of invulnerability was behind our dumbest choices and decisions.

I was in high school before I started realizing that some of the other kids didn’t share my sense of entitlement to enjoy the wonders of the world. They were hostile to the idea of unfettered adventure, or had such strict home rules they never dared dream of going out at night to see what might happen… or, sometimes, they just seemed cowed and broken.

Like the weight of the world was crushing them.

I even went out of my way to make friends with some depressed kids, and drug them into my social circle almost as a sponsor. But there was always some horrible secret burning inside them, and they tended to suck energy out of the room rather than supply energy.

Many years later — after life had delivered some very adult-like blows to my self-esteem — I got a good taste of what depression could do to you. It tightened you up, bled you of vigor, and exhausted your heart just getting through a day. Fun was hard to come by.

The world seemed… hostile.

I have empathy for people in all the categories now. Been there, felt that, survived all of it.

Makes you humble. And gives you insight.

The world, as I now clearly see it, is both dangerous and delightful… often at the same time. I hitch-hiked for years without problem (and with a novel’s worth of adventure) before I even knew what a serial killer was. Can’t even imagine doing it now. Can’t believe I never had any trouble before. Would NOT recommend it to anyone today.

There are dark alleys, here and there, you can wander through without fear. Mostly, though, I avoid them all. (I’ve been writing for the self-defense market too long, perhaps… seen too much of the bad side of people.)

I have no allusions of safety among my fellow citizens. Nor do I keep a loaded pistol next to my bed, though. (I prefer the baseball bat.)

What’s all this got to do with lying?

Everything.

See, when the world seems safe, you don’t look for lies. You take people at face value, and accept statements as either true or possibly true until they are proven otherwise.

This seemed like a great way to move through the world, for a long time.

Once I went deep into the business world, however, I realized I was being seen as a fool for having so much trust in other people. I started encountering whole roomfuls of folks who considered everything you said an outrageous lie until you could be proven to have told the truth.

Lying as the default position?

This was like Alice in Wonderland for me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world where you couldn’t trust most folks, most of the time.

It felt too… lonely. Like it was you against the world, every second of the day.

Fortunately, I soon discovered a whole segment of business people who felt as I did. Except, they had developed a kind of “lie radar” inside their intuition that operated 24/7, quietly and in the background.

They would always entertain whatever they were told as true, but not act until they got the report from their “lie radar”. It might start with a feeling, that you followed with a little easy research or a phone call to someone who might confirm or deny certain elements, followed with some mild questioning of the speaker.

I liked this approach. It didn’t matter if the other guy was lying through his teeth, because I wasn’t gonna act one way or another on what he said until I verified it. There was ALWAYS something positive to pull from any meeting or experience in business… even if what I pulled from it was a little practice in being patient, and testing my immediate intuition against hard-core research into facts.

I don’t feel so lonely, as I would if I walked around (like many folks I know) assuming that everyone was lying through their teeth, and out to get me.

I probably get “taken” a few more times than the paranoid dude… but I’ll enjoy my calmer life (full of friends who share my worldview of “mostly not dangerous”) and accept the occasional screwing like a man. (Besides — I’ve also noticed, in my long career, that the pissed-off, brick-on-shoulder guy always looking for the scam also gets tricked fairly often anyway. His snarling defenses are like an empty moat, as worthless against a skilled liar as the most gullible dude around.)

I get irked when people lie. Don’t get me wrong.

But I don’t take it personally (unless it IS personal) (which hasn’t happened to me in decades).

People lie. For all kinds of reasons. They can’t handle getting yelled at, they’re just trying to spin things so they don’t look like idiots, they think they can avoid responsibility or consequences… it’s a long list.

Some do it just because they can.

Others do it to position themselves.

And when you think about it… once you get over the myth that lying is an aberration in human behavior, and realize that most folks waddle through their day weaving one tall tale after another (often for reasons they can’t even fathom themselves)… there’s little downside to conducting yourself with full knowledge that everyone around you is delivering a soupy mix of truth, half-truth, and damned lies every single day.

Heck — James Bond, one of my literary heroes, was a professional liar. Just part of his toolkit for survival. I have friends who exaggerate so much, you start to doubt every detail they offer in a story… and yet, they remain friends. I just work a tiny bit harder to find the nuggets of truth in what they say, and ignore the fluff.

I’ve been a lifelong fan of tall tales, too. I’ll add a few outrageous details to a story, just to emphasize some angle, or to call attention to the absurdity or irony of a plot twist. (“The poodle was, like, twelve hundred pounds. Couldn’t fit through the door.” “We loved going spelunking in the county sewer pipes, where you could walk for miles in six-foot diameter tunnels in pitch darkness. Sometimes, we’d lose one of the kids if he fell behind. I’m sure there’s at least one of them still down there, turned into a troll.”)

Professionally, however, I have developed a sharp ear for red flag lying, after years in the smoldering center of the biz world. Sometimes it’s just a tiny blip on my “lie radar”… a tick that others can’t even detect.

This happened last week, when one of my assistants related the “confirmation” of all email problems being fixed by an Infusion customer service rep. To my ass’t, the FUBAR situation must have been cleared up, because the CSR weasel told him it was.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Tell me exactly what that ‘confirmation’ was.”

“He confirmed all was okay,” said my ass’t, confidently. “He said everything should be fixed now.”

Should?

SHOULD?

“Terminate the batch emailing,” I ordered. “Right fucking NOW.”

One weasel word, which slipped by less experienced ears, froze my gut.

And, it turned out, I was right to be alarmed. The bug wasn’t fixed at all, and if we hadn’t terminated the job, tens of thousands of blank emails would have gone out… ruining my reputation and denting our credibility. (As it was, several thousand did get out… thanks to the lying little CSR weasel at Infusion.)

Words matter. Doctors repeated told my family — back when my Mom took sick — that they were “confident” they could predict how the cancer would take her out. Six months, for sure, some said. Three months, said others.

This didn’t sit right with me. I dug deeper, and discovered than four different docs had four different ideas of what KIND of cancer she had. Bone. Breast. Liver. Lung.

They were lying.

They didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.

We didn’t ask them for a prediction of when it would be over. They just offered it.

Lying weasels.

What IS it about so many people… that they are simply incapable of saying “I don’t know”?

I have searched in vain, my entire career, for the answer to that ridiculous question.

There is no shame in not knowing an answer.

And yet, to my mind, there is TERRIFIC shame in making something up, as if your imagination and your desire to be a know-it-all trumped reality.

Lying is all around us.

It’s a piss-poor way to get through a situation, but some forms of lying are just built into the human hard drive.

Work on your own “lie radar”. Simply make a mental note of what someone tells you, and then check it out. They don’t need to know what you discover. But you do.

You don’t “win” anything by confronting a liar, most of the time. Many people cannot abide by what they consider an affront against Truth, and they will verbally assault anyone they catch lying. As if the universe will not be right until the lie is confronted, confessed, and scorched by the light of day.

And these avengers lustily engage in lie-witch-hunts while ignoring their own culpubility in twisting things once in a while.

It’s not your job to set everything straight in the world. In my experience, liars don’t often “get away” with much, over the long haul. They may see short-term benefits, but they’re living a spiritually unhealthy life… and it catches up with you, eventually.

