I'm sure you all noticed last week's Wall Street Journal article on the correlation between happiness and gratitude. Grateful people are happier people.
So, when I woke up this morning I immediately set to counting my blessings:
Today I am thankful for :
• The company and friendship of the Naked Man,
• A job in a challenging and fickle economy,
• A family in good health,
• A leopardcat that pees on the floor only in one part of the apartment but not every part,
• The fact that my house guest didn't think anything of the fact that I was too tired (arguably a euphemism for inebriated) to make it to my bed last night so slept fully clothed (with shoes on) on the pull out couch next to her,
• The country-wide insider trading investigation (which, frankly, is like Christmas arriving early for hedge fund lawyers), and
• All of Penelope's supporters and their comical and insightful responses to my "private blog"
Happy Thanksgiving from the Entire Editorial Staff of The Lunch Report
Penelope Frost, Editor in Chief
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Naked Man Report: The Naked Muse?
I don't want to bore you with my tales of the Naked Man, but . . .
As it turns out, the Naked Man is also a muse, in the most unconventional sense. When we think about a muse, we usually think about a female sylph wandering around the moonlit woods at night, surfacing occasionally in a transparent pink gauze nightie with a pale cherub-like smile on her face.
My muse is not so easily marketable. He (yeah, that’s the first problem--they're always supposed to be “shes”, no?) would really put people off if I dressed him in a gauze nightie, no matter what the color. My muse wears a size large golf shirt, drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney (although he swears this won't carry over to 2011).
How could anyone be inspired by such a booze muse? I'll tell you how. This muse defies every stereotype that has guided my bigoted existence for the last 20+ years.
The Naked Smoking Muse has the affection of a kitten (although he abhors cats, not pussy, just cats). The NSM worships Glenn Beck and his compatriots but will still show enough consideration to tear out an article on our Democratic Senator Gillibrand from the NY Post and pass it my way, even if he SOO disapproves of her.
The NSM will condemn 501(c)(3) organizations in general and their borderline fraudulent tax schemes, and then he'll bring you to a benefit for anal canine cancer in Bridgeport, CT, where the host of the benefit welcomes you to “God’s Country.” (Bridgeport, CT? Really? Makes that stable where Jesus was born look a little bit like the newest induction to the Small Luxury Hotel Collection).
My only regret is the same regret that anyone has about a muse. The muse remains an idea and an inspiration, but the muse is never a living, breathing or present human being who wants to keep you company. A muse materializes and disappears at opportune and inopportune moments, the disappearance always being the most powerful aspect of his or her existence. The muse is, and remains, an idea.
A naked muse? Why the question mark? Clearly there’s something great about the Naked Smoking Muse, but clearly, he doesn’t want to be a boyfriend or fill any similar conventional role. So Penelope has been searching for a place where NSM might feel comfortable and thrive. Let’s see:
1. Good friend? Yawn. My Siamese cat is a good friend. I can’t kiss a good friend (although I confess I have tried to kiss the Siamese when tipsy and she clawed my lips)—just won't work for Penelope and I suspect not for NSM.
2. FWB? Never, no, no, no, and no analysis needed.
3. Brother figure? Please see the response to 1.
4. Father figure? (A) Fathers don’t generally have children at age 11 and (B) please see response to question number 1.
5. Occasional Trysting. Guys fantasy. Chicks undoing/nightmare. I’ll pass.
6. Girlfriend/Boyfriend. Could work but there are serious perception issues. “Boyfriend” is perceived by the man not as a resting state, but as a transitional state before the chick nails him down, makes her pregnant and wrests all freedom, spontaneity and fun from his life. If that were my perception, trust me, I would run faster than he would (and not just because he has a bad knee). So, unless there’s some sort of marketing campaign launched to undo the distorted image of these roles, this won’t work either.
So, sigh, maybe this is why muses are transient presences in our lives, meant to peak for a few months, leave us crest fallen and then be replaced by a brand new muse (BNM). No BNM has surfaced so I am going to try hard to see what can be harvested from the NSM. I just can’t bear foregoing the Naked Muse altogether, not just yet. No, no, no.
Muses are creatures defined by their transiency. They leave. It’s the memory—and not the muse—that inspires, if not distracts us. There are no live in muses—as soon as they move in, they lose their muse-like inspirational powers as they overwhelm and bore use with their utterly trite permanence.
Penelope
As it turns out, the Naked Man is also a muse, in the most unconventional sense. When we think about a muse, we usually think about a female sylph wandering around the moonlit woods at night, surfacing occasionally in a transparent pink gauze nightie with a pale cherub-like smile on her face.
My muse is not so easily marketable. He (yeah, that’s the first problem--they're always supposed to be “shes”, no?) would really put people off if I dressed him in a gauze nightie, no matter what the color. My muse wears a size large golf shirt, drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney (although he swears this won't carry over to 2011).
How could anyone be inspired by such a booze muse? I'll tell you how. This muse defies every stereotype that has guided my bigoted existence for the last 20+ years.
The Naked Smoking Muse has the affection of a kitten (although he abhors cats, not pussy, just cats). The NSM worships Glenn Beck and his compatriots but will still show enough consideration to tear out an article on our Democratic Senator Gillibrand from the NY Post and pass it my way, even if he SOO disapproves of her.
The NSM will condemn 501(c)(3) organizations in general and their borderline fraudulent tax schemes, and then he'll bring you to a benefit for anal canine cancer in Bridgeport, CT, where the host of the benefit welcomes you to “God’s Country.” (Bridgeport, CT? Really? Makes that stable where Jesus was born look a little bit like the newest induction to the Small Luxury Hotel Collection).
My only regret is the same regret that anyone has about a muse. The muse remains an idea and an inspiration, but the muse is never a living, breathing or present human being who wants to keep you company. A muse materializes and disappears at opportune and inopportune moments, the disappearance always being the most powerful aspect of his or her existence. The muse is, and remains, an idea.
