'If we can do this, we can do anything.' An appreciation for the life of Geraldine Ferraro, ex-vice presidential candidate.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
In 1984 a streaked-blond, peanut-butter-and-jelly-making mom made history... before she became an object lesson in unwittingly hurting the candidate and political party she was there to help.
Her name was Geraldine A. Ferraro, and now she is dead at 75, March 26, 2011 of complications from multiple myeloma, a blood cancer she had doggedly battled for 12 years.
Her day of days, July 11, 1984.
Arguably the most important day in at least her public life occurred July 11, 1984 when Walter "Fritz" Mondale made history by selecting U.S. Representative Geraldine Ferraro as his vice presidential running mate. At a stroke, she became the first major-ticket VP candidate... and the first national Italian-American candidate, two facts which proved to be critical in her startling ascent and the muddle, distractions, and stumblings which followed.
A presidential candidate's first important act is the selection of a vice presidential nominee.
Americans look to their presidential candidates to demonstrate executive problem-solving skills and leadership. But such a candidate, unless he is president himself (when he and his record automatically become the focus of the campaign) have a big problem which must be handled early and without error.
While they might have the skills to be  president and even an impressive list of important accomplishments and decisions should they, say, have been governor of a major state (like Reagan and California), voters are still being asked to gamble that a person who has never made presidential- level decisions can, in fact, make them,  not surprise the nation (as has happened often enough) with ineptitude; (like Jimmy Carter, the master of Oval Office missteps and pratfalls.)
The only person immune from this aspect of any given campaign is an incumbent. If there is such an incumbent, he automatically becomes the virtual sole focus of the campaign, pro or con. (Obama take note).  But that problem, in 1984, was Reagan's.
Mondale's problem was the usual one of an out-of-power party... showing America it would be better off with a new president it didn't know much about, instead of retaining  the incumbent they already knew, but who now stood before them no longer fresh, battle-scarred, and, of course, (whatever his achievements) with the usual legion of second-guessing detractors.
For the challengers the selection of the right VP candidate is crucial, couldn't be more important. Yet candidates often (quick, can you say Senator John McCain?) muff this business... and help derail their own campaigns, by turning what should have been a plus into an unexpected minus. America always notes this with alarm, incredulity, disdain, and usually dismissal.
"Fritz" Mondale... the nicest guy in the world... except for Ronald Reagan.
Mondale, Jimmy Carter's vice president, was by common repute a deeply honorable, good natured, well balanced man. He was the boy next door about, so the Democrats hoped, to get the prize ordinarily kept from the nice guys famously finishing last.
But he had a problem. "(Most) everybody loves Ronald" Ray-Gun. He needed a way to lay a finger on the guy and help America wise up. Because the Democrats thought Reagan unsympathetic to women's issues... they needed a candidate who could help galvanize women. Abigail Adams, wife of the second president, had written him "don't forget the ladies." Democrats didn't intend to. But how?
There she is... Mrs. America... Geraldine Ferraro.
She was pert, lively, credible, a real-life mom with real-life mom joys and dilemmas. She was also  a former Queens, New York prosecutor. There she battled the intractable problems of a great city which had them to spare; her daily diet rape, crimes against the elderly, child and wife abuse, so draining she later rote they caused her to develop an ulcer. And the liberal principles which, at her best, defined her. 
At the urging of Mario M. Cuomo, then lieutenant governor of New York and another "Italo" wanting friends for his  own ambitions, suggested she run for Congress. She did, ultimately winning 3 terms, learning fast the tribal rituals of the House of Representatives and, most of all, learning to work with its chiefs. This included House Speaker Thomas O'Neill. He liked her and helped her advance within the establishment to chairwoman of the Democratic Platform Committee, a plum assignment for understanding the party and its players nationwide. In due course, it was O'Neill who urged Mondale to select her as his running mate. It goes without saying that all Democratic congresswomen (they called themselves the A Team)  were in her corner, saying that Geraldine was what they needed to wow the women, and the nation.
"Fritz" bit... and made the calculated decision to put a woman on the ticket. Whether she was the best available woman, or not, will always be argued. She was a gal, she was a great, tireless campaigner with a feisty, upbeat style people liked... all to the good. But... and these were big buts... she knew nothing of the world beyond Queens (a problem most of its denizens have); she had no executive experience at all... and absolutely no foreign policy experience or expertise.
But Mondale selected her anyway. This turned his dull nominating convention into a thrilling celebration of women in America, their inexorable, soul-stirring progress to the heights of the nation. As Ferraro said "If we can do this, we can do anything." Millions felt uplifted, glasses raised, tears shed. It was a signature American event...
... And it began to fall apart within just hours as questions began to be raised about her husband's financial and tax records. There were nasty innuendos, too, about organized crime, god fathers, the paraphernalia of ethnic hate. Mondale learned the hard way that behind every successful woman candidate is a husband... the man he didn't select, but who could cause  an entire campaign to stumble. So it was with Ferraro and the man she loved. Thus, Ferraro and her connections became part of Mondale's problem... instead of the solution she had once appeared to be.
In the end, of course, she probably wasn't the ultimate cause for Mondale's demise. Ronald Reagan was. America loved Reagan (despite lapses and errors). And he was becoming, right before their eyes not merely a president but a statesman, a man they liked, trusted and revered. Fritz never had a chance, and of course Ferraro went down with him.
Now the mom from Queens is gone, a footnote in history, not a chapter. But I prefer to remember the best moment of her busy life: "If we can do this, we can do anything." She was absolutely right about that.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Reichen Lehmkuhl reveals all -- again. What a boy will do to get ahead.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
To be honest, I had forgotten  Reichen Lehmkuhl... and apparently a lot of other people had too. That's the kiss of death for Reichen, a boy who has spent untold hours getting to be "known", only to slip back into the unfathomable depths of obscurity.
If Reichen doesn't know about the Myth of Sisyphus, he should. Sisyphus was a figure of Greek mythology, a man condemned to repeat forever the same meaningless task of pushing a boulder up a mountain,  only to see it roll down again. It is a tale of frustration, futility, and despair.
Is it better to inform him about Sisyphus, or not? A scene from Sam Spiegel's epic film "Nicholas and Alexandra" (1971) frames the issue.
The Bolsheviks of Ekaterinburg have decided to assassinate the entire Romanov family, Nicholas II, his Tsaritsa Alexandra, and their five children, along with some members of their court, even  their dog. Their jailer knows this. He has been holding a sack full of their mail, wondering whether it would be "kind or cruel, cruel or kind" to give it to them.... He stands in the doorway of "The House of Special Purpose" musing. It is engrossing cinema but difficult to decide in real life...
I am faced by a similar conundrum. For it is painful to see what Reichen will do -- and has already done -- to capture the "bitch- goddess success". William James, a Harvard man, coined the phrase in 1906 here in Cambridge, Massachusetts. "The exclusive worship of the bitch-goddess success is our national disease."
James was celebrated worldwide when he made the celebrated observation. He was a man of family, education, worldwide renown, and substantial achievements.
All that he and Reichen Lehmkuhl have in common is the slender thread of Massachusetts birth, though James' insight is crucial to understanding Reichen.
Reichen, you see, will do anything, everything for the love and admiration of unknown people... this is his curse, and it is painful watching, and wincing, as he grasps at straws which cannot turn into enduring, useful bricks. He is the bitch-goddess' prisoner... no parole, no escape.
Born Richard Lehmkuhl, December 26, 1973.
Lehmkuhl's parents, a policeman and a nurse, divorced when he was five years old. Thereafter his mother moved to a trailer park on  the Norton, Massachusetts Reservoir, near Wheaton College geographically, but a world away from its privileged youths. He was known as Richard then; "Reichen" he adopted after 2002. It sounded butch.
At age 16 (so it says in Wikipedia) , he received and accepted an appointment to the United States Air Force Academy. After graduating in 1996, he served five years and attained the rank of captain before his honorable discharge.
That's the official story.
The unofficial story is more difficult, more important, and changed Reichen's life.
In his first autobiography "Here's What We'll Say: Growing Up, Coming Out, and the U.S. Air Force" (2006) , Reichen tells the tale of being a gay cadet at the Air Force Academy, living a secret life that didn't remain  a secret and  the harsh reality of harassment based on sexual preference. Writing this book with total honesty was perhaps his finest moment.
But the bitch-goddess success never makes things easy. She exacts a terrible price from those who worship at her shrine and want another dose of addictive fame, success, and the love and admiration of people they will never meet.
That dose, for Reichen, came when he and his "spouse" Chip Arndt were selected for "The Amazing Race 4" -- and won.... a cool million the richer. Life wasn't only good; it was idyllic. Youth, recognition, fans, money, love... it just doesn't get any better than that.
Reichen was about to learn just how true that was.The bitch-goddess came with her I.O.U...and, as always, it was staggering.
He and Chip, the picture postcard perfect duo, split.
The money, easily acquired, was quickly dispersed, easy come, easy go.
Worst of all, Reichen, an officer and a gentleman by the act of Congress, a man of goals, deadlines, missions accepted, missions accomplished, now was ay loose ends, careerless, without the structure successful people know is crucial to their achievements and emotional well-being. The Air Force Officer who once flew high wasn't grounded anymore.
For immediate recognition, strip and show all.
Reichen was gifted by God and hard work with an eye-catching bod. Now he decided it could be his passport to greater glories... not to mention lots of dates. And so, no doubt after due deliberation, he decided to put that body, all of that body, on display. Someone should have reminded him of a scene from "Saturday Night Fever." (1977). A character named Annette wants a relationship with John Travolta's character Tony. But he warns her, "Good girl or slut," you can only be one or the other.
Stripped, Reichen started his descent, one provocative image at a time, flexed,  nude, the sex tiger...
He was buff, he was tan, he was chiseled, he was out-of-control.
And the bitch-goddess was grinning in the background... she was enjoying her work.
Every time you saw Reichen in the media, and Reichen sightings were frequent, he had less on, showed more beefcake and was with yet another, always younger guy friend. He made the West Hollywood party scene, where he party-hardied. There were the usual rumors of drugs and the usual frantic dissipations.
Then Reichen found love, or so he said. Lance Bass, younger, richer, celebrated (but dowdy), himself a former 'N Sync band member wanted what Reichen had in spades... sex appeal to the max. Now there were endless Reichen and Lance sightings. For a while... then this relationship, too,tanked, so fast. It got ugly, it got messy, it got in the papers.
Now Reichen is shopping a new autobiography "It'll Be Great Exposure." On Twitter and Facebook, he says he's dedicating this volume to "all who get fed this line." In short, Reichen has become the "older but wiser boy"; or at least he says so.
The flesh is older now, though still alluring. It isn't go much fun to do the party thing either. And it gets old, just ask him, being asked to strip and smile.  He was after all an Air Force Officer, a order giving man of spit and polish, destined for more than an aging boy toy. Now he's angling for a second chance, a reformation. Only the bitch-goddess success knows whether he can have it... If you don't see him in the papers, unclad and oiled, perhaps he got it after all.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc.  providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses.
Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Comments are appreciated.

