You never stop worrying about losing your job, unless you’re retired. Then you’re always worried about losing your mind.
Different work ethics exist today. We boomers went on vacation and could only be reached via a hotel landline or one of those Motorola brick phones, like the one I had in the 80s.
Even then, it was too costly to have my staff call. I just told them to make a decision based on three things:
I told them if the answer was no to all these questions, they could safely proceed.
I was sitting at Ned’s Bar, last week, across the street from Madison Square Park, with my old friend Jeff. As we mused about life, like all Boomers do, he said: “loss in inevitable in life, unless you’re a hermit.” He certainly got that right: If we never connect with people, we won’t experience sorrow, but we also won’t experience love. Isn’t that one of life’s cruelest ironies?
I ran into a friend last week who introduced her son, saying, “Say hi to Kyle, brought to you by the Unified School District and Pepsi, the choice of a new generation.”
Well, not really, but, in the past few years, many school districts have signed multi-million dollar marketing and vending partnerships whereby the company becomes the schools’ exclusive provider of vending machines of water and fruit juice. The revenue is to be used to create sponsorships supporting sports and physical education. One can only hope.
When I worked at MTV, a fellow senior exec remarked, “Working for MTV is like being married to a really hot model that won’t let you sleep with her.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant at the time.
I was going through boxes of folders the other day and found some great memories: photos, my “Polyester, The Movie” smell-o-vision card, news articles that I wrote or were written about me, an old I.D. bracelet that I gave – and got back – from girls in junior high school and more.
I was driving to Tucson the other day, when I passed a billboard for the U.S. Border Patrol. On the sign, there was a big picture of a guy called Ernesto Guevera. Under aliases, it listed “The Axe,” “Spike” and “Che.” Guys have nicknames. Women do not.
The other day, I heard a comedienne tell a story about an experience that she had flying Delta, in coach. She said that the flight attendant walked through the aisle and asked if anyone wanted to read The Wall Street Journal. She remarked: “If I was the kind of person who read that paper, I’d be up front instead of back here!”