A naked muse? Why the question mark? Clearly there’s something great about the Naked Smoking Muse, but clearly, he doesn’t want to be a boyfriend or fill any similar conventional role. So Penelope has been searching for a place where NSM might feel comfortable and thrive. Let’s see:
1. Good friend? Yawn. My Siamese cat is a good friend. I can’t kiss a good friend (although I confess I have tried to kiss the Siamese when tipsy and she clawed my lips)—just won't work for Penelope and I suspect not for NSM.
2. FWB? Never, no, no, no, and no analysis needed.
3. Brother figure? Please see the response to 1.
4. Father figure? (A) Fathers don’t generally have children at age 11 and (B) please see response to question number 1.
5. Occasional Trysting. Guys fantasy. Chicks undoing/nightmare. I’ll pass.
6. Girlfriend/Boyfriend. Could work but there are serious perception issues. “Boyfriend” is perceived by the man not as a resting state, but as a transitional state before the chick nails him down, makes her pregnant and wrests all freedom, spontaneity and fun from his life. If that were my perception, trust me, I would run faster than he would (and not just because he has a bad knee). So, unless there’s some sort of marketing campaign launched to undo the distorted image of these roles, this won’t work either.
So, sigh, maybe this is why muses are transient presences in our lives, meant to peak for a few months, leave us crest fallen and then be replaced by a brand new muse (BNM). No BNM has surfaced so I am going to try hard to see what can be harvested from the NSM. I just can’t bear foregoing the Naked Muse altogether, not just yet. No, no, no.
Muses are creatures defined by their transiency. They leave. It’s the memory—and not the muse—that inspires, if not distracts us. There are no live in muses—as soon as they move in, they lose their muse-like inspirational powers as they overwhelm and bore use with their utterly trite permanence.
Penelope
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Naked Man Report: Romancing The Philistine
Some of you will recall Penelope’s encounter with the Naked Man over a month ago.* By way of an update, Penelope and the Naked Man continue to share grilled cheese and pinot grigio from time to time.
Despite exemplary character traits such as opening doors, pulling out chairs and placing ice cubes in his white wine,* the Naked Man is a self-proclaimed philistine, a Naked Philistine.
How does a brash Ivy League brat who gets a high from deconstructionism and other literary theories date a philistine?
Dating a philistine means Penelope needs to find someone else with whom to see Swan Lake at City Center (which, as you well know, runs through November 7th). Why? Because all male dancers are gay and no heterosexual man wants to watch gay men flaunt their packages in sheer tights midtown on the West side, or so the Naked Philistine posits.
Dating a philistine means Proustian analogies are to be avoided and no mention of a madeleine should be made, even a trite reference used to describe some maudlin flash of nostalgia. Literary references should be limited to the NY Post and The Drudge Report. If it ain’t in one of those publications, then it’s not worth talking about (and who cares if you end a sentence with a preposition anyway).
What intrigues me though is why the Naked Philistine so adamantly and proudly claims the philistine title. Was this so I would be surprised and seduced by his sense of literary modesty when he quoted Shakespeare to me while downing sirloin at Smith & Wollensky? And by the way, does a true philistine even know the word philistine?!
Was this so I would be stripped (figuratively, please) of any respect associated with having achieved, at least on paper, an education and be made to understand that a girl who works at Hooters is on a level playing field with me from the perspective of the Naked Philistine? Actually, she's probably on a higher plane than I am, because at least she knows how to market herself, which may be critical from the Naked Philistine's perspective—the ability to translate talent into cash or some other equally laudable commodity.
What's the great shame with liking books and art, if not preferring them most of the time to the drudge of corporate achievement? Is it that it can’t be quantified (except, of course, by certain hedge fund managers who frequent Christies and Sothebys)?* Perhaps naively, I thought the best in life could not be quantified: a warm smile on a gray day, a well-timed hug, a joke that jolts you from a depressive torpor.
The Naked Philistine devours newspapers, as many as possible, every morning, often as early as 4:50am. Maybe he chooses this uncivilized hour in an effort to hide his thirst for knowledge and his fascination with politics from the light of day.
Who knows why he holds the arts in such disdain. Maybe he scorns the false superiority of those who aspire to “intellect.” But that’s conflating two important notions. Enjoying the arts is radically different from pretending to some form of artistic expertise and judging others for a supposed lack of it, both of which Penelope abhors.
As disappointed as Penelope is that the Naked Philistine doesn't want to see Swan Lake (“ballet no way,” he said—at least he rhymed), she remains open to what she can learn from the Naked Philistine on topics and techniques of which she is completely ignorant. Maybe it’s all part of the opposites attract or complement each other theory.
In any event, at least for the present, and based on an application of a broad selection of psycho-social-emotional theories, Penelope has decided that philistinism is not in fact a tragic flaw (with apologies to the reference to Greek dramaturgy). He may well have fatal flaws—maybe she will discover one tonight—but this is not the one.
Notes
*See “Beware the Naked Man,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/10/beware-naked-man.html
*I respect people who thumb their noses at extraneous etiquette. There are so many good reasons to put ice in your white wine, not the least of which is that I can drink as slowly as I like and it will remain chilled.
*Although some dispute whether hedge fund managers drive the prices at auctions houses, hedge fund managers Kenneth Griffin and Steven Cohen have been among the top 10 art buyers in the last year. http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=newsarchive&sid=a91lHt5PmIQ8&refer=muse
Despite exemplary character traits such as opening doors, pulling out chairs and placing ice cubes in his white wine,* the Naked Man is a self-proclaimed philistine, a Naked Philistine.
How does a brash Ivy League brat who gets a high from deconstructionism and other literary theories date a philistine?
Dating a philistine means Penelope needs to find someone else with whom to see Swan Lake at City Center (which, as you well know, runs through November 7th). Why? Because all male dancers are gay and no heterosexual man wants to watch gay men flaunt their packages in sheer tights midtown on the West side, or so the Naked Philistine posits.