'Tell mama... Tell mama all.' An appreciation for the life of Elizabeth Taylor, who did it her way.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
First you saw two of the most beautiful people you had ever seen, Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift. That was reason enough to pay attention.
Then, all of a sudden, the film made a quantum leap from eye-candy to the profound mysteries of sexuality, eroticism, desire. And Elizabeth Taylor was no longer merely the spoiled teenaged daughter of the country club set. She was a man's ultimate desire... because she understood that desire is not about who you are... it's about understanding what the other person needs, deep down inside... and making it, if only for an instant, temptingly available.
"Tell mama," she whispered, "Tell mama  all."
It was unexpected! It was erotic! It was kinky! This was the woman you'd kill for... as Montgomery Clift's character did... it couldn't be any other way.
This was Elizabeth Taylor... on the prowl, mesmerizing, entrancing, a woman who used her deep psychological insights to ensnare the man she wanted, the man who would ultimately bore her and so trigger another installment of the great game that was hers to play.
Was she just a character in "A Place In The Sun" (1951)... or was this the exciting, desirable woman herself? We didn't know... but we definitely wanted to find out, whatever the cost. And we knew there would be a cost, a terrible cost.
"Tell mama... tell mama all." We wanted the opportunity to do  just that.
And they say the 'fifties were dull....  Not when Elizabeth Taylor was around. She didn't know the meaning of the word and always chose mayhem over the placid and serene.
Now the woman is gone... but her great renown, her celebrity,  the legend all remain to titillate, captivate, thrill. All that will never be gone.
Elizabeth Rosamond Taylor, born February 27, 1932 in London.
Her father was an American art dealer, in London to open a gallery. Her mother,was an actress.  Although only 7 years old when her parents decided to remove her from war-threatened England and return to Los Angeles, there was always a faint hint of an English girl about her. But she was American through and through for all that Queen Elizabeth II in 1999 made her a Dame of the British Empire. And always remember this: at the supreme moment of American hegemony, Elizabeth Taylor was  the woman we  made one of our signature images. We were her co-conspirators every step of the way.
"National Velvet"  (1944).
Taylor's parents wanted her to be an actress.  They packaged her like laundry soap and made the rounds of the studios. She did a successful screen test for Universal Pictures with her eyes -- violet and soon to be world famous -- the subject of comment. They always were.
That contract was brief and undistinguished, although she was paired with Carl Switzer ("Alfalfa" from the "Our Gang" movies) in the comedy "Man or Mouse".  It was the last moment of her life when she would be unknown to the  world... although not the last where both the film and her performance were underwhelming. She got used that.
Her character, Velvet Brown, was a horse crazy adolescent. But what Hollywood and the discerning public saw was the way she talked about horses -- she visibly throbbed with emotion. Her eyes -- those famous eyes -- gleamed, and her whole body shook with passion. "National Velvet" was a great hit... and it made Taylor, the mistress of passion, one of the hottest people on earth. She was just 12 years old, a real life Lolita. People talked about her; people always would.
The real problem was finding the suitable vehicle for her undeniable talent. It took 7 years -- and a series of not-quite-right roles; (can you say "Conspirator" with Robert Taylor, 1949?)... but at last it all came together in "A Place In The  Sun." Velvet Brown no longer was passionate about ponies; now she wanted men... when she wanted them, even if they had to kill so she could have them.
In that moment of profound psychological insight, Taylor realized that power and satisfaction grew out of the ability to be what every person needed. As she leaned into Monty Clift's ear she was telling him she understood him and his needs and was ready to deliver. No wonder audiences thrilled. Women wanted to be her, so they could profit from this insight.
And men?
They would tell mama all; knowing that she would give them just want they wanted... and they would give her the world.
This role, this insight lead to everything that followed. Her motto now was "Let them come to you." And they did... a worldwide caravan of admirers, followers, fans... including the men she selected to share her journey, then discard. Of her 7 husbands (if you count Richard Burton twice), Michael Todd, showman, dynamo, impresario, was the most important. She might not have stayed with him, either. However he would have known how to fight for her... and she would admire that. She understood the crucial difference between men who desired her... and men who knew what she needed: a fighter. Tragically, he died in 1958, in a plane  crash. It was the year of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof", where she elevated insistent sensuality and the demands of desire to an art form. What "Maggie" wanted, Maggie got. Good women called her a "slut." But, when  honest, women cheered her for doing what they could only dream of doing, with male management on top of the list. Elizabeth Taylor was never a hypocrite, something the hypocrites could never forgive. Her boldness affronted them, irritated them, infuriated them. It made the rest of us admire.
If Elizabeth Taylor cared, she never showed it or complained. It all worked to make her Larger than Life, the world riveted by every little move she made, with new husband in tow, or between "I do's."
Her last role was her finest, using the death of friend Rock Hudson from AIDS (1985) not as something to be ashamed of and forgotten, but as what it was: a  medical challenge to be confronted directly, honestly. If there were any justice, the Vatican would make her a saint. Predictably they vilified her for "erotic vagrancy." It never said that about men and their amatory gyrations...
Dead at 79, March 23, 2011.
Now the lady is dead, a figure of history and lore... a creature of astonishing beauty with those violet eyes and talent, too, though not always seen in her films. Reports said she died of congestive heart failure, but that cannot be right, for she had nothing if not heart. It's what defined her.
That's why we believed her when she said,"Tell mama. Tell mamma all." We knew she meant it and had the heart to carry through, even unto our most secret needs. We had to have such a person in our lives... and would do anything to keep her there. Now she abides with each of us alone, forever.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses.
Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Mastering the fine art of reading aloud... and why you must do so.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Go into any office in the world and its busy denizens will be emailing, leaving telephone messages, text  messaging, etc. Each and every time they use these admittedly convenient devices, their necessary human to human communications skills are melting away. Tools that are supposed to help us communicate exact a terrible price for convenience; that price is the whittling away of our language skills.
Go into any home in the world and the same perilous, reprehensible trend is immediately apparent. The members of most families rarely function as a united, cohesive unit. Instead, they spend their time text messaging, emailing, leaving telephone messages and, when not otherwise engaged, they sit before their home entertainment devices alone, very much in their own worlds, the occasional grunt and interjection all that passes for conversation and togetherness.
Now consider the classic film "I Remember Mama" (released 1948). Here family is not a thing. It is everything. Each evening this Norwegian immigrant family, now resident  in San Francisco, sits together at the supper table once the dishes have been removed... and they read to each other.
They read the great classics, adventure stories, mysteries, romances, travel, history... and they are expected to read well and to make every attempt (depending on their ages) to read clearly and to be able to discuss what they are reading.
You will say, but that is only a film, only fiction. But I shall say to you, most every family then spent most of their evenings so, even if the books they read were the King James Version of the Bible, The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan (1678), and a volume or two of "improving" stories and sermons; in English-speaking lands quite likely the works of William Shakespeare, too.
In those days when a family was a family, people read to each  other. And they derived a plethora of benefits, immediate and long term, to wit, how to
* pronounce words properly
* discover the proper definitions of words and so increase vocabulary and language usage
* read for greatest personal understanding and the greater understanding of all auditors
* learn all the nuances of language from its greatest practitioners
* use language to make yourself completely clear and comprehensible, using the right word at the right time
* "read" your audience as you read to them
* make a presentation that influences people
* read at the right speed
* perfect daily language use
* talk to people, not at people.
Even merely perusing this list of benefits establishes just how far we have descended from the far more literate ages preceding our own. They spoke more clearly, read more clearly, and wrote more clearly than most people today, despite the trillions of dollars we spend on education generally and human communications skills particularly. Education, in this regard as others, has manifestly failed; as a result we have millions of people who have passed through the public (and private) educational systems (with graduation certificates to prove it) who are daily humiliated and shown to be completely inadequate at their own language.
If you are satisfied with this result, with producing children with less verbal dexterity and understanding than you and far, far less than their grandparents, then do nothing. Clearly you are part of the problem, not part of the solution.
Otherwise, resolve to save your children, with or without the help of our schools. Most of these will advance a million "reasons", or more, why reading aloud is impractical. The extent to which they do so is the extent to which they, too, are part of the problem, sabotaging the solution.
But let us begin, if only like the characters in "I Remember Mama" at the kitchen table... it will do just fine.
1) Start now. If you wish to save whatever communication and language skills remain, act at once to do so. Remember, they are at peril.
2) Read this article to your children before starting. It will help them understand the negligence of the schools, their own at risk position, and the need for as much of their cooperation as they can give.
3) Tape your sessions. No one can ever believe without such irrefutable proof that they read quite as badly as they do.
4) Keep sessions to 60-90 minutes. Even that, I admit, may seem unreachable, but what are goals for, after all, if not to challenge and set a clear objective representing improvement?
5) Select material which is interesting. Remember, you are competing against thousands of distractions which have been expertly developed by folks to steal your children's attention and keep it squarely where they wish. So, select something decidedly interesting.
6) Keep a check list of things which can be improved. Keep a note pad at the ready so you can recall good things needing praise... and bad things needing attention.
7)  Ensure that all participating (and, remember, it needn't be just children) have the opportunity to read aloud each session. This is a hands-on event, and no one should be just "audience."
More tips
You must have  procedures in place for maximizing results. Here are some suggestions:
1) When the reader doesn't know a particular word, do not give the definition yourself. Keep a dictionary at the ready and have the reader look up the word in question.
Idea: you can also ask the participants to write down what they think the definition is, then check the dictionary. Make this a game. No dictionary in your house? Get one at once.
2) Do the same where the reader trips over the pronunciation of a word. Here the dictionary is again invaluable.
3)  Keep close attention to the speed at which the reader reads; odds are, it will be too fast. That must be eradicated. You'll find yourself saying "slow down" often, and quite right.
4) Make sure the reader doesn't sit stiffly but instead naturally. The pose the reader adopts will influence the entire atmosphere. Calm and amiable are good objectives.
5) Make sure the reader learns the art of looking up from time to time, thereby establishing and maintaining complete audience contact.
Conclusion
What is great about learning how to read aloud is that the benefits will resonate through your entire life. They are crucial, aiding you in your educational endeavors, employment, relationships, and more.  Our schools have let your children down... don't compound their problems by failing to do what you can. From this very moment.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

