THEN: Secretary of State (KY), 1996-2004; Candidate for Lieutenant Governor, 2007
NOW: JYB3 Group (Owner) -public affairs consulting firm; Miller Wells law firm (Of counsel)
Full Biography:link
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Feb 19, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
I propose a single day each year to celebrate Hallmark Card Day—-recognizing our former predilection to buy an over-sized schmaltzy card multiple times each year with a sentiment designed and written by other people that we claim to have ourselves and then give to someone else.
But not commemorate it with a Hallmark card. Just an electronic message we post.
Happy Hallmark Card Day!
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If you find you are looking down on someone right now, find someone instead to look up to.
And if you can’t think of anyone, just look up. It’s easier to find such a person that way than when looking down.
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It is hard coming to grips with the fact that you are an old dog with old tricks….and that learning any new tricks now really is a pain in the ass.
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I am so mad at someone right now who has wronged me that I am thinking about talking behind their back!!
Oh wait! The person I am mad it is actually myself.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Feb 18, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Entering week 7 of my diet/fitness plan.
Holding steady at loss of 13 lbs. Actually 12.6 lbs. But we round up here in KY.
Workout I would describe as like “Across Fit” –something you might find opposite a “Cross Fit” workout. But it is happening.
Finally, still no steroids or other PEDs. Although I am taking one Garcinia Cambogia tablet each day. But still don’t know how to pronounce it.
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Diet tip for calorie counting.
Just knowing how many calories are in a serving of food is helpful but not enough to cause us to make the best dietary decisions.
I have found that multiplying the calories by a factor of 5 for foods I want to eat, and dividing calories by a factor of 5 in healthy foods I don’t want to eat, makes it more likely I will make better choices than just knowing the actual calories.
For example, a single pecan braid from Panera Bread has, according to my system, 2,350 calories (instead of 470)
And a serving of has just 6.2 calories (instead of 31)
So, do I eat the food choice with 2350 calories or 6.2 calories?
See how that works? Now it isn’t so obvious that the pecan braid is the better choice–and could really go either way.
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How to eat your way to good health –without changing what you eat.
Just leaving Japanese restaurant and have decided the Japanese, as a population, are thinner and healthier than Americans NOT because of their diet (fish, rice, etc) but rather because they have to try to eat with chopsticks instead of a fork, spoon and knife.
If I had to eat with chopsticks my whole life, I’d be at least 50 pounds lighter. You just plain old give up before you are halfway through any meal.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
People watching from the parking lot of the Holiday Manor Starbucks reminds me of people watching from the parking lot of Ballard High School–35 years ago.
I think patrons of this Starbucks try harder to project a certain “image” –in a high school-esque way–than other Starbucks in town.
People watching from the parking lot of the Heine Bros on Frankfort Ave reminds me of people watching from the parking lot at Central High School –35 years ago.
I think the patrons of this Heine Bros try harder to project a certain “anti-image” —in a high school-esque way–than other Heine Bros in town.
And people watching from the parking lot of Panera Bread off Brownsboro road reminds me of where the parents of the kids from Ballard and Central would have gone for coffee after dropping their kids off at school in the morning—35 years ago–and is just creepy to even think about doing. But where I find myself going this morning.
By John Y. Brown III, on Sun Feb 16, 2014 at 9:57 AM ET
After reading my RP colleagues, Jonathan Miller (Why I Hated Episode 1) and Jeff Smith (Why I Enjoyed Episode 1) reviews on House of Cards first episode of season two, I couldn’t resist saying “Deal me in, too”
For starters, I am a fan. And after season one, a devoted and complete fan.
I love the series’ metaphoric title almost as much as the brazenly brilliant first season. Our government’s structure, the series seems to be saying, is at once both as fragile as a figurative “house of cards” while also being carefully upheld by unnerving stratagems on par with a figurative card game of brutal skill and exacting chance.
But if Season 2 had a subtitle, it might be “Still Not Collapsed—Yet.” Of course, my opinion is only based on one episode and may change. I hope it does. And to keep disappointment minimized to the reader of this post, I will not include any spoiler revelations beyond letdown.
I can’t recall if I first heard of the “Most Improved Player Award” being offered in Major League Baseball or in the NBA. But I do recall thinking it is a worthy recognition to bestow on the deserving recipient who progresses the most from the season before. And that noteworthy distinction is true in every field of endeavor.
Awarding the opposite credential (we’ll call it “Most Diminished Player of the Year”), for falling the farthest from the prior year’s loftier perch, would seem mean-spirited and unhelpful. But if such an award existed in the the intensely competitive industry of television, House of Cards, season two, seems to be a strong favorite to win based on the second season’s initial episode.
Why do I say this? The first episode of season two reminds me of so many original breakthrough series that start off taking our breath away but eventually cashing in by lazily falling back on easy formulaic routines. It may be season two or three or four before there is an episode when we realize the series is trying to recreate surprise and unique drama more by clever camera angles and pounding background music than by a refreshingly original story line that seems to be writing itself.
Sometimes the series recovers after a single episode lapse. But the lapse is usually a sign of creative fatigue. Or at least lassitude. And signals we should start to lower our expectations of what’s to come.