Dating a philistine means Proustian analogies are to be avoided and no mention of a madeleine should be made, even a trite reference used to describe some maudlin flash of nostalgia. Literary references should be limited to the NY Post and The Drudge Report. If it ain’t in one of those publications, then it’s not worth talking about (and who cares if you end a sentence with a preposition anyway).
What intrigues me though is why the Naked Philistine so adamantly and proudly claims the philistine title. Was this so I would be surprised and seduced by his sense of literary modesty when he quoted Shakespeare to me while downing sirloin at Smith & Wollensky? And by the way, does a true philistine even know the word philistine?!
Was this so I would be stripped (figuratively, please) of any respect associated with having achieved, at least on paper, an education and be made to understand that a girl who works at Hooters is on a level playing field with me from the perspective of the Naked Philistine? Actually, she's probably on a higher plane than I am, because at least she knows how to market herself, which may be critical from the Naked Philistine's perspective—the ability to translate talent into cash or some other equally laudable commodity.
What's the great shame with liking books and art, if not preferring them most of the time to the drudge of corporate achievement? Is it that it can’t be quantified (except, of course, by certain hedge fund managers who frequent Christies and Sothebys)?* Perhaps naively, I thought the best in life could not be quantified: a warm smile on a gray day, a well-timed hug, a joke that jolts you from a depressive torpor.
The Naked Philistine devours newspapers, as many as possible, every morning, often as early as 4:50am. Maybe he chooses this uncivilized hour in an effort to hide his thirst for knowledge and his fascination with politics from the light of day.
Who knows why he holds the arts in such disdain. Maybe he scorns the false superiority of those who aspire to “intellect.” But that’s conflating two important notions. Enjoying the arts is radically different from pretending to some form of artistic expertise and judging others for a supposed lack of it, both of which Penelope abhors.
As disappointed as Penelope is that the Naked Philistine doesn't want to see Swan Lake (“ballet no way,” he said—at least he rhymed), she remains open to what she can learn from the Naked Philistine on topics and techniques of which she is completely ignorant. Maybe it’s all part of the opposites attract or complement each other theory.
In any event, at least for the present, and based on an application of a broad selection of psycho-social-emotional theories, Penelope has decided that philistinism is not in fact a tragic flaw (with apologies to the reference to Greek dramaturgy). He may well have fatal flaws—maybe she will discover one tonight—but this is not the one.
Notes
*See “Beware the Naked Man,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/10/beware-naked-man.html
*I respect people who thumb their noses at extraneous etiquette. There are so many good reasons to put ice in your white wine, not the least of which is that I can drink as slowly as I like and it will remain chilled.
*Although some dispute whether hedge fund managers drive the prices at auctions houses, hedge fund managers Kenneth Griffin and Steven Cohen have been among the top 10 art buyers in the last year. http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=newsarchive&sid=a91lHt5PmIQ8&refer=muse
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Beware the Naked Man
Below is an instructional anecdote that forms part of Penelope’s multi-series publication on dating for grown ups.
Anyone who finds himself or herself still dating after age 40 is probably suffering from an excess of guidance, often unsolicited, on the rules of dating and, its kissing cousin, mating.
There are so many rules to bear in mind: don’t kiss him on the first date; don’t accept a Friday date unless he calls by Tuesday; don’t sleep with someone unless you’ve been seeing each other at least twice a week for three weeks . . .
Even if you could manage to keep all these directives straight in your mind, for each of those rules, you undoubtedly know someone who represents the exception to the rule. The friend who kissed him on the first date, canceled her Friday plans to meet him and suffered absolutely no adverse relationship consequences as a result. In fact she may even be living happily with him now (or at least successfully projecting the image of a happy existence, which for some is just as important).
Despite all of these guidelines and their myriad exceptions, I have remained completely confident about certain core truths. For example, a guy that invites himself to your place and then immediately, without invitation, disrobes is definitely bad news (a.k.a. a dog who wants one thing, and one thing only) . . . or is he?
Penelope found herself in an untoward situation a bit over a month ago. Having stayed very late at a party in Westchester, she was running up against her Cinderella-Takes-Metro-North deadline. The last train back to NYC was leaving in 40 minutes.
Faced with the prospect of asking a drunken friend to drive her to the train station and missing one of the most stunning displays of amateur DJ-ing mixed with middle-aged break-dancing she’d ever seen (or did he just fall and stumble?), Penelope accepted an alternative arrangement proposed by her “date” for that evening.*
Penelope would stay in the room my date had reserved, and he would stay at a hotel nearby. She was reassured by the offer so decided to relax, have multiple nightcaps and take in the music and company.
Not long thereafter, Penelope could be seen wearing an orange tablecloth as a burka and refusing any offers for additional cocktails because, as she pointed out, it was still Ramadan and she should not be drinking.*
What followed should be one big bold “Don’t” for any dating adult. Aware that her date probably should not be driving and persuaded by a female acquaintance that he was a very respectable guy and should not be banished to a cheap hotel, Penelope permitted inter-gender sharing of personal space after midnight. After all, she rationalized, there were two beds in an uncommonly large room.
No sooner had she entered the room with her date than he stripped off every piece of clothing, offering only “We’re both adults” as explanation for his behavior.
As you can imagine, after a furtive glance at some rather exceptional features (not all men are created equal), Penelope immediately averted her eyes and contemplated the true horror of her situation.
If she didn’t like him or want to share mixed-gender time with him again, then the blatant nudity was a heinous and offensive gesture. If she did anticipate seeing him again, then surely his nudist display was insulting proof that he would never share the same instinct and was simply a randy man on the prowl in Westchester (much like the coyote population that has been migrating from CT to Westchester in recent years). Tails Penelope lost and head he won.