It's official. There is finally a real GOP candidate for 2012: ex-Governor Tim Pawlenty. Did anybody notice?

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Let me tell  you something about presidential candidates: the day they announce for the highest office in the land, they figure they'll be the top story... their mug on the front page of America's great dailies, their story featured on the three major commercial networks... and, of course, the object of endless glib commentary on Fox News and CNN.
For Pawlenty, the first announced Republican candidate, it just didn't happen.
To be sure, there were really major stories being covered  March 21, 2011. Can you say nuclear reactors in Japan? That military dust-up in Libya? But even so, you would have thought Pawlenty would have gotten something.
And what's got to irk Pawlenty good and plenty is that he has at least some credibility, not least that he was a moderately conservative governor (twice!) of a reliably Democratic state. When Pawlenty looks in the mirror, mirror on the wall... who's the one he sees most of all? Can you say Ronald Reagan?
But Pawlenty got skunked... his Hollywood style introduction video ignored...  his message to America undelivered. What a revoltin' development this is. If it had been Tim's predecessor in the Minnesota governor's office -- colorful ex-wrestler and mouth man Jesse Ventura -- you can bet there would have been coverage, lots of coverage.
Tim's gotta wonder...
"Gentlemen prefer blondes" (1926),  Anita Loos said. In the sequel, she told us "But Gentlemen marry brunettes" (1928). Tim can only hope that he's seen as the man America wants to marry. If only he can figure out how to get a date to strut his (good boy) stuff...
Minnesota... always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
Pity the state of Minnesota. It has had a respectable number of presidential candidates... but nary even a one-term president amongst them.
Harold Stassen was the hot stuff in 1938 when he was America's youngest governor. He got a really bad case of Potomac Fever right away (1944) and never did get rid of it. He became a national  joke running for president over and over again, a (bad) joke. Minnesota cringed.
Then there was Hubert Horatio Humphrey Jr., who actually got the Democrat's nomination in 1968... and came within a hair of winning the presidency. "Tricky Dick" Nixon's most important trick was getting the presidency that year. A profoundly decent man, Humphrey learned the hard way that loyalty (to Lyndon Johnson and his Vietnam policy) isn't what gets you elected; hard headed realism is. Nixon had it... Hubert didn't.
The next presidential candidate from Minnesota, Jimmy Carter's vice president Walter Mondale had this fundamental decency and honesty, too, and it killed him.
Right out of the box Mondale, the very essence of the Minnesota boy next door, you know, the one who carries in your groceries with a smile and declines the tip, slaughtered himself. He told America the truth -- that the deficit was unsustainable and there would have to be new taxes. (Deja vu all over again....)
I had to admire the man's guts...  but you knew, right then, he was a goner. Ronald Reagan crushed him... and went on to GOP sainthood, the prototype of how to finesse the truth and become the Big Winner.
Get the picture?
Now there's Timmy Pawlenty, and here's what you need to know about him. His original career choice was... dentist.  I kid you not... and once you know it you can see him in white coat, dazzling smile, personable, confiding manner; the man who says "open wide", "little pinch", "spit here."
He'd have been a cinch for president of the Minnesota Dental Association... and a lifetime achievement award from the Kiwanis.
What's he bring to the table?
The problem with those Boy Scout types, the nice guys, is that nice is what they've got, all they've got. Timmie's got likability all right but anything else?
His ascent.
He was born November 17, 1960, of German and Polish ancestry. You'll hear about his teamster father; his mother who died of cancer when he was 15. And about his meat packing neighborhood with that all-pervasive dead meat smell. (Don't mention that bit too much, Tim; it definitely puts people off. Ask not for whom the smell tolls... it tolls for thee.)
Born Roman Catholic, Pawlenty became an evangelical Christian... a fact he will leverage to the max, to get those all important conservative Republican and Tea Party supporters.  Powerful, they'll demand  a hefty price.
Pawlenty's political career shows what nice guys are capable of achieving. He was elected to the Egan, Minnesota city council in 1989, age 28. Elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives in 1992, he was re-elected five times and was chosen House Majority Leader when Republicans became the majority party in the State Legislature in 1998.
He won a hard fought victory in the Republican gubernatorial primary in 2002... then beat aggressive candidates from the Minnesota Democratic- Farmer-Labor Party and the Independence Party. He was re-elected in 2006. Impressive yes. Memorable no! And the high point of his rhetoric was: "We need to be a party of Sam's Club, not just the country club." Churchillian, he isn't. And America likes its presidents to be masters of soaring speech.
Now the nicest guy aims at the highest office. Everyone will like him. Almost no one with think him the Great White Hope of America, and his poll numbers will always be anemic. Just as they are now.
You see Tim suffers from  Minnesotitis... the disease that takes boys next door and turns them into likable cogs in the wheel... always on the team, hardly ever the captain and never ever champion.  Leo Durocher summed up their plight in 1939 with his immortal line, "Nice guys finish last." Tim Pawlenty is about to discover just how deflatingly true that is, as he joins the list of nice guys from Minnesota who couldn't wow America.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc. providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. He is also the author of 18 best-selling business books.  Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Do you REALLY want to be rich?