The Zen warrior would rather learn the truth in secret, than share in a communal lie. That can be lonely… but when you surround yourself with honorable people, the truth is always welcome, and you can even forgive small transgressions (since you don’t act on their version of things without fact-checking everything first, anyway).

Sure, it’s complex. Tangled webs and all that.

Work on your intuitive radar.

All top marketers possess it… and most became good at it only after years of disciplined practice and follow-through.

Stay frosty,

John Carlton

P.S. Just a small warning — the slots in the “Launching Pad” consulting program are dwindling, especially in the near-term.

To see how you can be “John’s New Best Friend” for a month, and get unbelievable personal access to me (and Stan) while going deep into your biz and plans, go to:

http://www.carltoncoaching.com

And see what’s going on. It’s intense mentoring, as the folks who’ve been through it will tell you.

And I ain’t lying.

P.P.S. One last thing — for folks like Karen, who aren’t getting their email notifications when I blog (thanks, Infusion)… just remember that I’m being fairly faithful to a Monday-Thursday schedule. I blog on Monday, and then again on Thursday of each week.

That’s the plan.

Rain or shine. (Though I did miss a couple during the heavy traveling days recently.)

So go ahead and drop by, even if you haven’t gotten an email.

I’m always dinking around here with some idea or notion or whatever…

Yes, That Funky Email You Just Got Was A Mistake…

Thursday, 11:58am
Reno, NV
“No, really, everything’s fine, I swear it…”

Howdy…

If you received a strange email from my office this morning, please just delete it. And forgive us.

We trusted the geeks, and we got burned.

We’ve got our fingers crossed here that the damage has been somewhat controlled.

But damage there is.

The company that handles our outgoing email blasts loves to deliver fresh hell whenever possible to clients.

Their system went berzerk last night, like a crazed robot in a bad science fiction flick. And it sent out several thousand emails from me that were either entirely blank… or full of gobbledegook.

The beauty of this blunder is that the company KNEW there was a glitch in the system… but they didn’t want to tell any of their clients. Thought they’d sneak in a fix before anyone noticed. They alerted NO ONE of this problem.

They are assholes.

We think we stopped the emailing monster before it went to the entire list… but I’ve gotten a few private messages from friends mocking me about the stupid-looking emails they just received, so I know these errors went out to a lot of folks.

It makes me look like an idiot, and that’s just something I’ll have to endure. Shit happens, as they say.

Actually, in the great scheme of things, this hardly qualifies as a catastrophe. It’s an annoyance that may cost us the trust of some people, may cause some opt-outs, may dent my credibility.

We’ll survive.

The company behind the email FUBAR may fare less well. An organization that is charged with the care and feeding of someone’s list — the most valuable asset of any client, anywhere — needs to think carefully before trying to hide software screw-ups like this.

We had one of their “customer service reps” LIE to us about what was going on. Just lie, as if making something up would somehow create an alternative reality where everything really was fine.

This sniveling little twit told my assistant that “your emails should be okay” when we called to ask about the disturbing test emails coming back blank. That word “should” sent shivers up my spine, and I ordered the job terminated.

Now, they tell us they’re “pretty sure” they stopped the damage at a few thousand blank emails.

Oh… and we “probably” shouldn’t email anything until tomorrow. All will be hunky-dory then.

Of course it will.

Again — my apologies if you received one of the blank (or otherwise funky) emails today.

We trusted the geeks, and they failed us.

Ah, well. It’s a lovely day outside…

Stay frosty,

John Carlton

The Amazing List of Vanishing Shit

Monday, 8:31pm
Reno, NV
“Where’s my flying car?”

Howdy…

This doesn’t exactly qualify as a “deep thought”… but I’m wondering what you can come up with to help fill out this list.

What list?

Why, the amazing “List Of Vanishing Shit”, of course.

It’s a low form of looking ahead. Prognosticating. And, maybe, predicting the future, too.

I started this list back when I was living at the beach near Los Angeles and — I still shudder just thinking about it — occassionally considering writing a screenplay for the moving pictures.

Hell, everyone else I knew was doing it. Even the guy flipping burgers at Scotty’s on the Strand had a dog-eared script in the glove compartment of his car. (“It’s Die Hard meets The Brady Bunch!”)

You think movies are bad today… you’re just in denial.

They sucked even worse 25 years ago. It’s been a long, horrifying slide to the bock-like dredges of mediocrity and beyond.

And this is where “The List” got started.

See, back in the bad old 1980s, Hollywood started producing movies filled with technology. And they didn’t realize how badly ANY mention of high-tech would date the flick, almost within the year. They’d have actors pretend to interact with computers, for example, but the graphics on the monitor were obviously created by some special effect yo-yo who’d never used a PC before. (Producers were just beginning to realize how much money there was in post-run profits… starting with foreign sales and those new-fangled video-rental stores popping up in every neighborhood…)

There was no mention of the Web until the nineties.

And cell phones… well, I just saw a late-night cable action flick where the hero had a mobile phone the size of a shoebox, with a three-foot aerial you had to pull out. This was supposed to be a sign the dude was cutting edge hip, like James Bond.

Not.

And the monstrous phone was connected by a cord to a backpack. That was cell-phone technology, circa late 80s.

I know. I bought one of those monsters. They called ’em “car phones” back then, because you needed a power source, like the cigarette lighter on a dashboard. The main unit weighed around six pounds, and came with a strap.

Cost around a grand… and cell coverage, even in metro LA, consisted of maybe ten square miles.

I heard of a group of people recently who compete with each other, while watching old films, to point out when having a real cell phone (like you have today) would change the plot of the movie dramatically. It’s shocking.

I just watched a few minutes of a late-nineties film where people mocked the guy who had a cell phone — it was a faux pas to even possess that Yuppie shit. Like he was being pretentious.

My, how fast things are changing.

Anyway, every time I started to even think vaguely about a plot for a screenplay, I was conscious of how tough it would be to write one that wouldn’t need serious changes when technology changed again.

That problem is easily solved by either writing a period piece from the past, or going WAY into the future and making up new technology (harder than it sounds — “Alien”, from 1979, spent a gazillion bucks dreaming up the most out-there technology… and the computers they presented — outrageous for ’79 — weren’t even close in function to the first clunky PCs that hit the market just a few years later).

In fact, nearly all the sci-fi from pre-2000 seems tame or silly now. No one, back then, could even conceive of how SMALL silicon circuit boards would get.

There’s now more computer power in your cell phone than all of NASA had for the first moon landing. (Most of the tech they used was analog, too, not digital. Those guys used slide rules to figure out life-or-death actions while approaching the lunar surface.)

I never did write a screenplay, and probably won’t. (I decided to write novels, slowly, as a hobby instead… and set my plots safely in the past, where unforseen technology mutations won’t change things.)

Still… that list — of Vanishing Shit — keeps getting longer.

The stuff that makes it onto this list… is anything we’re currently using, that is doomed to be a Smithsonian artifact within two-to-five years.