Responding to her confused instincts, Penelope did what any self-respecting woman would do. She grabbed the closest object within reach and hurled it at him, successfully shattering a wine glass along the way. With a threatening barrier of glass shards between them, Penelope would be protected until she had gotten some shut eye and sobered up enough to address the situation with aplomb.
That was over a month ago. Dare I say that Penelope could be wrong? The rogue nudist has in fact behaved like a male lion protecting his mate, hunting down valued resources for her late at night (such as grilled cheese and pinot grigio). Maybe this is an extended project of deception that could be carried off only by a sly NYC fox. Maybe Penelope has slipped into another Pollyanna delusion about some mortal male with nothing but exceedingly terrestrial and banal instincts for her. In any event, you can be sure she will let you know, one way or the other.
Notes
* Note that dates may sometimes be identified only in retrospect and Penelope was unaware that evening that this mixed-gender sharing of time was in fact a date until so informed the next day by a third party observer.
* Silly Penelope. If she would take the time to educate herself about religion, she would know that Islam prohibits the consumption of alcohol at any time and not just during its holiest month of fasting, Ramadan
Anyone who finds himself or herself still dating after age 40 is probably suffering from an excess of guidance, often unsolicited, on the rules of dating and, its kissing cousin, mating.
There are so many rules to bear in mind: don’t kiss him on the first date; don’t accept a Friday date unless he calls by Tuesday; don’t sleep with someone unless you’ve been seeing each other at least twice a week for three weeks . . .
Even if you could manage to keep all these directives straight in your mind, for each of those rules, you undoubtedly know someone who represents the exception to the rule. The friend who kissed him on the first date, canceled her Friday plans to meet him and suffered absolutely no adverse relationship consequences as a result. In fact she may even be living happily with him now (or at least successfully projecting the image of a happy existence, which for some is just as important).
Despite all of these guidelines and their myriad exceptions, I have remained completely confident about certain core truths. For example, a guy that invites himself to your place and then immediately, without invitation, disrobes is definitely bad news (a.k.a. a dog who wants one thing, and one thing only) . . . or is he?
Penelope found herself in an untoward situation a bit over a month ago. Having stayed very late at a party in Westchester, she was running up against her Cinderella-Takes-Metro-North deadline. The last train back to NYC was leaving in 40 minutes.
Faced with the prospect of asking a drunken friend to drive her to the train station and missing one of the most stunning displays of amateur DJ-ing mixed with middle-aged break-dancing she’d ever seen (or did he just fall and stumble?), Penelope accepted an alternative arrangement proposed by her “date” for that evening.*
Penelope would stay in the room my date had reserved, and he would stay at a hotel nearby. She was reassured by the offer so decided to relax, have multiple nightcaps and take in the music and company.
Not long thereafter, Penelope could be seen wearing an orange tablecloth as a burka and refusing any offers for additional cocktails because, as she pointed out, it was still Ramadan and she should not be drinking.*
What followed should be one big bold “Don’t” for any dating adult. Aware that her date probably should not be driving and persuaded by a female acquaintance that he was a very respectable guy and should not be banished to a cheap hotel, Penelope permitted inter-gender sharing of personal space after midnight. After all, she rationalized, there were two beds in an uncommonly large room.
No sooner had she entered the room with her date than he stripped off every piece of clothing, offering only “We’re both adults” as explanation for his behavior.
As you can imagine, after a furtive glance at some rather exceptional features (not all men are created equal), Penelope immediately averted her eyes and contemplated the true horror of her situation.
If she didn’t like him or want to share mixed-gender time with him again, then the blatant nudity was a heinous and offensive gesture. If she did anticipate seeing him again, then surely his nudist display was insulting proof that he would never share the same instinct and was simply a randy man on the prowl in Westchester (much like the coyote population that has been migrating from CT to Westchester in recent years). Tails Penelope lost and head he won.
Responding to her confused instincts, Penelope did what any self-respecting woman would do. She grabbed the closest object within reach and hurled it at him, successfully shattering a wine glass along the way. With a threatening barrier of glass shards between them, Penelope would be protected until she had gotten some shut eye and sobered up enough to address the situation with aplomb.
That was over a month ago. Dare I say that Penelope could be wrong? The rogue nudist has in fact behaved like a male lion protecting his mate, hunting down valued resources for her late at night (such as grilled cheese and pinot grigio). Maybe this is an extended project of deception that could be carried off only by a sly NYC fox. Maybe Penelope has slipped into another Pollyanna delusion about some mortal male with nothing but exceedingly terrestrial and banal instincts for her. In any event, you can be sure she will let you know, one way or the other.
Notes
* Note that dates may sometimes be identified only in retrospect and Penelope was unaware that evening that this mixed-gender sharing of time was in fact a date until so informed the next day by a third party observer.
* Silly Penelope. If she would take the time to educate herself about religion, she would know that Islam prohibits the consumption of alcohol at any time and not just during its holiest month of fasting, Ramadan
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Welcome to Penelope's Cult
Literary critics who have focused on the role of The Lunch Report in post-post-modern American literature have focused primarily on Penelope’s sense of job dissatisfaction and related social disassociation.
It’s true, my sense of job satisfaction has been well below 100% and often well below 30%. So much so that I have been considering joining a cult to give myself a clearer sense of purpose.
I used to think people who joined cults were troubled people with problematic relationships with authority. But as I look back, I know that once upon a time I had secretly hoped that corporate law would become my cult and give me a sense of identity and acceptance. Now that I realize that corporate law is more likely to rob me of my identity, joining a cult has resurfaced as a viable option.
I abruptly mentioned the idea to a friend over lunch the other day. No sooner had we sat down for lunch then I blurted out “I’m going to join a cult.” Without a pause, he pointed out that I could never join someone else’s cult. For the same reason that I find the culture of a corporate law firm stifling, he explained, I would feel just as stymied in someone else’s cult. He reasoned that I’m just not a follower. Instead he suggested I found my own cult.