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
One day years ago when I was having dinner with her in New York City, the celebrated entertainer Pearl Bailey told me in her inimitable way: "I've been rich. And I've been poor. Rich is better!" We laughed... and the conversation went on, but the comment reverberated: "Rich IS better!"
EVERYBODY wants to be rich, of course; that's a given.. However, being rich is not a condition; it's a process that each and every wealthy person must master. If not, this is what  happens: "A fool and his money are soon parted."  That will never do.
"The rich are different than you and me."
The writer F. Scott Fitzgerald, who wanted so very desperately to be rich, knew whereof he spoke. It's not just that they have money.. it's that they know how to use it for maximum comfort and convenience. You probably don't.
The average un-rich person thinks that being rich is like a fairy tale; once you're rich you  simply live happily ever after. Nothing could be further from the truth. The business of being rich takes constant work, dedication, knowledge, and professional assistance. Being rich is a job, and like all jobs there are those who can do it successfully and there are those who cannot.
Rich people have help. You don't.
The "silver fork" novels of the early 19th century deal endlessly with "the servant problem." It's easy to see why. When you have the means, you want the help; but this help needs constant management.
Do you know how to select, manage and maintain
* house cleaners * chauffeur * cook * people to run your errands * and those to take care of clothes and personal effects?
Rich people have the luxury of being waited on. However, such assistance comes at a price. People who serve you have substantial access... and they can use this access for good or will. There is an old saying: "No man is a hero to his valet." As a wealthy person, you will want an enhanced level of service... but will you be ready for the diminished privacy this brings?
You must have financial representatives and ensure they produce for you
Money cannot simply be earned and  left to itself; its increase must be your constant objective and goal. That's why each and every rich person on earth has one or (more likely) more financial representatives. It is only in fairy tales where "the king is in the counting house...." In real life, that's where his "people" hang out... preparing reports showing escalating wealth or grounds for concern.
Rich people understand that money, properly handled, begets more money. Thus, selecting and working with smart people who can take your fortune and increase is key.
Who have you got advising you these days and are they proving by tangible results that they are worthy of assisting you grasp and maintain the lifestyle you truly want?
These representatives must deal with
*  your current income requirements
* tax issues
* estate issues.
Because of their pivotal importance in your life, you must be prepared not just to select them, but oversee and manage them too. This is one of the crucial aspects of your new life as a rich person. It's not all champagne and yachts, you see, and only the uninitiated are so naive to think so.
Prepare for the exigent, the wheedling and those who feel you should support them because YOU are rich!
People without means have the enduring belief that the rich are here for their benefit, with the result that rich people find themselves the focus of constant, annoying wheedling by the down-at-heel.
Count on it: your riches will draw forth a legion of beggars, distant family, long-ago friends... and never-ending solicitations from endless "worthy" causes and organizations.  Be prepared to learn how to hear with attention but refuse without regret.
Last Words
Being rich will change you in ways subtle and substantial.
* You will not have to dream. Instead, you can plan.
* You will have at your disposal the most important thing in life: choice
* You will know deference, an enchanting thing the poorer never receive.
What's more, as  compound interest, time, and financial growth work for you, you will surely know the best is yet to be!

About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski
http://www.CashGrowthUnlimited.com/?rd=zc1bgC6t

Tufts University president ends Naked Quad run, naked students protest.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Pity the president, any president, of Tufts University. Based in Medford, Massachusetts, just a few miles from Harvard  and M.I.T., Tufts is engaged in an ongoing struggle to get out of their shadows and breathe free, a distinguished institution of undergraduate education and research, justifying the Really Big Bucks they charge dazed parents to educate their "not quite Ivy quality" children.
But it just ain't happenin'.
Whatever good things, whatever great things are going on there, today people worldwide want to know only one thing about Tufts: what's the Naked Quad Run and why has it been cancelled?
My research reveals all.
No one seems to know the exact year the Naked Quad Run commenced but authorities agree that it's been going on since the 1970s. It started, as many undergraduate events do, on a dare. You can see sophomore Herbie egging on freshman Bobby in, say, 1970. "Come on, Bobby boy. I dare you." "Gee, Herbie, I don't know. I'm a good boy and what if my mother ever found out?"
"Just as I thought Bobby boy. You're a weenie."
And to prove that he wasn't... Bobby downed a quick one, doffed his clothes and became the first Naked Quad runner, cold (it was December after all), blue, a champion. Herbie, irked, spent the rest of his life pointing out that it was Really His Idea.
Bobby, who went on to being president of a Really Big Bank and a trustee of the university, got all the credit. It made for a great story every once in a while in the Tufts alumni bulletin. And it was no surprise when Bobby,  age 65, recreated his original Naked Quad Run, to whoops of joy from hundreds of naked undergrads; they had to admit Bobby was an inspiration to all and, all unclad, gathered to cheer on their hero, the man who started it all.
Yep, the story had to go something like that. Anyway...
Over the years, the Naked Quad Run became a firmly rooted Tufts tradition. The boys, sheepish, milled aimlessly about, blue and cold (it was December, remember). Of course there was alcohol (there always is at most every collegiate event) and of course some of those boys were underage and over indulged... but boys will be boys...
And so the run went on, gathering adherents and notoriety as it went. Ok, it wasn't exactly the Pulitzer or Nobel prize... but it did generate a bucket of PR and good vibrations for Tufts; when you're firmly planted at #3, you've got to take what you can get.
Cherchez la femme.
Some scholars, with a notably feminist perspective, have a decidedly different view on the subject; (they would). The Naked Quad Run (and they put on a learned symposium to prove it) was not held to celebrate the joys of "Gaudeamus igitur" in the great classical tradition of "mens sana in corpore sano". Rather, and one learned lady was quite adamant about this, rather it was designed for two purposes: to make newly arrived Tufts undergraduate women uncomfortable while at the same time showing off their hot bods, the better to get dates. A poll taken at the symposium registered deep disgust and disapprobation with this male only Naked Quad Run...
... and so supported by vehement feminists, women undergrads were permitted to doff their clothes, too, along with their male undergrad colleagues.
Thus, the ecstatic men of Tufts achieved , with the blessing of the Founding Mothers, a goal of young men everywhere and in all places: official permission to check out naked chicks.
Score another one for Tufts!
What a place!
And all officially sanctioned!
Predictably applications to Tufts soared. It was no doubt the enticing curriculum....
So things might have gone on forever... but all was not roses in this collegiate Eden.
There was more alcohol.
There were (I blush to tell) gropings... not just of young men to young women, but young women to young men; young men to young men... and young women to... but you get the point.
Too, the campus police say they were harassed.
What was going on here anyway?
In time-honored American tradition, the thing had morphed from a youthful, uncomplicated celebration of the end of examinations into an Event, where undergrads from other colleges came to participate (if they were cute so much the better) and where Japanese tourists arrived with their guide and video cams.
The university started to keep -- and release -- the findings of mayhem and dissipation. December, 2010 figures were the worst yet; 12 students were hospitalized for alcohol poisoning.
Tufts University president Lawrence Bacow (no doubt opposed by the admissions department every inch of the way) took action and banned the Naked Quad Run.
Bacow, clearly anguished by his decision, acknowledged (according to an editorial in The Boston Globe (March 16, 2011) that he has "long been uncomfortable with the run, but chose to work with students and  public safety staff to 'manage the run rather than end it'." Food was available... barriers were erected... the course was sanded, etc.
As a result the crowds got worse, drank more, groped with impunity and acted out. When Medford and Somerville police (always irked by hordes of insouciant undergrad nudists) refused to provide security details, the end had at last arrived.
That's why they pay those Big Bucks to Bacow, to make the really tough decisions.
There were student protests, of course. This was Something Really Important, and the creme de la creme at Tufts came out to signify their opposition to this edict and the diminution of the quality of life at Tufts. After all, the right to check out the naked bodies of their friends and colleagues was worth fighting for...
On March 14, 2011 dozens of students engaged in a partially nude run around the Res Quad in a peaceful, sober protect against Bacow's decision. They were not about to go silent into that good night. Text messages, e-mails, Facebook events brought them together, and they vowed, naked, to continue the good fight. And perhaps they will.
For now, however,  the naked paradise that was Tufts on the nights of the run is closed, no more happily ever afterings in Medford. Thus Tufts sinks back into sober, clothed obscurity, while the student affairs office brainstorms alternatives. One of them, as reported by the Tufts Daily newspaper, is a Winter Carnival. Another, a concert.
Hold it!  Kids, the carnival's already done. At Dartmouth.  As for the concert idea... old hat. If I were you, I'd hold out for reviving the Naked Quad Run. It's got eye-popping appeal, and it IS a bona fide Tufts tradition. They are few and far between.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Easter Eggs.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
The older I get, the less current holidays mean to me... and the more those from years, even decades ago. I see the vivid Easter displays; (these days pharmacies seem to have the most and largest.) But these festive aisles and windows, the bags of candy, and, of course, the seasonal cuddlies do not speak to me. They merely mark the calendar as just another day.
That was not always the case, but years and unrelenting death have so thinned the ranks of the significant players in these annual rites that the dead now significantly outnumber the living, of whom, graying, I am yet one.
I do not mind giving up this present holiday; there is little enough to lose.
But I would mind relinquishing my memories of Easter Days gone by, for there are my beloved ghosts, each and every one as vital in my mind's eye as quick, not long defunct.
And because these folks are even more precious to me now than then, I wish this Easter to remember them through the medium of eggs, colored eggs, hidden eggs, Easter eggs.
My mother's Easter eggs.
Without any effort whatsoever, I see her in the way the narrator in Thornton Wilder's play "Our Town"  (1938) saw his characters and Granite state denizens.  She was young and beautiful then, far, far younger than I am now. She worried, as so many women before and since, about whether she was a "good mother" because she had outside work responsibilities. When I was much older, she would ask me if I minded her being away when I came home from school. I was too young to know just what I should have said. .So, I stumbled through an answer I hope gave comfort, but must doubt.  Perhaps it was some scintilla of this guilt (I cannot be sure) that drove the yearly Easter Egg Project, or perhaps it was simply that this messy business was sure to make her laugh.  I was there but perceived little; today I see much more, all impressions secure in my mind's eye.
I quite recall we'd go to Woolworths, first, and then our local general store and post office, run by Mr. and Mrs. Mackey (I never called them anything other); folks who knew all, but were most times (gratefully) discrete.
Both places would have had the Eastern egg coloring kit (by PAAS?) that was de rigueur for this annual kitchen table rite. This kit had the necessary color pellets, special "swirl" colors, too, for advanced egg coloring.... and a host of decals with seasonal themes. We only used the secular ones. Some of these were certain to be later found in my brother's hair and clothes; he tried to do as much to me, but I was older and wise to his tactics. He can hardly laugh about it even now...
At first. there was strict order and efficiency. Uncolored eggs here; table spoons for these eggs for dipping. Hot water (mind it needed vinegar) on the stove... pellets here... decals there. This sensible ordering of the event was gone in an instant, submerged in uncouth behaviors, reachings around and over, and of course clever sibling sabotages.
And always and again, laughter that firmly established more than any query ever could,  that yes she was the best of mothers, how could she even wonder? And so, some telltale signs of the battle still table top, the now colored eggs packed up (except a few)  and driven purposefully to Grammie's house, where we rambunctious and much loved, visited most every day. Grammie had a task for these eggs... and we knew partly what it was, for these rituals were yearly done.
Each year, Grammie and Grampie, their four adult children and their spouses, would mastermind the family Easter Egg Hunt. There was never any question where it would be held. And while it was not so grand as the nation's Egg Rolling at the White House, it was as meticulously arranged and punctiliously celebrated.
All aunts contributed the necessary elements -- colored eggs of course (always the subject of high scrutiny and devastating comments sotto voce); home-made cookies (the honor of their sex ensured we never had  others); and mountains of Easter candy that started with chocolate rabbits and ended with jelly beans. Then circled back to chocolate again. Excess was the order of the day.
Children were encouraged to play outside. Important doings were underway... in the kitchen and in the "rec" room below where the men had the task of determining the hiding places in and out... and carefully writing each location down. These men might grumble... but they never missed this crucial aspect of the affair. They would have been there anyway; we all ended each day in Grammie's house and kitchen perforce, no invitation ever needed.
At the appointed hour Easter Day, after church and a heavy, formal  luncheon which lost nothing of our solid living Hanoverian ancestors, the grandchildren (and that meant every last one of us) were gathered at the starting point in the garage, where on ordinary days Grampie was not above showing off his latest Oldsmobile and his automated garage door. His children, as yet, had neither.  The grandchildren's Easter eggs.
Grampie and his two sons and two sons-in-law including my father were in charge of Order and Efficiency. This year would surely not be a repeat of what happened last year. But it always was...
The children were all sternly and solemnly admonished to put what they found in their Easter basket and, Above All Else, to let one of the hovering adults know Where They Had Found It.
As always, the organizing theory was excellent... but the reality ensured the customary mass chaos (and much laughter).
The youngest grandchildren could never recall where they had found that chocolate bunny, which was already absent an ear. The oldest grandchildren (inspired by me, the oldest of all) were practised predators. We knew all the best hiding places and went to them like a bat from hell, erasing all order as we went.
Such  perhaps was the truest indication that we were a family, each and every one of us.
Unwilling to end this giant game of hide and seek, the grandchildren hid and re-hid the eggs (now mostly broken and inedible)  and candies, too. There were only to be found when one of the uncles was sure to find in humid July in the toe of his winter boots, a very jaundiced and pungent Easter egg artifact.  So, that's where that one went....
No Easter, however, would have been complete without my father taking us to the feed store and reviewing the new colored chicks and ducks (red, blue, purple, green). We were allowed a half a dozen or so; before we left Grammie's we got to show our less fortunate cousins What We Got... pets all, none ever to be eaten.
Now all this exists only in my mind's eye... but, because I've summoned this story, it is all quite clear, so many fond details not lost, but here after all and after all these years.
And so I say to every parent, grandparent and distant aunts and uncles, too: this day, live this day and hug every memory close.  Each one is yours... and precious, too; not one to lose. It all starts with a colored egg, my privilege too long forgot, to do this day, in remembrance of all , each one alive in me as I  in them.
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books.
 Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