While the early things to make the list seem obvious now — 5-1/4″ floppies, amber screen monitors, expensive digital watches (my friend Art bought one of the first, for two grand… around six months before the first twenty-buck Casio watch came out, with fifty times the features and a teensy battery that wouldn’t quit), carbeurators, mullets, 5-day deordorant pads, bell bottoms on guys (oops, those seem to be coming back), Air Jordans, tuning forks, photo negatives, pay phones in every aisle on the jet, color separation shops, home popcorn machines, etc — I can tell you from experience that NOTHING was obvious just before the changes happened.

My Pop had the same AT&T dial-up phone on the wall of his house for fifty years. Same phone number, too (though it kept getting longer as stuff like area codes were added). We put on a longer cord at some point (so I could yank the phone barely outside the back door to talk to girls), but that was it.

Hell, we were on a party line for my entire youth. (You don’t even know what that is, do you. You shared the phone line with neighbors… so, when the whack-jobs across the street got drunk and left their phone off the hook, you could sit for hours listening to them fight. You couldn’t make or receive a call until they hung up, though. It sucked.) (And the nosy old lady next door listened in on calls — you could hear the click as she picked up, and as she got more deaf over the years, you could hear her breathing while you chatted, too.)

I grew up with 45rpm singles and 33-1/3 LP records played on a turntable with a diamond needle. In the car we had 8-track stereos (a few losers had 4-tracks), and if you wanted FM you had to buy a separate tuner at Radio Shack and spend all afternoon shorting out your electrical system hooking it up. Cassettes were a revelation. CDs were a conspiracy.

But hey — no moss on this dinosaur. I still have a bulging file of free songs I pulled off the original Napster (when it could take an hour to download “Itchycoo Park” from someone’s computer in Prague)… and my iTunes library will play for a week without repeating.

I’ve copied all my document files to floppies, then to Zip discs, then to CDs, then to backup hard drives, then to thumb drives. (Ever try to find a Zip drive lately?) (Try eBay.)

Okay, you get the idea.

Here’s what I’ve come up with to add to The List lately:

Free email. Virtual “postage” is coming, no matter how much you hate the idea. People will look back on these days of casually sending out batch emails to 50,000 names at no cost with disbelief.

Anything that’s “just” a camera. My new Flip videocam has all the other cameras at Best Buy shaking in terror — the simplicity, the ease of transfering (it’s YouTube ready!), the stunning image quality… all of it is just the tip of iceberg. Do you honestly think we won’t have video cams implanted in our hairline soon… in an out-patient fifteen-second operation done by clerks in stores?

Credit cards. Either fingerprints or retina scans will bury the plastic. ATM cards, too. (Plot points of cutting out someone’s eye and using the bloody pulp to get past retina scans are now plentiful, but I’ll bet the actual technology nullifies that idea.)

Keyboards. They’ve been tough to kill — I now use ergonomic split-and-raked QWERTY keyboards… but it’s a mystery why the superior DVORAK models never took hold. Now, it’s a moot point. Soon, voice recognition will replace most keyboard useage, along with tablets. The keyboard will never go away entirely… but just as email caused a resurgance in “letter writing” ability, so the tablets will (I think) bring back handwriting. Maybe. Okay, maybe that’s a nutty notion…

Glasses? I’ve set up four different appointments for corrective laser surgery, and cancelled each time. (I’ve got dry eyes. And I’ve met a few of those “one percent” folks for whom the surgery went South. Not good. Still, I hear even newer technology is arriving soon that eliminates even the small problems…)

TVs. How long until your TV is just a rolled up sheet of resilient screen that you hang anywhere, and use a tiny universal remote the size of a booger to operate? Or, heck, where’s our 3-D stuff, like in Star Wars? I know several guys whose only reason for living is the prospect of 3-D porn…

Free water. Just wait. Fresh water is fast becoming the new oil. The first modern shoot-out in this country over drinking water is just around the corner.

Money. Cue the conspiracy theorists. The greenback hasn’t been backed by anything other than a vague promise from the Man for a generation. And your bank accounts and IRAs and brokerage accounts are just blips in a computer somewhere. The cashless society is nigh.

Cell phones. The evidence is mounting that we’re frying our brains with the things. Something’s gonna give, once the initial suspicions become double-blind facts. And, just like cigarettes, they’ll have to pry the phones from our cold, dead fingers…

Heck, I’m looking around my office, shocked. I’m cleaning out some nooks and crannies, and in the five years I’ve been here, just the technology for the computer mouse has morphed into weird new directions. (And yet, I had to haul out a corded “regular” phone recently, when my wireless models kept screwing up the audio on some teleconferences.) (CORDS on a phone! How retro chic.)

Static photos in frames, that don’t move. Or have audio. They use up too much power, but I love those new frames that loop long videos of foreign scenes and scenic landscapes in real-time. I can see having dozens of them throughout the house, with personal videos playing, custom video streams, and video feeds from something like a subscription satellite-based company. They fire up whenever a carbon-based lifeform comes near.

Paying for wireless access in hotels. Already going away.

And…

…it’s your turn.

What would you add to The List?

It’s not a waste of time. I know someone who paid big bucks for a new TV last year that had no HD capability. Last year! He bought a non-BluRay DVD player, too. They saw him coming.

More important, just thinking about this stuff will keep you hip to how things are changing. Cuz they ARE. I’m guilty myself (especially on this blog) of sticking with dated designs way too long… but we make up for it by using video, Web 2.0 networking, and other cool innovations even while they’re still cutting-edge.

Sorta like having a covered wagon with a satellite dish and solar panels, but that’s what’s great about the entrepreneurial world: You can be eccentric, and still make it work.

Anyway, what’s your addition to The List?

And no fair saying it doesn’t matter, cuz we’re all gonna go up in a nuclear holocaust soon.

That’s no fun. And I’ve been hearing that bullshit since I was ten years old. (I’m one of the original “duck and cover” Boomers, you know.)

C’mon. Think about it. Golf courses, gone? Bowling alleys? (They’re already vanishing as fast as the buffalo.) Gas guzzlers? The Concorde jet went bye-bye, replaced by Air Busses the size of Vermont.

With rising oceans, are Amsterdam and Venice going the way of Atlantis?

Just consider the implications of water shortages. On sewage removal, for example. Yuck. On lawns in suburbia. Ice in drinks.

Boxing is getting pummeled by mixed martial arts. Hockey could make a comeback with HD (finally, you can SEE the freakin’ puck!)… just as older actors quit in horror at seeing every blemish magnified.

And why are ties still around for men’s suits? Even Jimmy Kimmel wears one. Jimmy Kimmel!

And…

Okay, I’m done for now.

Let’s hear your contribution.

Put it in the comments section below…

Stay frosty,

John Carlton

P.S. (Is the “P.S.” doomed to the dustbin of history, too?) We’re planning some truly stunning stuff for the near future here at Marketing Rebel.

If all you’ve been doing is reading this free blog, then you’re already missing out. The easiest (and cheapest, you cheap bastard) way to get involved is still to hop over to http://www.carltoncoaching.com, and join the Marketing Rebel Radio Rant Coaching Club.

You’re a fool not to at least try it out. You can quit anytime, with zero penalty. We play no games, do no sneaky stuff to trap people. It’s an amazing resource.

Check it out. Stan and I are waaaay out on the cutting edge on a lot of things now cooking online, and we share it all.

Time to get involved.