Brilliant! Of course he was right. No wonder I’ve been frustrated. I was too busy looking for the perfect corporate cult to join when I should have been creating my own. I had even been urged by a self-proclaimed corporate law cult-leader when I joined my last job that I needed to create a following and solicit worshippers (yup, he used that word) among associates who worked with me.
So many legends in the corporate world have succeeded as a result of cult images they’d developed and perpetuated: PIMCO, the mutual fund cult founded by Bill Gross;* KKR, the leveraged buyout cult, originally founded by Jerry Kohlberg before he was ousted by his own follower, Henry Kravis; and of course there was the Greenspan cult, which lasted long after Alan's reign at The US Treasury. I would be remiss not to mention the Madoff Cult, which ended tragically in a Jonestown-style financial massacre, but I prefer to focus on the more successful examples.
I was inspired with a new sense of purpose and immediately set to designing my cult.
First, I would need a name—the Cult of Penelope. No, “Penelope’s Cult” (sounds much more possessive). Maybe not that savvy from a marketing perspective but it’s simple and easy to remember.
Next, I knew I’d need some sort of totemic symbol. How about a large stuffed leopard? A stuffed animal may make my cult seem less serious (and may even introduce a “plushie” innuendo* that I’d rather avoid), but I certainly don’t want a live one. I've never understood why cults so often unnecessarily harm animals in their rituals.
My supplicants would be invited to deposit their offerings before The Leopard. In exchange they would be offered pinot grigio, saltines and my acceptance and approval (no cash value, but it’s always nice to know someone’s out there rooting for you, no?).
Next, I would need an official clothing line for my cult. Something more modern and secular than Hare Krishna’s orange togas. Got it: Lily Pulitzer, a lifestyle brand for a lifestyle cult that believes in redemption through golf, swimming and tennis.
At this point, I realized I had a handle on the aesthetics of my cult but still needed to get down to the core substance of my cult. I did some extra research. The hallmarks of a cult are:
• Adulation of a charismatic leader;
• Use of coercive persuasion or brainwashing to recruit members; and
• The “inculcation of deep-seated dependency on the group and its leader.”
According to the Cultic Studies Journal, a cult is
[A] group or movement exhibiting a great excessive devotion or dedication to some person, idea or thing and employing unethically manipulative techniques of persuasion and control (eg. isolation from former friends and family . . .) designed to advance the goals of the group’s leaders to the actual or possible detriment of members, their families or their community.”*
Goodness. Upon reflection I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the concepts of dependency, anxiety and coercion. I see far too much of this fostered by “managing directors” and “partners” (huge misnomers, no?) among their corporate employees to believe it can lead to any good.
What a shame. I was so excited by this project, but once I discarded things like thought control and dependency, I realized all I had left was “adulation of a charismatic leader.” Maybe what I wanted wasn’t really a cult. After all, the thought of distributing brochures in airports, launching an internet marketing campaign and tweeting the word of Penelope was seriously unappealing. Maybe what I wanted was just a little bit of attention and respect (okay, occasional adulation would be nice too).
I don’t need to create my own cult just for that, do I?
Notes
*The Pacific Investment Management Company, LLC runs the Total Return Fund, the world’s largest mutual fund.
*A "plushie" is someone affected by “Plushophilia,” a sexual fetish involving stuffed animals. Although plushies once practiced in relative anonymity, a 2001 article in Vanity Fair made their practices more widely known. See “Pleasures of the Fur,” http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2001/03/furries200103; see also “Who Are the Furries?” http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/8355287.stm
*William Chambers, Michael Langone, Arthur Dole & James Grice, “The Group Psychological Abuse Scale: A Measure of the Variety of Cultic Abuse,” Cultic Studies Journal 11(1), 1194.
It’s true, my sense of job satisfaction has been well below 100% and often well below 30%. So much so that I have been considering joining a cult to give myself a clearer sense of purpose.
I used to think people who joined cults were troubled people with problematic relationships with authority. But as I look back, I know that once upon a time I had secretly hoped that corporate law would become my cult and give me a sense of identity and acceptance. Now that I realize that corporate law is more likely to rob me of my identity, joining a cult has resurfaced as a viable option.
I abruptly mentioned the idea to a friend over lunch the other day. No sooner had we sat down for lunch then I blurted out “I’m going to join a cult.” Without a pause, he pointed out that I could never join someone else’s cult. For the same reason that I find the culture of a corporate law firm stifling, he explained, I would feel just as stymied in someone else’s cult. He reasoned that I’m just not a follower. Instead he suggested I found my own cult.
Brilliant! Of course he was right. No wonder I’ve been frustrated. I was too busy looking for the perfect corporate cult to join when I should have been creating my own. I had even been urged by a self-proclaimed corporate law cult-leader when I joined my last job that I needed to create a following and solicit worshippers (yup, he used that word) among associates who worked with me.
So many legends in the corporate world have succeeded as a result of cult images they’d developed and perpetuated: PIMCO, the mutual fund cult founded by Bill Gross;* KKR, the leveraged buyout cult, originally founded by Jerry Kohlberg before he was ousted by his own follower, Henry Kravis; and of course there was the Greenspan cult, which lasted long after Alan's reign at The US Treasury. I would be remiss not to mention the Madoff Cult, which ended tragically in a Jonestown-style financial massacre, but I prefer to focus on the more successful examples.
I was inspired with a new sense of purpose and immediately set to designing my cult.
First, I would need a name—the Cult of Penelope. No, “Penelope’s Cult” (sounds much more possessive). Maybe not that savvy from a marketing perspective but it’s simple and easy to remember.
Next, I knew I’d need some sort of totemic symbol. How about a large stuffed leopard? A stuffed animal may make my cult seem less serious (and may even introduce a “plushie” innuendo* that I’d rather avoid), but I certainly don’t want a live one. I've never understood why cults so often unnecessarily harm animals in their rituals.