'and dances with the daffodils.' March 18, 2011

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
My Cambridge, Massachusetts neighborhood, hard by Harvard University, is accustomed to the brightest of regalia, gowns, flags, pennants; they all catch the eye and remind all our pageantry is of an ancient type and all our own. Even so, we take particular notice when the daffodils parade, outfitted in the vibrant yellow hues once reserved for the Chinese emperor alone. They are always sharp, chic, dramatic, their presence announced  by its central trumpet from which one expects Handel or Purcell at least and would not be surprised at all to hear them, sharp, regal, ceremonius. The daffodil seems tailor-made for this.
For the last several days, house bound with a cold, I have been impatient to behold the arrangements progress, the insistent growth of the stalks, the bulging stems where, very soon, the yellow trumpet will emerge to capture every eye.
There is excitement in the air.
I feel it, and am glad to see these lordly daffodils hard at their work... for they come but once a year and but so briefly stay.  They are right to call to me and remind that their time is coming, and I must be ready; ready to behold, to enjoy, to savor, their time brilliant, memorable, but always far too short.
Named after the most beautiful boy in the world.
Daffodil is the common English name for this stylish flower. But it is not its real name. Like noblemen treading carefully in our democratic days, daffodils possess a sense of when to employ their common name, whilst never forgetting their true pedigree. They are in fact Narcissus, the botanic name for a genus of mainly hardy, mostly spring-flowering, bulbs in the Amaryllis family native to Europe, North Africa, and Asia. The publication "Daffodils for North American Gardens" cites between 50 and 100 wild species.
The story of Narcissus comes from Greek mythology. There a comely youth of unsurpassed beauty became so obsessed with his own absorbing looks  that, when observing himself in a pool of water, he fell in and drowned. In some variations of the myth, the youth died of starvation and thirst because he couldn't bring himself to do anything but marvel at himself.
We all know such people.... but the gods did not commemorate their mesmerizing looks and foolishness as they did Narcissus' by marking the spot where he lay with the stunning Narcissus plant.
The daffodils, cautious, sensitive about Narcissus' foolishness,  relate this story (and their true identity) to uncritical admirers only; they are just "daffodils" to all the  rest. I am such a vetted admirer, sensitive; thus they have shared with me, discretely but with pride. It is rare, they say, to be so commemorated by the gods of Olympus, and so it is.
Description
As every daffodil attests, theirs is a good looking appearance, a "stunner". It features a central trumpet-, bowl-, or disc- shaped corona surrounded by a ring of six floral leaves called the perianth which is united into a tube at the forward edge of the 3-locular ovary.  The seeds are black, round and swollen with hard coat. The three outer segments are sepals, and the three inner segments are petals.
Of course, while every daffodil knows these facts precisely (and many more), they understand that you may not be of a botanical turn of mind. Thus, they demand but one thing from you: unqualified admiration. It seems little enough to require for such a luxuriance of color and joy. Should you demur, they are not above reminding that all Narcissus varieties contain the alkaloid poison lycorine, mostly in the bulb but also in the leaves. A hint of this usually garners the deferred compliment. Daffodils are inured to lavish compliments, and are not above reminding you should yours prove insufficient. It is often such with the abundantly, extravagantly, dazzlingly beautiful, constantly lauded... they have their high standards to maintain, making sure we adher. We give them unqualified obeisance; they cast the benediction of their beauty on us. We are glad to do so; such beauty is rare and too soon gone.
The love affair between daffodils and poets.
Poets, for whom a thing of beauty is a joy forever,  have but to see a field of daffodils to wax, well, poetic. In 1807 William Wordsworth published in "Poems In Two Volumes",  words he had first written in 1807. Every daffodil knows, and joyously too, these magnificent words of beauty, optimism, and contentment:
"I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er Vales and  Hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of dancing Daffodils; Along the Lake, beneath the trees, Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: -- A poet could not but be gay In such a laughing company: I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils."  Other poets, and those of hopeful, poetical tendencies, have presented the daffodils with their efforts, too.
Amy Lowell (d 1925) was not as sleek and stylish as daffodils prefer; her words were heavy laden in the Victorian manner.
To an Early Daffodil...
"Though yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring! Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers..."
It is not their favorite poem... but they honor the poet notwithstanding. She meant well.
They prefer Robert Herrick's (d. 1674) To Daffodils
"Fair Daffodils, we weep to see                         You haste away so soon..."
Herrick can make them maudlin and sentimental. Dead so soon, they prefer such notions -- and obsequies -- be private. Always near the surface of their beauty is the reality of death and too soon oblivion.
e.e. cummings' (d.1962) "in time of daffodils" is a poem of declaration and purpose. It keeps them focused:
"in time of daffodils (who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why, remember how"
They cherish their history and all the poets who expand and burnish it.
Still on any day of their too short annual sojourn, they like this best; "April Showers" sung by Al Jolson (1921).
"And where you see clouds upon the hills, You soon will see crowds of daffodils."
And, always,
"and the daffodils looked lovely today Looked lovely." (From the "Daffodil Lament"  by the Cranberries, 2002.)
Indeed they do.
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski     <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