Gloating

Thursday, 8:17pm
Reno, NV
“…and I’m doing this, and I’m signing that…” Mick Jagger, “Satisfaction”

Howdy,

I’m gonna be flat-out honest with you: I’m freaking exhausted.

The “17 Points” workshop is in the can, but it took a piece out of us to pull off. Three entire days, morning to evening, locked in mortal combat with Truth, Insight, and The Path To Riches & Spiritual Fulfillment.

Man, it was fun.

But grueling. In that “everything got revealed (and then some)” way.

I’ll be sharing more of what exactly was shared at this one-of-a-kind event later… but for now, I just want to gloat a bit.

I mean… NO ONE else puts on events like this. I honestly believe hosting one of these marathon teaching workshops would kill your average guru. Even the ones half my age. Just curl ’em up and leave a singed hulk trailing wisps of bacon smoke.

You really shoulda been there, you know.

Oh, wait… you were invited. But you missed out on your spot by not gaming the auction, didn’t you.

Ah, well. I’d say “next time”, but without an act of God (like the video spontaneously combusting), there won’t BE a next time. My entire career was metaphorically aimed at this one single in-depth workshop… and I pushed myself as hard as I’ve ever pushed.

And I ain’t never giving it again.

It was just too exhausting.

Have you ever stood on your feet for three solid days, keeping your mind completely engaged, in fever-pitch mode… working without a net, in front of appropriately-greedy people who have paid big bucks for the opportunity to suck every scrap of wisdom from your skull?

I can’t say I recommend it.

Other folks put on big damn seminars with a mob in the audience, and as impressive a line-up of speakers as they can bribe or cajole into showing up. The actual host is onstage for only a short amount of time. He’s more of a ring-leader and MC.

I like that model fine. It’s a good way to present a lot of stuff to a lot of people.

But my DNA just won’t allow me to host that kind of event.

I cut my teeth, long ago, with Halbert, doing intimate and shockingly-interactive seminars with relatively small groups of people… most of whom were highly skeptical of the whole scene. We had no script, no “battle plan” for how to proceed, no clear idea of what was gonna happen from hour to hour… and it was just us on the stage, with little or no backup.

And we liked it that way.

It was theater-meets-the-barroom-brawl time. We took each attendee through their paces, and kept the entire event utterly and completely focused on real-world solutions to the actual marketing problems they brought to us.

No theory. No bullshit academics. No clever speeches. And no pitching.

Just raw, nasty, front-trenches marketing hard work.

Once you get a taste for that kind of impromptu action, “regular” seminars full of talking heads seem boring and nowhere near dangerous enough.

My seminars are always small, always unpredictable, always pumping adrenaline and endorphines… because the live, unrehearsed, uncensored interaction of host-and-attendee IS dangerous and exciting.

Hey — the action kept me going for three packed days.

Kept the attendees on their toes, too.

It was a raging success, by all metrics.

But I’m never, ever, doing it again.

Still, I’m sitting here laughing out loud, remembering some of the stories we pulled from the extended weekend. It was great having my long-time buds David Deutsch and Garf (David Garfinkel) as wingmen, watching my back from the audience. The hotel was perfectly placed between Chinatown and North Beach (where Kerouac and The Dead hung out) — fabulous food, ambience up the yin-yang (literally, if you went into Chinatown), all the energy that comes from hanging out in the nerve-center of a bitchin’ city like San Francisco.

Plus, witnessing Deutsch attempt to murder Garf with an IED of olive oil and glass was just priceless. Later, we all made up and toured Carol Doda’s old haunt for laughs, along with the new “Beat Museum” (Ginsberg’s typewriter!).

Ever had a Chinese foot massage in a room filled with top Web marketers, all half-drunk and giggling?

I’m truly sorry you missed this event, I really am.

We may have a few video snippets to share with you, soon. But we will not be releasing the DVDs of the event (like we have for the other seminars/sweatshops I’ve held).

Naw. This one was too special. For now, the hot stuff is staying in the vault.

And I’m gonna bask in the warmth of having pulled it off for a little while here.

A little creative gloating. There hasn’t been anything in any of the other marketing events you’ve heard of… that is even remotely close to what was shared in this workshop.

I wish you coulda been there.

Stay frosty,

John Carlton
http://www.carltoncoaching.com

PS: Just a note to the curious here — the schedule for the much-desired “Launching Pad” coaching option (what we call around the office “Be John’s New Best Friend For A Month”) is starting to look like the 405 during the morning commute. In other words: Packed.

Over the past months, while we’ve been on the road (to Kern’s “Mass Control” event, Eben’s “Altitude” spectacular, Schefren’s Orlando seminar, and everywhere else we’ve been traipsing around) people have aggressively cornered Stan or me and grilled us on the availability of this super-intense consulting opportunity.

If even a fraction of those folks follow up, we’ll be booked solid soon. It’s first-come, first-served, though… so, while there are spots on the schedule, you have a shot.

Check it out at http://www.carltoncoaching.com.

Mahalo.

What Does A Good Life Look Like?

Monday, 8:46pm
Reno, NV
Shake, rattle ‘n roll… ‘n roll… n’ roll… n’ roll…

Howdy,

Not sure if you’ve been following the micro-news or not… but our little town here nestled against the Sierra Nevada has been Earthquake Central for the last week or so.

That’s right. Reno made the national newscasts by shaking its butt.

Actually, a flurry of heart-pounding smallish quakes has been unsettling the joint since February… but things got really interesting this past week: On average, we’re experiencing over a hundred shaking events a day (!), with the largest so far nudging 5.0 (knock you off your feet level).

The experts assure us a volcano isn’t about to emerge from under Fourth Street and shower us with lava or anything like that.

Still, the whole city is holding its collective breath, waiting for the punchline to arrive.

Now, I’m from California, and we’re so blaise about seismic activity, we named our minor-league baseball team after earthquakes. (Literally, the Cucamonga Quakes, single A.) I slept through most of the big ones while growing up — my bed would bounce across the floor, and everything from the walls and bookcases would doink off my head, yet I refused to leave slumberland. (Probably helped that I grew up less than one hundred feet from active train tracks, where the Southern Pacific freights would rattle the house several times a day.)

So I’m not particularly nervous. Been sleeping fine, even when the big jolts arrive in the wee hours. I’ll get up, calm the dogs down, check for flaming lava in the hallway, and fall back into a deep snooze before the first aftershock arrives.

Of course, everyone who didn’t grow up in California is freaking out. Michele’s downright jumpy — her hometown of Chicago was, she insists, firmly nailed down like a city is supposed to be. Damn it. She is actually offended by my smug refusal to sit up all night waiting for the next tremblor.

And hey, being jumpy is fine. As long as you channel that energy into being prepared. We’ve been chatty with neighbors we haven’t noticed since last summer (when everyone spent the evening sipping wine in the middle of the cul de sac, watching the nearby hills burn and taking bets on whose house would go up like a matchhead first if the wind changed). Trading info and phone numbers and secret emergency plans.

And also trading fears.

It’s gotten me thinking about what life is really all about, again.

You know — once the danger passes, how are you gonna change things so you enjoy this corporeal ride with a little more gusto?

Gary Halbert and I used to gleefully have a very similar conversation, over and over, whenever the mood struck: We asked ourselves, what does a good life look like?