My supplicants would be invited to deposit their offerings before The Leopard. In exchange they would be offered pinot grigio, saltines and my acceptance and approval (no cash value, but it’s always nice to know someone’s out there rooting for you, no?).
Next, I would need an official clothing line for my cult. Something more modern and secular than Hare Krishna’s orange togas. Got it: Lily Pulitzer, a lifestyle brand for a lifestyle cult that believes in redemption through golf, swimming and tennis.
At this point, I realized I had a handle on the aesthetics of my cult but still needed to get down to the core substance of my cult. I did some extra research. The hallmarks of a cult are:
• Adulation of a charismatic leader;
• Use of coercive persuasion or brainwashing to recruit members; and
• The “inculcation of deep-seated dependency on the group and its leader.”
According to the Cultic Studies Journal, a cult is
[A] group or movement exhibiting a great excessive devotion or dedication to some person, idea or thing and employing unethically manipulative techniques of persuasion and control (eg. isolation from former friends and family . . .) designed to advance the goals of the group’s leaders to the actual or possible detriment of members, their families or their community.”*
Goodness. Upon reflection I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the concepts of dependency, anxiety and coercion. I see far too much of this fostered by “managing directors” and “partners” (huge misnomers, no?) among their corporate employees to believe it can lead to any good.
What a shame. I was so excited by this project, but once I discarded things like thought control and dependency, I realized all I had left was “adulation of a charismatic leader.” Maybe what I wanted wasn’t really a cult. After all, the thought of distributing brochures in airports, launching an internet marketing campaign and tweeting the word of Penelope was seriously unappealing. Maybe what I wanted was just a little bit of attention and respect (okay, occasional adulation would be nice too).
I don’t need to create my own cult just for that, do I?
Notes
*The Pacific Investment Management Company, LLC runs the Total Return Fund, the world’s largest mutual fund.
*A "plushie" is someone affected by “Plushophilia,” a sexual fetish involving stuffed animals. Although plushies once practiced in relative anonymity, a 2001 article in Vanity Fair made their practices more widely known. See “Pleasures of the Fur,” http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2001/03/furries200103; see also “Who Are the Furries?” http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/8355287.stm
*William Chambers, Michael Langone, Arthur Dole & James Grice, “The Group Psychological Abuse Scale: A Measure of the Variety of Cultic Abuse,” Cultic Studies Journal 11(1), 1194.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Penelope Is Out of the Office
Penelope will be out-of-the office from August 20, 2010 to August 30, 2011.
Maybe it started with an innocent typo that threw everyone off and made us forever paranoid about implementing an automatic out-of-the-office email reply. It’s unclear why but, somewhere along the way, the automatic out-of-the-office reply fell into disfavor in corporate America.
I suspect it derives from a sense of class consciousness—everyone knows that only functionaries use the out-of-office reply message. Those with seriously important jobs cannot afford the luxury of absence and would never be so gauche as to announce their absence in such a forthright manner. But still, why did it become obsolete?
On the one hand, a client should know we are unavailable so that the lack of an immediate response is not misconstrued as a brush off. On the other hand, consider the horrors that an out-of-office message can spawn.
For obvious reasons, an out-of-office message suggests that you’re not there. Not being there can really be a problem in a service profession. It signals an interruption in service.
In the corporate world*, “serving” requires a reversion to serfdom whereby telling your vassal that you are unavailable is an option considered only in contemplation of death. By definition, “service” means that a family member’s birthday or an anniversary takes back seat to your master’s moods and professional aspirations.
And what if you forget to tell each and every client that you won’t be there. There’s never a good time to explain to the client that, at the end of the day, your personal life really is more important than what your client believes, once again, to be the most pivotal moment in their career and in your service provider-client relationship. It’s awkward to work that into a conference call, no? Yet, alerting them in advance is preferable to their being surprised by an abrupt two line message that you’re abandoning them for five consecutive business days.
Perhaps the greatest fear that dissuades a corporate person to shun the out-of-office message is a fear of poaching. In your absence, the client may seek out advice from a colleague, encouraging a colleague to encroach on the territory you’ve been grooming to generate more business that will in turn be attributed to you and not to your predatory colleague. Better to secure your territory than let wild animals roam free in your absence.
Faced with the horrors described above, nowadays many will feign presence rather than publicly concede absence (the corporate term for vacation) with an automatic out-of-office email reply. Rather than confess the need for a personal life (which, to have, already suggests a certain lack of professional dedication), they fake their presence with the help of technology.
Calls are taken remotely, in an effort to suggest to clients that you’re not on vacation but simply calling “from the road” during a business trip* or ripping yourself away from a meeting out of the office. Laptops enable us to log on and deliver excel spreadsheets, powerpoints, and other token symbols of corporate productivity.
Hand in hand with the feigning presence strategy is the failure to announce a vacation in advance to our colleagues. Vacation days are kept on the down low with perhaps a covert email sent only to an assistant indicating that although you will be out of the office, no one is to know this, including colleagues.
This helps perpetuate the fiction that no vacation is occurring. If there was no pre-vacation announcement and you managed to respond to clients reasonably promptly, then in the eyes of the corporate world no vacation has occurred and your Protestant work ethic remains unsullied.
Today, we’re never out of the office. Instead we circumnavigate the office, via cell, Blackberry, fax or text. Unfortunately, if we’re never out of the office that means we’re never really anywhere else either. So when we’re in Bali vacationing with a significant other, chances are we’re not enjoying the sunset but instead scheming of ways to sneak into an unoccupied room and have a torrid threesome with a cell phone and Blackberry (if you must, use protection and close the door).
A word of caution to those who fake their presence from afar though. Naïve is the client who does not notice a change in your communicational pattern—the lengthy and thorough emails suddenly supplanted by truncated messages delivered in a different font at unusual hours. You’re deluding yourself that you can be just as professionally “present” by Blackberry while sitting on a beach.