What we can and must learn from the Great Japanese Earthquake and Tsunami of 2011.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
This week nature in all its brutal savagery punished us, hitting our brothers in Japan with an earthquake of unparalleled strength and a tsunami that was the very definition of awe.
Today the world is rightly focused on the necessary work that follows such a cataclysmic event -- there are still survivors being pulled from the rubble of their lives... there are bodies, thousands of bodies, bobbing in the surf, a sight horrible and mesmerizing.
There are the dispossessed to feed, house, and comfort. Their worlds are gone... and in that instant the great earthquake struck their worlds were eradicated. They are now strangers in a land once theirs, now crushed by the profound power of nature.
These people need assistance, and they need it now.  Fortunately, the governments of this  planet, and the generous peoples of the world, are reasonably equipped to handle even this severe and escalating need.
But let us be very clear with each other: this work, no matter how urgent and pressing, is not the only work to be done regarding this raw and potent occurrence; the real work will be putting this event under a microscope. For the next great earthquake, the next great tsunami is already forming... and we must be better prepared. Here, then, is what we must do.
1) We must first treat these events not merely as crises which diverted our attention and lives but as learning opportunities. We must know which preparations and responses worked and how these things could be improved. We must also be clear on what went wrong, in each and every aspect of the matter. Those who ignore the lessons of the past are compelled to relive its horrors, unnecessarily so.
2) There must be a review of all in place tsunami reporting methods. Every time we improve our warning systems, by even a single minute, the lives of real people are saved. Thus, we must be certain that the latest tsunami warning technologies are in place and that adequate provision has been made for their improvement.
3) The world's nuclear nations must gather, with grave and serious intent, to review in the most minute detail, each and every nuclear installation on this planet. This scrutiny must be scientific, dispassionate, thorough.  
The events of this week in Japan will undoubtedly fuel acute hostility to nuclear power. Many will wish, indeed insist, on throwing the baby of nuclear power out with its bath water. Now is the moment when calmer heads must prevail.
The great nations, you see, rely upon this power source. The question should be how to ensure its safety, not how to facilitate its removal. Now, then, is the right and proper moment to review, in full detail, each aspect of each facility. These facilities were created with human limitations. Today, therefore, some of these facilities are at more risk than others. So, let us resolve, not to condemn, but to scrutinize and improve.
4) Communications must be better understood and improved. Leaders of the world must understand and review their role in the dissemination of crucial details. Questions about what information should be distributed and how are far too important to be left to commercial news media, which have different objectives.
The minute the earthquake happened, the minute the tsunami  occurred, the  Internet was full of concern, anxiety -- and waves of disinformation which continue to this minute.
This was the moment for President Obama and other world leaders to take control of the story... and, understanding the anxiety of the people, to assuage it with up-to-the-minute accuracies; timely facts, not sound bites from off-the-cuff pundits.
This did not happen and as a result there were moments approaching hysteria not merely in Japan but around Asia to Hawaii and the West Coast of the United States. There is absolutely no excuse for this. Ronald Reagan was called the Great Communicator... but every president and head of state must be such a practised communicator and must never merely allow the news media to follow their natural bent.
These media want the lurid, the melodramatic, the ghastly and horrifying. Leaders want to inform and calm the people, never inflame them. But we had too little such leadership and such communications to the people on this occasion. Into such a void, it is easy for Chicken Little to rise and frighten. President Obama let this happen... and he must accept responsibility for a lack of leadership that resulted in much avoidable pain and agitation.
Why didn't he use his powers to calm the nation? It seems to me an address to America was well and truly necessary. The president could and should have understood what people were feeling and taken action to inform and comfort them, minimizing the dread and uncertainty when the subject turns to nuclear power and the unseen killer that is radioactivity.
The president no doubt knowing these things slept soundly. His citizens, assailed by the endless drumbeat of horrible details, did not. Second terms have been derailed for less... and rightly so.
What is occurring now is not merely a Japanese issue, an Asian issue, an American issue. It is an issue of worldwide importance, one affecting not merely our comfort and security today, but the very essence and maintenance of our civilization.
That is why the people, unsettled, inadequately and confusingly informed, cry out for Leadership as today's headlines blare: "U.S. shows growing alarm over Japan nuclear crisis."  (March 17, 2011.)
For days now, the news media of the world have dished out a diet of alarm along with ersatz "experts", old and stale "facts", slip shod analysis and details which do everything except inform and assure. It has been an embarrassment on a cosmic scale... and it was all avoidable if the officials at the highest reaches of government had been clear on the objective: keeping us all reliably and timely informed.
Meanwhile the situation in Japan continues to deteriorate as we all, every last one of us, wonder about what will happen next. And whether, once this series of interlocking crises has passed, the leaders of the world will remember their charge: to do what's necessary to solve the problem, not merely apply a patch and be glad they'll be out of office when the next such crisis hits. God help us all should we get no better service than that.

About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski     <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Thoughts on the common cold. Read this. Keep this. Your next cold is on the way!

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
For the last four days, I have been engaged with a malady I know well... and so do you: the common cold. It is by far the most frequent infectious disease in humans.
We know that each of us adults contracts two to four infections a year. The average child contracts 6-12.  At any given  time, one or more of your office colleagues has reported in sick with a cold... or one or more of your children are down with one... or a friend... neighbor... fellow congregant, etc... or you. The minute the person now afflicted with a cold recovers... the indefatigable virus moves on, with split second precision, to its next victim. In other words, within your circles of life the common cold is always present, always flourishing.
Four days ago it became (as was bound to happen) my turn, and the cold immediately took precedence over every other task or consideration, thereby firmly establishing that common did not mean insignificant.
Over the last 100 hours, I have been
* hopeful that my own special procedures would nip it in the bud (they didn't);
* drowned in fluids of every kind.
* an eating machine with my mantra the one my grandmother gave me over 60 years ago, "feed a cold, starve a fever"; so I am eating and eating and eating more. What was self indulgence a minute before the cold was apparent, now is self preservation.
* sleeping. I am ordinarily a person of unquenchable energies... but in the last 4 days I have found fluffing my pillows too enervating... sleep is the sovereign remedy. I have indulged myself accordingly.
* coughing. My hacks and wheezes are now public property. Try as I might to control them, they know full well they control me and make a mockery of any attempt to control what they do and where they do it. I walk out with my head bowed and eyes down, hoping (but failing) that no one will know that I am a social menace.
All readers of this article will peruse the above list and recognize in my actions, what they, too, do when ensnared by the bug.  We are all prisoners, and we are glad to know what others have done not merely to mitigate the symptoms and manifestations, but to eradicate them forever by doing...
We have been told for our entire lives by every general practitioner worth his salt that there is nothing, absolutely nothing that will cure a cold. We hear this... but, secretly, we do not believe this. Our wallets get emptied as we try one medicament after another in the always hopeful but entirely vain search for The Cure to the Common Cold.
We acknowledge the power of the common cold, but each time we confront it we start by being hopeful, optimistic that this bout will be short and sweet, an event which does muddle our life and schedule, to be sure, but does not cripple and bring us to our knees. This time we feel sure the cold will be minimal, under control; after all, we have been here, done this dozens of times before. As a result, our outlook is cheery, optimistic. This time we are sure we will defeat this nonchalant invader.
But we are, as usual, wrong.
The cold is common but its pervasive power enables it to defeat each of us in quite unique ways. The cold knows us; we hardly begin to know the cold. That is to the cold's liking and satisfaction.
In short order, therefore, our initial (unwarranted) optimism has drained away, leaving us prey to the nagging suspicion that this could be The Big One, the one that strips away our strengths and resources, our energies, and our hopes, strong in only one thing, our grudging respect for the cold, our master, lingering, happy to own us.
At this moment, we call upon the unshakeable, unassailable wisdom of Grannie. She knew, we know, a thing or two about the menace and diminution of colds... and we need her skills desperately, now and at once.
It is chicken soup time, again. But we cannot call upon this proven power until we have assuaged the Spirit of Grannie, for here, as in so many ways, each of us has wandered from the tried and true. We have given insufficient attention (and hasty too) to the many ways that Grannie could help us if only we would remember her, her eruditions, her admonitions, her tried and true practices and ways. We stand abashed before her. We need her so, not just now. We must admit as much; then the rich libation, the succor of grannies worldwide and throughout the ages, will be made, in liberal portions too, to each of us, sinning, but (as always) forgiven.
We gulp this golden liquid down, manners forgotten. It warms... it soothes... it fails, for no matter how deep our belief in this ministration, sadly Grannie has met her match in the common cold. We are left to digest this horrifying, startling fact as best we can.
We have known this before, but each time we learn it anew, we are shocked. This is not the benevolent world we imagined...
And so we descend into the vast wasteland, mandated by the cold, of boredom, listlessness, despair. The cold, secure, owns us. And dictates that time, ordinarily fleet, shall be torpid, unremunerative, dull.
So this condition, over which we have utterly no power or control, continues for 7 to 10 days, our humiliation completed by the frequency and severity of the coughs, sore throats, runny noses, and fevers that assail us and hold us in their thrall.
You have been healthy, the cold proclaims; now you must pay for that transgression.
And so we do, the hours scarce moving at all. All semblance of normality quite gone.
The cold demands as much from all its servitors, and we obey as we survey and go down before the cold's fearful panoply: conjunctivitis (pink eye), muscle aches, fatigue, headaches, shivering, and loss of appetite. We would sign a document of Unconditional Surrender, but we are never told where to send it. The cold wants no document; it only wants our very souls.
Thus we, and I mean every one of us, wile away the unpleasant, interminable hours. We may, we think we are, moving towards normality and welcome health, but the pace is infinitesimal, or worse.
As penance we remind ourselves of what we must do to avoid this almost unbearable condition in future. We shall not touch eyes, nose or mouth with contaminated fingers. We will avoid spending time in an enclosed area with an infected person. We will stop smoking at once, for that extends the duration of the illness by at least 3 additional days. And all the other good advice we mean to follow assiduously if we are ever released...
... until we one day, one glorious day, a day of joy and merriment, we feel like ourselves again. And life is good. We are coldless.
Of course, we don't adhere to the many sensible procedures necessary to sharply reduce the number of "common" colds we get, their severity and length. Instead, we simply revert to the insouciant person we were and have always been. But this, you see, is not our decision, for in so doing we acknowledge that the cold itself erases our memories and good resolutions.
Otherwise, the cold, always delighting in our debilitated conditions, might not see us so situated quite so often.
And this would never, never do, for the common cold rejoices in its visits, even if we do not.
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