It’s a subject worthy of repeated exploration.

If you need help getting started, consider those inane celebrity interview modules in magazines… where somebody pitches them 20 fast questions like “What is your perfect day?” and “What do you see yourself doing five years from now?”

They ask these questions as if, of course everyone has an instant answer handy. I mean, who doesn’t constantly obsess on what a perfect day would be?

Try it on your friends, and on yourself. You’ll find that, in reality, very few people have even considered the concept of looking ahead like that. (I’m betting the celebs have their PR handlers do most of the answering in those articles, anyway.)

Many folks are just plain superstitious about imagining the future, like they’ll jinx any chance they may have of attaining a good life down the road…

… when — once you understand how goal-setting works — that kind of avoidance is actually a damn good way to guarantee you’ll never get close to a perfect anything.

A good life seldom just happens to you.

You gotta envision it… go after it… and attain it.

You want it… you take it… and you pay the price.

Here’s a tip you may not discover immediately, that will help you understand why it’s so hard at first to see your future very clearly: Your desires, and thus your “perfect” goals, will change dramatically over time.

If you have your old high school yearbook, go read what your pals wrote about the impending future. If life just kinda “happened” to any of them in the cruel adult world, there wasn’t much in the way of startling surprises. Or adventures.

It’s very much worth thinking about what a good life looks like.

The rules Halbert and I came up for our incessant chats on this topic were simple: We had to be painfully and excruciatingly honest.

Sometimes, this meant our talk degenerated into locker room fantasies. That was allowed. We both had bloated biological imperatives.

Mostly, though, we talked of finding not a moment in time where bliss was attained… but rather an ongoing series of opportunities for exploration and sampling.

In other words… we suspected that the Perfect Life would be too full of surprises, too unpredictable, and too intertwined with edgy adventure to allow a quick, pat, consistent answer.

So our vision changed, constantly. Curiously, neither of us gave a shit about material possessions. Or power.

In the end, the Introvert usually triumphed within us. A good life had its lovely carnal pleasures, sure… but central to complete fulfillment was a pursuit of intellectual goals and long greedy spells acquiring knowledge and (as silly as it sounds) wisdom.

(I’ve recently heard how Gene Simmons, the bass player from KISS, describes his perfect day… and I gotta admit, he has a point about not getting too philosophical about shit. Fortunately, I’ve had a few extended spells of hedonistic excess to enjoy… and while I do not regret a single hour, I will admit that it gets boring after a while. Especially for someone who spends an inordinate amount of time deep inside their head.)

(Still, you go, Gene. Party ev-er-y day…)

Now, here’s the kicker: You cannot just possess wisdom. To set up a life where you have the LUXURY of pursuing such lofty crap… you need lots of freedom.

I realized something a very long time ago: Many entrepreneurs really do get into biz for the money, and all the things money can buy. The freedom they enjoy is the freedom from want, and the giddy gorging at the teat of modern pleasures.

However, there are just as many others for whom money is just a way to buy different kinds of freedom: Never having others choose for you, never needing to shoulder responsibilities you don’t freely seek, never wondering when “life” will begin… because you’re highly aware you’re deep into it, every day.

As you explore your own notions of a good life, judge harshly against your intuition and your gut. Make sure no one else is influencing your dream, unless you welcome the influence. (My first lists of goals — while I was struggling with the concept of being able to actually “want” something and go after it — were heavy with rewards I didn’t actually want… like boats, or a big mansion, or fame. I had to extract myself from the quicksand-like influence of other people’s desires, before I could find where my heart truly lay. It’s a process. I had a long way to go, but each attempt at refining and reshaping my peculiar goals paid off hugely.)

Is freedom important to you? It’s not, for everyone. Like Dylan said, you gotta serve somebody. A higher purpose, a god, an addiction, a family model, something. If you choose something hard-to-define, like a “higher purpose”, then your everlasting homework assignment is to explain to yourself HOW you will serve that purpose.

You can’t just say you’re after it, either. When you’re engaging life on all cylinders, you get busy, not philosophical.

You go after it.

In Gary’s case — and this still influences me today — he had a peculiar inability to settle down and enjoy any reward he’d attained. For him, the happiness of succeeding meant only that another chapter in his life had ended… and he had to hunker down to find that next challenge, that next hill to climb, that next dragon to vanquish.

That’s an exhausting way to live, but it’s also invigorating when you do it right.

And, because you have the freedom to choose your goals and directions… and the freedom (in your mind and your bank account) to pursue them with balls-to-the-wall fervor… you can change direction any time your gut tells you it’s time.

Consider, as you mull your own perfect day and good life, if the destination or the journey is more important to you.

For me, it’s always been about the ride.

Sometimes, I get too complacent about success, and make the horrible mistake of thinking “I’ve done it, by Jove!” When, according to my private scorecard, I haven’t done jack shit yet in life.

I’ve been telling people lately to think about their life story as a movie. Because that’s easy to digest. For me — and maybe for you, too — the better analogy is a big long novel.

When chapters end, new ones begin immediately. The tale has no clear final act, because life isn’t a static frozen moment, but a continual jaunt through ever-changing scenery.

Still, it’s good to think (and to talk about, with good friends) what your good life looks like.

I’m always fascinated by other people’s ideas on this, too.

Comments are welcome. If you’re just beginning to consider your own journey, all the better — here’s a forum for your thoughts.

I am constantly blown away by how smart, how involved, and how alive the commenters in this blog are. It’s a rush, I gotta tell ya, to know so many people of quality and insight are out there.

Love to hear from you.

My good life is taking me over to San Francisco this weekend, of course — out of the Sierra Bed O’ Earthquakes, into the quivering bosom of The Mother Of All Fault Lines in the Bay Area.

If we survive, I’ve got a big damn fresh list of “good life” things to indulge in over the summer.

What a ride we’re on…

Stay frosty,

John Carlton
http://www.carltoncoaching.com

P.S. If you’re still bummed about missing out on this upcoming copywriting workshop… and who in their right mind isn’t bummed about missing it?… remember that we’ve still got several coaching programs in place, all heavily loaded with personal attention from me.

Check out www.carltoncoaching.com, while you’re contemplating your future.

Might be a great fit there, you know.

Watching People’s Heads Explode

Thursday, 8:35pm
Reno, NV
“How do I get out of this chickenshit outfit?” Pvt. Hudson, “Aliens”

Howdy…

Okay, so I’m a little grumpy today. I’m still exhausted from the Kern “Mass Control” seminar (major blast, but even fun can suck the juice out of you), I’ve still got days of hard work ahead getting ready for the workshop next week…

… and we just had a flurry of FIFTY freaking earthquakes today. The largest was 4.2 (definitely not fun), and there were at least half a dozen over 3.0 (the kind that rattle the eaves).

This would be a slow news day in California… but folks in Northern Nevada are freaking out. Like most of the continent, we’re settled on a few fault lines here and there. But they’ve never been this antsy before, that anyone remembers (or has kept records of).

So if you never hear from me again, you’ll know why.

Freakin’ earth swallowed us up.

So, yeah, I’m a little grumpy.

And I want to take full advantage of this grumpiness… and continue, just a wee bit further, on last week’s post on paying taxes.