Despite the success of the “Be Present”* clothing line that has accomplished great notoriety among yoga circles in America, fewer and fewer of us are present anywhere anymore.
Notes
*Clearly the quandary of whether to enable the out-of-office reply is not unique to America. The crisis and the debate have reached international dimensions as well. See “Out-of the-office reply: got the message,” Financial Times, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/17e32334-69e5-11df-a978-00144feab49a.html
*Although business trips have become anachronistic for many of us, there are still some pockets of civilization that see value in meeting a client face-to-face and having a live discussion. There’s also the amusement of snickering at how your client dresses when you meet them in person.
*Be Present is a clothing line especially designed for Yoga that has achieve great commercial success in recent years.
Maybe it started with an innocent typo that threw everyone off and made us forever paranoid about implementing an automatic out-of-the-office email reply. It’s unclear why but, somewhere along the way, the automatic out-of-the-office reply fell into disfavor in corporate America.
I suspect it derives from a sense of class consciousness—everyone knows that only functionaries use the out-of-office reply message. Those with seriously important jobs cannot afford the luxury of absence and would never be so gauche as to announce their absence in such a forthright manner. But still, why did it become obsolete?
On the one hand, a client should know we are unavailable so that the lack of an immediate response is not misconstrued as a brush off. On the other hand, consider the horrors that an out-of-office message can spawn.
For obvious reasons, an out-of-office message suggests that you’re not there. Not being there can really be a problem in a service profession. It signals an interruption in service.
In the corporate world*, “serving” requires a reversion to serfdom whereby telling your vassal that you are unavailable is an option considered only in contemplation of death. By definition, “service” means that a family member’s birthday or an anniversary takes back seat to your master’s moods and professional aspirations.
And what if you forget to tell each and every client that you won’t be there. There’s never a good time to explain to the client that, at the end of the day, your personal life really is more important than what your client believes, once again, to be the most pivotal moment in their career and in your service provider-client relationship. It’s awkward to work that into a conference call, no? Yet, alerting them in advance is preferable to their being surprised by an abrupt two line message that you’re abandoning them for five consecutive business days.
Perhaps the greatest fear that dissuades a corporate person to shun the out-of-office message is a fear of poaching. In your absence, the client may seek out advice from a colleague, encouraging a colleague to encroach on the territory you’ve been grooming to generate more business that will in turn be attributed to you and not to your predatory colleague. Better to secure your territory than let wild animals roam free in your absence.
Faced with the horrors described above, nowadays many will feign presence rather than publicly concede absence (the corporate term for vacation) with an automatic out-of-office email reply. Rather than confess the need for a personal life (which, to have, already suggests a certain lack of professional dedication), they fake their presence with the help of technology.
Calls are taken remotely, in an effort to suggest to clients that you’re not on vacation but simply calling “from the road” during a business trip* or ripping yourself away from a meeting out of the office. Laptops enable us to log on and deliver excel spreadsheets, powerpoints, and other token symbols of corporate productivity.
Hand in hand with the feigning presence strategy is the failure to announce a vacation in advance to our colleagues. Vacation days are kept on the down low with perhaps a covert email sent only to an assistant indicating that although you will be out of the office, no one is to know this, including colleagues.
This helps perpetuate the fiction that no vacation is occurring. If there was no pre-vacation announcement and you managed to respond to clients reasonably promptly, then in the eyes of the corporate world no vacation has occurred and your Protestant work ethic remains unsullied.
Today, we’re never out of the office. Instead we circumnavigate the office, via cell, Blackberry, fax or text. Unfortunately, if we’re never out of the office that means we’re never really anywhere else either. So when we’re in Bali vacationing with a significant other, chances are we’re not enjoying the sunset but instead scheming of ways to sneak into an unoccupied room and have a torrid threesome with a cell phone and Blackberry (if you must, use protection and close the door).
A word of caution to those who fake their presence from afar though. Naïve is the client who does not notice a change in your communicational pattern—the lengthy and thorough emails suddenly supplanted by truncated messages delivered in a different font at unusual hours. You’re deluding yourself that you can be just as professionally “present” by Blackberry while sitting on a beach.
Despite the success of the “Be Present”* clothing line that has accomplished great notoriety among yoga circles in America, fewer and fewer of us are present anywhere anymore.
Notes
*Clearly the quandary of whether to enable the out-of-office reply is not unique to America. The crisis and the debate have reached international dimensions as well. See “Out-of the-office reply: got the message,” Financial Times, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/17e32334-69e5-11df-a978-00144feab49a.html
*Although business trips have become anachronistic for many of us, there are still some pockets of civilization that see value in meeting a client face-to-face and having a live discussion. There’s also the amusement of snickering at how your client dresses when you meet them in person.
*Be Present is a clothing line especially designed for Yoga that has achieve great commercial success in recent years.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Changing of the Guard
Witnessing a generational shift can be inspiring. But, if you’re part of the generation that’s being shifted or superseded and new stars are beginning to outshine you, then it can also be stressful.
As I slurped up my soup today at lunch (which, with the saltines and soda, came to $1.90, just within my new lunch budget) I reviewed the events of the last two weeks. I’ve been a bystander to all sorts of epic changes yet realized it only once I found myself in the contemplative company of some chicken noodle soup.
Although most of these cataclysmic shifts occurred right at my own golf club, the ramifications are in no way localized to a Westchester country club.
When I reached the 16th hole at my golf club last Sunday, I surveyed the Hudson River for the usual assortment of sail boats. I saw an unusually shaped barge floating towards NYC that I almost mistook for an aircraft carrier, until I realized that aircraft carriers rarely cruise up the Hudson. Only days later did I learn that the barge was carrying a new bridge, one that would replace the existing Willis Avenue bridge, in what journalists described as an “insta bridge” event. Out with the old and in with the new, all in one day.