The menace and idealism of James O'Keefe III punking liberal America one 'gotcha' incident after another.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
You've got to hand it to James O'Keefe.
The man is clever, determined, bold, gutsy.
And he's certainly dedicated, though what he does can be both immoral and illegal.
That doesn't seem to worry O'Keefe one iota.
He's a man on a mission... and he knows that every time he pulls off another punk, he not only achieves his specific objective; he gains more of the attention and resources of the greatest nation on earth, thereby enabling him to continue his unique endeavors.
And what's thrilling, he doesn't need a lot of money to achieve the results he wants; just the willingness of powerful people to talk honestly with him and to be what they so often are,  indiscrete. Indeed, these indiscretions are ridiculously easy to get. Someone just needs to coax them, with hidden cameras at the ready.
James E. O'Keefe III is that someone.
And he's now very, very good at what he and his organization do.
Background
O'Keefe (born June 28, 1984) is the elder of two children born to James  E. O'Keefe Jr., a materials engineer, and Deborah O'Keefe, a physical therapist.  He grew up in Bergen County, New Jersey, in a home that was politically "conservative but not rigidly so," according to his father.
He graduated from Westwood High School, where he showed an early interest in the arts, theater, and journalism. He achieved the highest rank, Eagle Scout in the Boy Scouts of America.
He attended Rutgers  University in New Jersey, where he majored in philosophy and began writing a bi-weekly column for the university's student paper, The Daily Targum. He later founded the Rutgers Centurion, a conservative student newspaper with a $500 "Balance in the Media" grant from The Leadership Institute (LI), a non-profit organization that trains and places conservatives in government, politics, and the media.
Following graduation, O'Keefe worked for LI for a year traveling to various colleges to train students how to set up independent (conservative oriented) papers.  He was good at this job, but LI was worried that what he was doing might imperil their non-profit status. O'Keefe was asked to leave LI, but not before he began to understand the purifying potential of video; namely catching his subjects while "breaking the law." It was the nubbin of his outrageous successes.
After attending UCLA Law School for a year, O'Keefe formed his own organization, Project Veritas (Latin for truth). Its stated mission is to investigate and expose corruption, dishonesty, self-dealing, waste, fraud, and other misconduct in both public and private institutions in order to achieve a more ethical and transparent society."
O'Keefe calls himself a "progressive radical"; others have used such descriptions as "guerrilla documentarian", "muckraker", "gonzo journalist". His "aha" moment came while studying labor organizer Saul Alinsky's insight, to make "the enemy live up to its own book of rules." 
At Rutgers O'Keefe, now publisher of the Centurion, practiced his hidden camera craft by claiming the breakfast cereal "Lucky Charms" was insensitive to the Irish. It was typical undergraduate fare... but it helped O'Keefe master the technical aspects of video... as well as what would grab people's attention and advance his career.
His lucky charm proved not to be a cereal, but Planned Parenthood.
In 2006 and 2007, O'Keefe helped plan and produce a series of 7 undercover videos with pro-life activist Lila Rose. These showed several Planned Parenthood workers willing to circumvent state laws requiring that abortion clinics report statutory rape. The videos received national attention and showed O'Keefe just what was possible... if he selected his subjects carefully and helped them, on the camera of course, to be confiding and indiscrete. Planned Parenthood lost hundreds of thousands of dollars in public grant money because of what O'Keefe got their own officials to show and say.
Bingo! O'Keefe now had a winning formula...
ACORN undercover videos.
In September, 2009, O'Keefe and his associate Hannah Giles published edited hidden camera recordings in which Giles posed as a prostitute and O'Keefe as her boyfriend in an attempt to elicit damaging responses from employees of the Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now (ACORN), an advocacy organization for persons of low and moderate income.
The videos were recorded during the summer of 2009 and showed low-level ACORN employees in six cities purportedly providing advice to Giles and O'Keefe on how to avoid detection by authorities of tax evasion, human smuggling and child prostitution.
Reaction from federal authorities was immediate and punitive; the U.S. Congress voted to eliminate federal funding to ACORN. James O'Keefe was on his way, a man not content to sit around and wait for reform. Instead, he was determined to get it fast by a proven ability to get officials to be indiscrete; then releasing the tapes via the Internet and other media resources.
Now a personage of consequence amongst conservatives, O'Keefe was ready for more, a whole lot more.
Getting a job at the U.S. Census Bureau, he explained to his superiors that he was being paid for work he didn't do. They shrugged their shoulders and essentially told him to make the most of his good fortune. Because their response was on camera, he did, giving the Census Bureau the black eye he felt it roundly deserved.
O'Keefe in due course went on to something that really bothered him: the situation at National Public Radio and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. For years, conservatives had railed about the perceived liberal bias of NPR. But O'Keefe was about action, not just windy talk.
He aimed to bring them down... and he had a ridiculously easy way of doing so.... by getting NPR officials to confirm (always on hidden camera of course) their strong biases. They were happy to give him just what he wanted...
Ronald Schiller, then NPR's senior vice president for fundraising, gave O'Keefe's operatives one injudicious comment after another...   indiscrete observations O'Keefe released at once, thereby bringing down Schiller and, just hours later, NPR's CEO Vivian Schiller (no relation), too. These were trophies conservatives en masse hadn't been able to deliver... but which O'Keefe got in a cake walk. Lots of eyes (and no doubt some checkbooks) were thereby opened, and O'Keefe's stock soared. It went even higher when he bumped off, almost as an afterthought, NPR executive Betsy Liley. Her indiscretion, on camera, was to suggest that a Muslim organization (again O'Keefe and his people) could probably make an anonymous $5 million donation the IRS need know nothing about. It was pathetic how fast she fell, leaving another gaping hole in NPR's much vaunted "impartiality".
O'Keefe's future looks rosy indeed amongst conservatives. He delivers what they want but can't get, thereby earning their admiration, even if his methods are often suspect, illegal, even cruel. In due course, of course, he'll go too far and become, for someone younger, bolder, more outrageous, the target himself. Hero though he is to some today, he will, at that moment, fall without a kindness from anyone, a fact which will embitter him for the rest of his long life. It often happens that way in politics, an unforgiving occupation.
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