First, let me be clear: I LOVE it that people post comments, and I urge you to disagree with me whenever you feel the need. That kind of “heat” keeps the blog full of energy and action. I wanna hear whatever you have to say. Don’t be shy.

Not that any of you are.

If you read the comments from the most-recent “Cuz I’m The Taxman” post, you will have noticed the plethora of near-dumbfounded disagreement with my attitude about paying The Man his pound of flesh. I know many of the posters, and I respect and like them. (Yes, in spite of the flogging they delivered.) (Hey — “blog flogging”! Much better than the tired old “flaming” phrase, don’t you think? I just invented another word!)

And trust me on this: Because of a tech glitch, only a fraction of the comments made it into the blog. The rest, I had delivered via email… and man, they were viscious.

Because, when it comes to ideology… and getting all riled up about taxes is very much an ideology… sparks can fly.

And I must have gouged an ideological nerve with that post.

To recap: I wrote about my feeling of “belonging” when I first paid quarterly taxes as a freelancer. Early in my career — because of my success — those estimated payments alone were more than what I used to earn in a year.

And, instead of obsessing on having to “give up” all that money… especially to a dysfunctional government that was dead-set on wasting it… I chose to take the advice of a very, very rich man who was also very, very centered and happy. His nudge: Pay all you owe, and forget about it.

In fact, he said, look at your glass as half full — you’re paying so much, because you’ve earned so much. You’re a freakin’ success. Go make more.

Stop bitching.

Gary Halbert and I used to have a saying: “Just tell me who to pay, and how much.”

It was our code for GETTING THINGS DONE. The joke was that, in a world run by gangs and mobs — which is how the joint IS run, without organized governments, by the way — you were expected to pay extortion, protection and bribes just to engage in normal biz activity. And so what if it’s now called “taxes”.

Just point out the guy I’m supposed to pay, and let me get on with my day.

The other relevant saying: “Choose your battles.”

You wanna get all high-blood-pressured over something? First, make sure it’s a matter you have some control over.

Otherwise, you’re like the fabled king who stood on the shore ordering the ocean to stop making waves. Huff, and puff, and blow as hard as you like — if you’re railing against a monster that will swat you like a gnat, then you’ve chosen the wrong battle.

Check Sun Tzu if you need to. The Art Of War is all about achieving desired results, not “winning”. You can let the other guy win all the battles, and still end up demolishing him. You only reach the real endgame intact and ahead… IF you know what the war really is about.

For me — and for the scattered few folks out there who share my shrugging off of the “tax burden” — I’ve got better things to do than obsess on taxes. Things I can control. Like being successful.

Guys like my old buddy Ken C., and Jim, and Ian, and Kyle in the comments section understand. Thanks for chiming in, boys. I was starting to feel like a punching bag.

And if you read my prior post without letting your rage blot out your eyesight first, you know that my meaning was clear: Taxes suck (that’s a quote)… the world’s not perfect… and this is a piss-poor battle to choose to fight.

Cuz you’ll lose.

Yes, the government is riven with corruption. Yes, the education system is a rat’s nest of problems. Yes, America is stumbling like a giant drunken beast, lashing out blindly and ineffectively.

Things aren’t perfect. They aren’t even remotely good.

So fucking what?

I’ve been on the warpath against idealism for decades now. I loathe idealism because I WAS an idealist when I was young. I saw the flaws in the system, and I recoiled in horror. No way could I join the adult world, if it insisted on existing in a flimsy state of near-unconscious stupidity. Count me out, dude.

Except, that attitude didn’t work out so well for me as time wore on.

And I didn’t have to leave my intelligence, or my dignity, or my lust for making a difference at the door when I finally entered the business world and became a full-fledged capitalist.

Idealism sucks. It’s a mostly-empty threat to take your ball and go home unless everyone immediately starts playing by your rules… and the universe will laugh at you for the entire time you insist on this quixotic quest for an ideal civilization.

Me? I’m amazed that civilization works at all. As a species, we’ve still got one foot firmly back in the primeval jungle. The corruption and bullying and murderous greed that soils our culture is imbedded in our DNA. Our natural state is closer to anarchy than order… and if you just got through your day without barbarians torching and pillaging your town, then you may need to sit back and take stock of exactly what we’ve accomplished in this imperfect country.

Yeah, I hate a lot about the place. I’m appalled at the high incarneration rate, embarrassed by our national level of ignorance about the rest of the world, and saddened by the aggressive dunderheaded arrogance of our leaders.

I’m also nervous about the way critical thinking is denigrated, and pissed off that celebrity has become a religion.

Are these battles I can fight? In small ways, perhaps. I’m not above choosing a fight that will exhaust me. And yet, I can count rather impressive numbers of people whose lives have been affected by what I’ve shared. It’s a long way from a revolution, but I’m damn proud of having dragged (kicking and screaming) a small mob of folks into business success, by helping them break down the process (and the obstacles) and get busy with living the life we OWE all the men and women who died to keep some trace of real freedom alive in this little democratic experiment.

Yes, our country is flawed.

It is still, however, the dream of every serf and slave and vanquished schlub over the long, cruel course of history who ever wished for just a small shot at being able to live without undue interference. Without a boot on his neck. With an equal opportunity to do what he wanted, how he wanted to do it.

The folks whose heads explode even thinkiing about taxes need to stop and consider: Even though a huge percentage of your dough is being confiscated by the gummit… are you being restrained from being more successful? Has some jack-booted thug come by and placed a ceiling on your dreams and goals? Are you being thwarted from creating your own little empire of wealth and fame?

Okay, if your idea of a good biz is engaging in illegal shit, then sure — you’re being thwarted.

Otherwise… gimme a break.

Choose your battles.

And if you want a seat at the Feast of Life, get your head clear. People with a chip on their shoulder, permanently pissed off about boogeymen coming to steal their “stuff”, aren’t welcome. The Feast is an optimistic place — not immune from caution, prepared for calamity, and alarmed at real dangers… but still hugely and gratefully optimistic.

The entire world needs help. Not bitching and moaning, but real help.

And we can all start by tending our own gardens, and doing what we can to harrass the evil bastards who want the good times brought down.

Choose your battles. If it’s taxes, then great — I wish you all the luck in world. Taxes suck.

It’s just not my battle. I’ve got other, equally urgent and important things to attend to. And I enjoy not having my head explode every time I need to write a check for estimated taxes. I spend somewhere in the vicinity of eight hours a year even thinking about taxes. That’s it.

The rest of my time is mine. To quote Pete Townsend, I call that a bargain.

Geez, I AM grumpy today.

I’ll be better tomorrow, I promise.

If the earth doesn’t swallow us up, that is.

Just felt another one. Screw it — I’m off to the fridge for a cold pale ale…

Stay frosty,

John Carlton
www.carltoncoaching.com

P.S. At the Mass Control seminar, I announced to the world that we were taking the Bag of Tricks off the table very soon. So it’s officially on the nearly-extinct list… a breath-taking offer so generous (especially with personal attention from me) it will be the stuff of myth when it’s finally gone.

However, we will honor all promises as long as the offer is up at www.marketingrebel.com.

If the reason your head is exploding is your lack of biz success, then you may wanna check it out.