Little did I know that at the same time I was trying to make sense of the aircraft carrier on the river, the pillars of my society were foundering. Tiger Woods was at that moment finishing 18 over, a career worst. More importantly, however, a younger couple defeated one of the most senior and celebrated golf couples at our club.
When you live in the present, it’s always too early to tell whether you're living a one-off aberrant incident or you’re witnessing history. I may not remember any of the details in 5 years but I'll remember that it happened. I’ll remember that there was a weekend—a moment—when it all crystallized and we knew were witnessing a changing of the guard—the new Willis Avenue Bridge replacing the old, Tiger’s plummeting status in the world golf arena, and the crowning of new husband-wife champions at my club.
This younger couple will become the new inspiration of the annual husband-wife championship (as well as undoubtedly other golf tournaments) with their names etched in wood in the grill room for generations to admire and emulate.
And maybe 20 years from now, having seen these names engraved often enough to incite envy, their own children and their children’s contemporaries will be gunning for it—first hoping, just once, to be listed alongside their idols* and then once listed, eventually gaining enough confidence and generating enough of a track record to erase those records altogether and replace them with their own.
As I scraped up the remains of my soup and transitioned to dessert (saltines, yum), I realized that my contemporaries and I are already at an age when we’re beginning to develop legacies.
All of this left me curious about how society at large might see my history to date, my nascent legacy. So, like the accomplished narcissist that I am, I Googled myself (don't pretend you haven’t done it).
1st Hit: my position at my law firm. Yawn.
2nd-4th Hits: articles I’ve written about the hedge fund industry. Double yawn.
5th Hit: A testament to my paltry support of The Morgan Library and some random Democrats. Proof that I’m not exactly a financial powerhouse.
6th Hit: A reference to being Ivy League Player of the Year, which would almost be impressive were it not for the fact that the sport was gymnastics and everyone knows that college gymnastics is hardly as competitive as what occurs pre-college. I had a foot in the gymnast’s grave and was competing against other athletes well past their prime. Big deal.
As I looked at the hits, I knew that this was not the stuff of legacies—these were more like accidental appearances in the game called life. I don’t know what my legacy will be yet but even single people have legacies, whether they like it or not. I suspect creating some form of legacy will involve less time drinking and arm wrestling* in the grill room and more time being productive, like chipping and putting.
Notes
*Although I am told there are few moments as joyful in the parenting process as when a child excels beyond a parent, I'm not convinced my fragile golf ego could handle the experience.
*Despite having started doing push-ups in earnest a year ago, I was defeated almost immediately.
As I slurped up my soup today at lunch (which, with the saltines and soda, came to $1.90, just within my new lunch budget) I reviewed the events of the last two weeks. I’ve been a bystander to all sorts of epic changes yet realized it only once I found myself in the contemplative company of some chicken noodle soup.
Although most of these cataclysmic shifts occurred right at my own golf club, the ramifications are in no way localized to a Westchester country club.
When I reached the 16th hole at my golf club last Sunday, I surveyed the Hudson River for the usual assortment of sail boats. I saw an unusually shaped barge floating towards NYC that I almost mistook for an aircraft carrier, until I realized that aircraft carriers rarely cruise up the Hudson. Only days later did I learn that the barge was carrying a new bridge, one that would replace the existing Willis Avenue bridge, in what journalists described as an “insta bridge” event. Out with the old and in with the new, all in one day.
Little did I know that at the same time I was trying to make sense of the aircraft carrier on the river, the pillars of my society were foundering. Tiger Woods was at that moment finishing 18 over, a career worst. More importantly, however, a younger couple defeated one of the most senior and celebrated golf couples at our club.
When you live in the present, it’s always too early to tell whether you're living a one-off aberrant incident or you’re witnessing history. I may not remember any of the details in 5 years but I'll remember that it happened. I’ll remember that there was a weekend—a moment—when it all crystallized and we knew were witnessing a changing of the guard—the new Willis Avenue Bridge replacing the old, Tiger’s plummeting status in the world golf arena, and the crowning of new husband-wife champions at my club.
This younger couple will become the new inspiration of the annual husband-wife championship (as well as undoubtedly other golf tournaments) with their names etched in wood in the grill room for generations to admire and emulate.
And maybe 20 years from now, having seen these names engraved often enough to incite envy, their own children and their children’s contemporaries will be gunning for it—first hoping, just once, to be listed alongside their idols* and then once listed, eventually gaining enough confidence and generating enough of a track record to erase those records altogether and replace them with their own.
As I scraped up the remains of my soup and transitioned to dessert (saltines, yum), I realized that my contemporaries and I are already at an age when we’re beginning to develop legacies.
All of this left me curious about how society at large might see my history to date, my nascent legacy. So, like the accomplished narcissist that I am, I Googled myself (don't pretend you haven’t done it).
1st Hit: my position at my law firm. Yawn.
2nd-4th Hits: articles I’ve written about the hedge fund industry. Double yawn.
5th Hit: A testament to my paltry support of The Morgan Library and some random Democrats. Proof that I’m not exactly a financial powerhouse.
6th Hit: A reference to being Ivy League Player of the Year, which would almost be impressive were it not for the fact that the sport was gymnastics and everyone knows that college gymnastics is hardly as competitive as what occurs pre-college. I had a foot in the gymnast’s grave and was competing against other athletes well past their prime. Big deal.
As I looked at the hits, I knew that this was not the stuff of legacies—these were more like accidental appearances in the game called life. I don’t know what my legacy will be yet but even single people have legacies, whether they like it or not. I suspect creating some form of legacy will involve less time drinking and arm wrestling* in the grill room and more time being productive, like chipping and putting.
Notes
*Although I am told there are few moments as joyful in the parenting process as when a child excels beyond a parent, I'm not convinced my fragile golf ego could handle the experience.
*Despite having started doing push-ups in earnest a year ago, I was defeated almost immediately.
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