New scandals at National Public Radio and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting hand GOP the rope to hang long-time nemesis and stop their federal funding.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
For years, conservatives have loudly complained about a liberal bias at National Public Radio, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and Public Broadcasting System. They have insisted unsuccessfully that all federal funding be removed,  permanently.
As long as the economy was reasonable and Democrats controlled either the executive branch or one or both houses of Congress, pulling these subsidies, totaling $450 million annually, was unlikely, remote. That's why House Republicans allowed an obscure Colorado rep., Doug Lamborn, to become the point man for this issue. The matter wasn't going anywhere and gave him a bee in his bonnet. to wow the rubes in Colorado Springs.
Oh, baby, how things have changed, and fast. As a result of more bonehead gaffes and just plain stupidity at NPR et al, now Lamborn's got a sure-fire winner (at least insofar as the House of Representatives is concerned) with NPR and colleagues tripping over themselves to help him eviscerate their public funding... in what begins to appear as the maddest case yet of Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First?"
As a result, Lamborn now looks like a prophet, a reasonable budget-cutting statesman. Yes, thanks to NPR 's mind-blowing missteps, Lamborn's hobby horse has legs... and Lamborn's profile and future never looked brighter. (Quick, can you say Senator Lamborn?)
Enraged NPR supporters wonder how their favorite media could have declined and self-destructed so. Conservatives have a ready answer: what we've been saying all these years about these bleeding heart liberals is true; not a real journalist among them, just left-wing idealogues with bias to spare and the means to subvert America, every hour of the day, every day of the year.
Make no mistake, these conservatives have had the sharp knives out for years for these pinko one-world types. And now, how sweet it is, they've got them by the short hairs.
Juan William case mishandled.
People at NPR have clearly forgotten, or never knew, Lord Acton's famous aphorism, "Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."  That became glaringly apparent when they terminated (October 20, 2010) NPR Senior News Analyst Juan Williams's independent contract over comments which were referred to as "inconsistent with our editorial standards and practices..." What was the offense?
During an interview on the Fox News Channel, Williams concurred with statements suggesting that the United States was facing a "Muslim dilemma". He also said "But when I get on the plane, I got to tell you, if I see people who are in Muslim garb and I think, you know, they are identifying themselves first and foremost as Muslims, I get worried. I get nervous." Williams was dismissed at once... a casualty of a sincere, personal remark.  In the light of what's happened since, it's clear he was "had," a victim of his (perfectly reasonable) views and hypocritical colleagues claiming to be pure journalists, merely reporting the facts, when they were in fact anything but.
Enter the gremlin of the farce, James O'Keefe, enfant terrible.
James E. O'Keefe III (born June 28, 1984) is an entirely new kind of activist, a man with a mission and enough hidden video cameras to achieve it. A graduate of Rutgers University, O'Keefe founded Project Veritas in 2010. Its purpose is "to investigate and expose corruption, dishonesty, self-dealing, waste, fraud, and other misconduct in both public and private institutions in order to achieve a more ethical and transparent society."  Boyish looking and mischievous, O'Keefe doesn't worry about whether he's inside or outside the law; like most reformers he considers those mundane niceties superfluous; he is always right, so he can use whatever means are necessary.
O'Keefe's inventive, unorthodox methods, flirting with both immorality and the illegal, are notorious. For instance, in 2006 and 2007, his undercover audio recordings indicated some workers at Planned Parenthood would help minors falsify records to receive abortions. Black eye for Planned Parenthood.
In September 2009, his hidden cameras exposed wrongdoing by the community group ACORN. Black eye for ACORN.
In April 2010, he obtained a temporary job at the U.S. Census Bureau and released undercover videos that seemed to show a lack of concern by his supervisors when he told them he was being overpaid for work he didn't do. Black eye for the U.S. Census Bureau.
He was now well and truly a holy terror with a plethora of scalps from his victims to prove it.
O'Keefe, rankled by what happened to Juan Williams, now turned his attention to NPR and associates. His aim was to hit them squarely where it would be felt most, where it would hurt: in their scrupulous impartiality... proving it was not absolute, indeed was highly suspect. In March, 2011 O'Keefe's partners Simon Templar (an alias) and Shaughn Adeleye secretly recorded a discussion with Ronald Schiller, National Public Radio's then senior vice president for fund raising. Schiller made a series of breathtakingly ill-judged assertions for a man working for an "impartial" news organization.  Amongst his targets, the Tea Party: "I wouldn't even call it Christian." And a  whole lot more.
O'Keefe had bagged another of the legion of the unwary. Schiller was soon out of a job... and other heads would roll fast, too, the next being NPR's CEO Vivian Schiller (no relation). She was responsible for the organization... and its Board of Directors, needing a scapegoat, had no hesitation in throwing Ms. Schiller overboard. Another score for O'Keefe, another conservative trophy.
Then on March 10, 2011, again at the practised hand of O'Keefe, NPR Senior Director of Institutional Development Betsy Liley fell... having discussed with a member of a Muslim group a possible anonymous $5 millon donation. "It sounded like you were saying that NPR would be able to shield us from a government audit. Is that correct?" the man asks. Liley says "I think that is the case, especially if you were anonymous, and I can inquire about that." As soon as it was reported that the "Muslim member" was one of O'Keefe's operatives, Betsy bit the dust... and NPR's reputation for impartiality, truth, and fairness looked like what it was... a joke.
Meanwhile, it goes without saying that (most) Republicans and every member of the Tea Party, are jubilant -- "Ding, Dong the wicked witch is (almost) dead." That assessment is premature, of course, but if NPR and company lose their federal funding they have (mostly) themselves to blame... themselves, that is, and the inventive malice of James O'Keefe. Of him we shall no doubt hear much more in future... he has a lifetime of targets to trip up, expose, abash. And he'll do it, too. Just ask the foolish, pontificating, biased mandarins at NPR. For Mr. O'Keefe has well and truly left his mark upon them and so helped save millions of federal dollars each year from an institution which never should have been funded by the government and tax payers in the first place. The support of viewers like them must, in future, suffice.

About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/

Thoughts on aging, kindnesses, and the satisfaction of a will well done and friends remembered, tangibly.

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
I am now at the stage of life where one of the unexpected pleasures is the satisfaction and serenity one gets from a will well done. Should you be a youngster of say, 45 or so, you might regard the creation of a will as the most onerous of nagging responsibilities. I know;  I used to think that way myself.
One thing exacerbating that feeling for me was my mother, now gone. It was my duty, eagerly passed to me by my sister and brother; so desperate to toss this hot potato to me that they lavished unheard of compliments, sweet words, and often too, they had never rendered to me before -- or since.
They knew, Poor Old Mother (universally known as POM) would be, say, difficult, on this matter, procrastinating, exasperating, insisting. We loved her anyway... it was who she was and from whence we came.
As a result I resolved, as children will do, to do things differently when my time came.
It has come.
And I believe I am living up to my goal, both in the original creation of the will and, even more importantly, in keeping this will do-to-date and current; you see, a will while you continue to cavort on this planet is not final; it is always a work in progress. It becomes final (if you've done it right) only upon your final breath. Until then it is subject to change... a fact which you and every other person connected to this document must never forget.
There are those, of course, certain to use  this fact to control their expectant heirs, to cause them irritation, frustration, even despair.Some folks, of a carping disposition, enjoy having those who will remain on this planet while you are planted 6 feet deep dance attendance, cringe, every one an incipient Uriah Heap, so very humble.... delivering ersatz sentiments along with rich auntie's daily medications.
A legion of literary works, often great like Dickens and Thackeray, or of no significance whatsoever (it is a favor to these authors not to say who) exists on the subject. Here a will, a well known plot device, is used as an implement of control, cruelty, revenge and bitterness. Those people without a sou to their names would be willing to hover; a chance at riches, even such a humiliating chance, is better than no chance at all.
But these are not the people the about-to-be- departed want to control with their wills. By no means.
They want to control the proud, the robust, the most vibrant of their would-be heirs. These, and only these, are worth controlling for to control them indicates just how much life the giver still has. To control is to live... and they mean  to live on and fully even if only for an instant, life is so precious.
One who knew all this, and more, was Madame de Maintenon, morganatic wife of the greatest sovereign of all, Louis XIV. Madame knew just how steep are the stairs of the charitable. She had climbed these forbidding, humiliating stairs... and when her time came she used this profound knowledge to cause the highest in the land to wait upon her favor, which was but slowly, exquisitely given. She was a woman with a rare will indeed...
Think what Edgar Allan Poe would have made of this insight, where the testamentary, thought to be dead and gone, yet reaches a gnarled hand from within the casket, grabbing the astounded heir by the throat, shouting "I live yet!... I live yet!... I live yet!", grasping life more fervidly at the moment of its conclusion.
But I trust you are not of this tormenting, embittered mode, for I like to think well of all my readers and whilst fascinated by such cruel folk, I do not wish to dwell amongst them long, not even to augment my fortune.
I am of a different turn of mind. And my will proves it.
I wrote my will to make the ultimate disposition of my affairs easy for all. Items from my collections are carefully marked, some to be retained by the designated heir, some to be sold for cash, which will then be divided between these same heirs... and, of course, by the government, which considers itself the universal heir.
Then there are the special bequests to the special people I have known, valued, lived with and, one way and another, loved. I give these, as you should, the greatest attention, for I aim not merely to enrich with these gifts... but to define our relationship and touch them, memento mori. This is, after all, the last word to them... and it must be intimate, candid, the well considered, the ultimate truth. As such you must think long and well about what you will say.
To this group, I have now added two names, and  I want you to know them, for if you are lucky you, too, can count on the same rare friends and will wish to honor them so.
I met Aime Joseph when I jumped into his cab in front of the Sheridan Commander Hotel in Cambridge. I was hurrying, distracted, as usual planning in my mind how to do what needed to be done, faster. Aime (whom I always call, with just a touch of whimsey "Mr Joseph") was as Haitians generally are, amiable, voluble, good with people. You find many driving taxis hereabouts.
He gave me his card... and that impressed me, for it's the kind of  thing I do myself and what every entrepreneur should always have available, and give. He invited me to call when I had the need... and this being a thing I did often need, I did.... and did... and did...
In due course I met his sympatica wife Mercedes, with her rich heart and the tendency to giggle and say, laughing, "Oh...... Doctor Lant!", for I am the master of the trenchant line whose full meaning only emerges later. I liked them both, enormously. And they cared for me... as became apparent during an extended hospital stay where, fiercely independent though I am, I needed help... and they were there,  unasked, for me. Such things one does not forget... and does well to remember.
Recently, I told them I had something important to relate... but would only tell them if they would neither thank me nor cry (for I know their lacrimose tendencies). I said I had instructed my bank to make them a liberal bequest. Though they had promised not to thank or cry, they both broke these promises, as I knew they would. Tears upon such an occasion are sweet, a benediction. And so it was with Mr. Joseph and his dear wife -- and me, for we cried together, hugging.
Reader, it is only in novels and films where the heirs are notified after the death of their benefactors. In life, it is more sensible to make all those receiving bequests fully aware of all the facts. They deserve the clarity... and you need to know them better and be thanked before you, too, go into the sweet by and by unburdened by today's distracting reality, ready to receive your own special gift. Here you will surely get as you have given. 
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Attend Dr. Lant's live webcast TODAY and receive 50,000 free guaranteed visitors to the website of your choice! Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Ray Wisniewski <a href="http://cashgrowthunlimited.com/