While it’s still an option, that is.

P.P.S. And, right on cue… Hollywood star Wesley Snipes just got handed a 3-year jail term for avoiding taxes. Misdemeanors. Three years.

He did not wisely choose his battle.

The Fed plays rough.

Cuz I’m The Taxman…

Monday, 10:44pm
Reno, NV
“…and you’re working for nobody but me…” George Harrison

Howdy,

Just plowed through the old tax grind here. Spent several hours chasing down documents, digging through files, double-checking my math.

Cuz I suck at math, you know. How I got through trig in high school is a mystery (let alone statistics and matrix theory in college).

In fact, I’m only half-joking when I say I’m pretty sure I’ve lost the ability to multiply by 8. That entire synapse has just dried up and fluffed away. (I still have vivid memories of squirming in my third grade class during the vicious head-to-head multiplication games the teacher forced us to play. I got tricked more than once with “five times zero”, blurting “FIVE!” before realizing my blunder. Argh!)

This is why one of my first splurges when my career got going was hiring an accountant.

Accountants like numbers. Watching their hands fly across a calculator is something to behold. Looky there — all my money vanishing like dots on a digital screen…

But here’s the thing: The first time I wrote a check to the IRS for an estimated payment… I was actually thrilled to death.

This first quarterly payment was proof that I was — finally — my own man. In my own biz. Paying my own taxes.

No withholding. No payroll check. No timing my bills to The Man’s schedule for doling out my hard-earned dough.

But I enjoyed that thrill alone.

Many of my early gigs as a freelancer were with business owners who considered taxes to be evil, evil, evil. Reagan encouraged them in this hatred — it was a time when government was seen as the problem, and unfettered free enterprise the solution.

The only solution.

I’m not gonna get into it… but after last month’s bailing out of Bear Stearns with taxpayer money (mine!) — because deregulation allowed them to act like four-year-olds with someone else’s piggy bank — I’m gonna slug the next guy who spouts ideological bullshit about the free market being able to regulate itself and fix any problem.

Economics has never been easy to understand, no matter what anyone else tells you. It’s a complex mix of theory, emotion, psychology, greed. con-man tactics, and lots and lots of wishing and hoping.

Oh, and gambling. The entire financial infrastructure of our civilization is essentially a big damn roll of the dice. If everybody woke up tomorrow and decided that paper money was worthless… it would be. Same with gold. And IOUs, and everything else of “value” you can’t eat, use for fuel, or build anything with.

Still…

…I was damn proud to start paying my taxes as a rookie freelancer.

Damn proud.

This confused nearly everyone I worked with at the time. Especially since I was hip to Ayn Rand and Robert Ringer and a small bit of economic theory…

It was like, I should know better or something.

Back then, it was almost heresy to like paying taxes. A few of my colleagues even became tax rebels, refusing to pay anything under the hazy notion that income tax wasn’t “in” the constitution, and so… blah, blah, blah.

They got in trouble. Ayn couldn’t save ’em.

I kept my thoughts mostly to myself. As a vandal in my formative years, I destroyed lots of stuff. We were removed from the creation of bridges, street lighting systems, even stop signs. So we burned, blew up, cut down and defaced public property like it was a game.

Seriously. It seemed like a game.

I’ve had this idea for a “basic lesson” I’d like to deliver to “pre-vandal” kids in grade school and junior high. In this lesson, I would explain to kids where they “fit” in the culture, and where stuff like street lights and earth-moving equipment came from. Cuz no one ever did it for me.

My theory is that kids are too removed from the creation of the stuff around us. Strangers arrive in uniforms, build and fix shit, and vanish. In earlier times, you may have known the folks who put up the lights (“Hi, Mr. Edison!”), ran the tractors, painted the walls, dug the holes for power lines, etc. (Heck, you may have even been involved — I doubt a kid who helped raise a barn would later vandalize it.)

I got a taste of this when my little town formed a Little League. Parents got together, pooled scarce resources and money, sought out sponsors… and my Pop helped build the freaking baseball field. From scratch. Went out there and leveled the field, cleared the debris and rocks (big rocks in the dirt, too), erected the stands and concession, wired the microphones, poured concrete for the dugouts… all of it.

We treated that diamond like church, too. It was sacred ground.

Slowly, it was dawning on me that anarchy was dumb, and could harsh your mellow.

Building stuff… and (gasp!) even taking care of it… could make life better.

Once I became an entrepreneur, I was ready to step up and be an “owner” of the civilization I was living in. Taxes weren’t “taken out” of my paycheck anymore. Instead, I wrote quarterly checks to do my part in funding the upkeep and creation of local and national crap.

Crap we needed. Like roads, sewers, firehouses, power lines, the whole interconnected mess that kept the lights on, the beer cold, and garbage picked up.

Yep. I’m a proud taxpayer.

I have never forgotten listening in on a heated conversation between a couple of advanced businessmen, back when I first weaseled my way into those kinds of meetings. (Literally smoky back rooms.)

Most of the guys were all pissed off about taxes, hated the thought of paying even a single penny to “the gummit”, and considered the whole thing extortion.

But there was this one guy… the wealthiest and most Zen-centered dude in the group… who just shrugged.

He said — and I remember the sound of his voice — that he made his millions, and paid every penny he owed in tax, when it was due. And slept like a baby, and went about earning another million.

The other guys grumbled and bitched and moaned and agreed with each other that this was the wrong way to go about being a success. You fought with the taxman over everything, smuggled money into hidey holes whenever possible, lied, cheated, played dumb and dumped vast sums into off-shore accounts.

Over the years, I paid attention to who led the better life. No contest.

Off-shore money vanished (“Oops!”)… years were spent wrangling with attorneys and IRS agents… and many sleepless nights ensued.

And I slept like a baby, having taken the rich guy’s advice. And got busy with my career.

No one understands my joy at being able to say I pay for the upkeep of my quirky little town and my staggeringly-big nation. And though the checks I write are pretty damn huge (I quickly got used to paying more in quarterly’s than I used to earn in a year), I do not begrudge Caesar a single coin.

Sure, lots of it is wasted, misspent, stolen and worse.

The world’s a messy place. Choose your battles.

I focus on the never-ceasing wonder of living in a joint where a guy like me — lowly, formerly-clueless, working class me — had the opportunity to grab a seat at the Feast… simply by getting busy and setting goals.

This is an astonishing playground we live in here. Most of the rest of world is agog at our freedoms, and would happily pay twice the tax we dole out just for the privilege of being able to bitch about paying it… and not being jailed or shot in the process.

Taxes suck.

So pay ’em and forget about it until the next quarter.

You really should be too busy making hay to even notice the money’s gone…

Stay frosty,

John Carlton

P.S. Important note to anyone who’s been gazing longingly at any of the offers over at www.marketingrebel.com: Every single package there is on the front burner for being taken OFF that site (probably forever).

In particular, the mega-popular “Bag of Tricks” package is about to be retired.

It’s just too good a deal (especially with the personal attention from me included).

We’re not getting greedy, mind you. We’re just getting hip to the structure our new biz model is becoming. And that killer offer needs serious revamping (and higher prices).

However, as long as it’s there on the site, we’ll honor the deal. I’m heading down to San Diego this week to speak at Frank Kern’s spectacular seminar, and I’m kinda focused on the upcoming “17 points of copywriting” workshop just around the corner.

Still, we’ve got geeks scrambling… and as soon as we can, the entire current set of deals at www.marketingrebel.com vanishes. I can’t tell you, right now, what will replace them… but I CAN tell you this: You will never see an amazingly hyper-generous deal exactly like the “Bag of Tricks” again.

So pop over and check it out while you can. This particular “menu” of essential info and tools and skills is what fueled so many of the top marketers now doing their thang online. Just check the testimonials.

We’re not shelving the “Bag of Tricks” to be mean… it’s just time to grow into a new model. Changes online demand it.

Don’t dally. I know you’ve been lusting after that package. I’m announcing it’s demise at the Kern event, and we’ll follow through soon after…

P.P.S. By the way… all incoming comments were disabled last night, due to a technical glitch while our server was upgraded. I know at least a few people emailed me, privately, to tell me they were denied.

Anyway, it’s all working fine now. Fire away, if you like…

What Would Halbert Do?

Thursday, 11:09pm
Reno, NV
“We still miss ya, man…”

Howdy,

This past Tuesday — the first anniversary of Gary Halbert’s abrupt exit from this mortal coil — my first call was to Bond, his son.

We laughed a bit, shared some memories, and — in Gary’s honor — even discussed some business. (Please watch for emails from Bond and Kevin — they’re getting www.thegaryhalbertletter.com cranked back up, and I’m doing all I can to help.)

Bond and I know each other well. I still think of him as a cocky teenager, but he’s grown into a fine man. Kevin, too. I’m proud of both of them.

Anniversaries are funny things. It’s good to have a reason to remember someone, or to celebrate something… but I’ve largely avoided any kind of official remembrance of the mounting number of significant events and deaths in my life.

I don’t have a clue, for example, exactly when my mother passed away. I know the year, but not the month. I’m not entirely clear on the season. I could find out, easily enough… but I don’t feel the need to.

Sometimes, time is a stupid way to keep track of life.

What I remember from Mom’s demise is that it had been almost a full year of horror and grief and fatigue, and then, after a final stretch of pure, undiluted shock… it was over.

The months before had lost meaning — the sun came up, and the sun went down, and the only change seemed to be the incremental increase in numbness. I deeply appreciate that numbness, too — without it, the days would have been one long scream of indignant frustration. With it, I was able to stumble through my duties as a writer and a son.

The months after seemed just as unmoored to time. And yet, with each sun-up/sun-down, a faint sense of renewal stuck around, and grew. I quit advertising, wrote a novel (finishing just before my 40th birthday, to fulfill a promise), and took stock of my life.

Thanks to Halbert, I had enough moolah stashed away to be leisurely about deciding what to do with myself. The events that unfolded over the next year were the impetus behind where I am today.

I was fried to a crisp, as far as my career went. Over the previous several years, I had increasingly ditched all other clients, and teamed up with Gary exclusively. It was the period we were producing those infamous “Hot Seat” seminars down in the Florida Keys (inventing the model, actually)… and while there was a lot of fun going on, the foundation of Gary’s little empire was actually crumbling.

We all sort of hit a wall at the same time. I was just done with advertising, and burying Mom took me to a place where it was simply impossible to stand up and get back after a career. (If it wasn’t for guys like Joe Polish and Dan Kennedy keeping my name alive in the entrepreneur niche while I was AWOL, I may have disappeared forever.)

Maybe it was a mid-life crisis. I hid out in my bitchin’ little hovel in Hermosa Beach, hanging around the beach and immersing myself in writing fiction. Very theraputic.

And I severed contact with everyone for a few months.

Except Gary, of course.

For all his faults — and believe me, his faults were legendary and multiple — he, at his core, was perhaps the sweetest and most caring man I’ve ever known.

When my mother fell sick (vicious, wasting cancer), I held it together with gritted teeth, because people depended on me. I did the seminars, sharing the stage with Gary and tending to the backstage bullshit that always accompanied the events. I wrote copy, wrangled with clients, did my best to keep Gary focused. (Tough job, lemme tell ya.)

I also flew across the country almost every month. Mom was in Southern California, about as far from Key West as possible in every way. But I made the jaunts (piling up around 100,000 miles on Pan Am in the process) because I felt it was also my job to be there during doctor visits and chemo and all the other tortures the medical establishment had lined up.

At one point, the doc pulled me aside and revealed that we were the only family doing this. Nearly every other patient he had came alone to the consultations, and faced down the radioactivity without family present.

I think about that sometimes.

Because something very similar was happening in my own life. Close friends were not returning phone calls… a stunning development. They didn’t know what to say, and so said nothing. And, I dunno, eventually they just couldn’t muster up the energy to even stop by and say nothing.

The ONLY friend I had who stuck by me during that time (while I was admittedly distracted and not fully myself)… was Gary Halbert.

Gary had a selfish side, and was even proud of it. He proudly listed one of his hobbies as “finding new mehtods of self-aggrandisement”. His personality could suck the air out of any room he entered, and he enthusiastically enjoyed humiliating friends and colleagues, both publicly and privately.

Oh, he could piss you off.

But you always forgave him. Because when push came to shove, there wasn’t a more loyal man on the planet.

Gary called me almost every day that year. Just to say hi, and — if I needed to vent — to listen patiently to the latest absurd travails of my journey through the hell of western medicine.

And he made me laugh. God dammit, no matter how grim it got, that dude could force me to smile through the pain, and then start guffawing lustily.

Oh, it was good to laugh. It was so, so necessary to laugh once in a while…

And to able to vent to someone who cared, and took my side.

For all his faults… Gary harbored a profound humanity. He truly would face monsters with you, shoulder-to-shoulder. I believe — and his friends will likely agree with me here — that he would die for you, if that’s what needed to be done.

Over the ensuing years, I found myself armed with a new tool for living life well. We all know the phrase “do the right thing”… but I now understood what it meant to actually DO the right thing. Every freaking time.

Absorbing that lesson freed me from a lot of competing bullshit in my head. There was no longer any chatter from my other urges. I had a single rule: Never turn away, never abandon responsibility.

Life is actually easier when you no longer struggle with decisions when friends need you. You siimply figure out the right thing to do… and do it. Immediately. And without keeping score.

Gary taught me that.

I took many more trips across the country in the following years, hopping on planes with little notice to go do battle with Gary’s demons. I never thought twice about it… and I still don’t, today, when the often-arduous duties of being a friend demand sacrifice.

The world can seem like such a lonely, dangerous place. Hostile to happiness, aggressively working to destroy everything good and righteous.

I know I can’t change much about that, either. A bit, here and there, perhaps.

But we’re in a big damn mess here, and it’s gonna take a whole generation of people doing the right thing to make any real difference.

Still, it all starts with a simple decision, on a personal level.

Outsiders might find it funny to hear, but I discovered there is honor in business.

I know. The embodiment of that honor was a close friend of mine, and I’m damn glad I got to hang out and learn from him.

Gone, but never forgotten, pal.

Thanks for everything. We’re still down here, trying hard to stay frosty…

Oh… and I don’t need a freaking anniversay to remember you. You’re here every day…

John Carlton