Tonight at dinner a song came on in the restaurant and my daughter said, “I am so sick of this song. This band started off so great and now all their songs sound alike.” Without knowing the band, I offered, “Yeah, I suspect the band either got lazy or played it safe instead of staying true to themselves.” I got the same feeling later tonight as I watched the opening show of season two House of Cards.
The cover for season one had no tag line. Just the protagonist, Kevin Spacey, sitting cockily and inexplicably in place of President Lincoln in a faux Lincoln Memorial. How could you not wonder what it was about? Season two has the protagonist sitting with a confused but plotting look on his face with his wife’s back to him and has the tagline, “There are two kinds of pain.” How could you not assume that one of them is disappointment?
Does it mean the series isn’t worth watching in season two? Not at all. Especially if a series was as spectacularly well-written and crafted a show previously as was House of Cards first season. The series first episode is still catchy and clever. But not much else. I’m still going to watch all of season two. But not because episode one of season two laid out such a suspenseful and promising narrative. But rather because season one was so good I have to believe their will be some inspired nuggets to be found in season two, even if it ends up as the most diminished series of the year.
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Follow up: After watching episodes 2, 3 and 4, I have become a re-convert to House of Cards. Not a series grounded in the realm of the possible But one grounded in brilliant dramatic writing and suspenseful theater. And that’s good enough for me.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Feb 14, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Into week 5 of diet/fitness regime and down 13 lbs and 2″ in waist.
Without even holding in my stomach.
Very much.
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So what do you do when you are on a diet (and really committed to it) and are craving your favorite sandwich at Steak & Shake, a Frisco Melt, just as you are approaching a Steak & Shake restaurant?
And look up the calorie count and find out it has 1173 calories?
You suck it up. Feel the pain. And keep on driving.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Feb 13, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
I fully support YUM and think they are a great company and corporate citizen. But the other night I was parked across from a KFC restaurant and for several moments couldn’t stop staring at the logo rendering of Colonel Sanders.
It just wasn’t the way I remember the Colonel looking. I’m no Colonel Sanders expert and only met him a handful of times…But something about this logo image bothered me. This man pictured in the logo looked pleasant, harmless, bland, and a little metrosexual. Frankly, he looks more like a Walmart greeter (no offense to Walmart greeters) than one of the century’s great restauranteurs and entrepreneurs.
And the Colonel often mumbled to himself while deep in thought about his exacting standards about whatever he was doing…..and never would have said something like “Today tastes so good.”
Colonel Sanders, as I recall him, was kind-hearted and generous but could be gruff at times, too. He always seemed like a proud and determined man, He was in many ways an artist. A perfectionist who demanded from others what he gave.
And he seemed to enjoy life. Seemed to suck out the marrow, in his own way, as Thoreau wrote.
When it was time for me to leave the parking lot the other night, I pulled away slowly and stared again at the image of the Colonel on the KFC logo.
And decided if the new made-up image of the Colonel could meet the real Colonel, there’s a good chance the real Colonel may have taken a swing at him –and told him to get that silly grin off his face and for he and his apron to back in the kitchen. And probably given up on him ever looking as dignified as the man who came up with the 11 secret herbs and spices and left his unmistakable imprint–including his unique and distinctive appearance — on the world.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Feb 12, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
At age 50 I am able, by and large, to order meals and shop like a “big boy” without always forgetting to add two or three additional items.
In fact, I always finish my orders with “And that will do it. Thank you.” to discourage any attempts to upsell me. But it never works. My full, well-considered and complete decision– made by a grown man–is ignored and always challenged as not well thought out and missing at least a side order of fries or the days special or a stick of chapstick at the checkout counter or an extra warranty in case what I am buying doesn’t work.
To combat this assault on my judgment, I am going to start ordering or bringing to the check out counter two or three extra items. After my order has been taken or charges rung up, and just at the moment I am about to be upsold, I am going to say, “You know, after some reflection, I don’t think I need the extra calories in those fries, please take that off my order.” Then after pausing add, “Tell you what, I really shouldn’t get that apple turnover either. It is unhealthy and they usually are cold anyway.” And keep going until the poor person at the register gives up on me for an upsell.
Same at retail stores. I will bring an extra two or three items to check out and then “down sell” myself. “You know, I won’t ever use these socks, let’s take that off my purchase, please.” And “Let me pass on the sun glasses, too. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess like most adults I just can’t competently shop for myself” –and then laugh self-deprecatingly while looking confused and helpless.
I want to adopt this practice until I am even for all the attempts to upsell me. Which will take me about 15 years. Actually, only about 13 years. Well, I am going to say just 10 years. Let’s actually just make it just 8 years.
And, no, I don’t need an 8 year warranty with that decision.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Feb 11, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Find yourself in a hole? Then keep digging. Or flossing.
That is often my philosophy and never serves me well…but I keep doing it anyway.
Today I was trying to floss after lunch with a new dental floss, Oral-B. I didn’t floss for the last 35 years even though I would tell my dentist I was flossing “some” every time he would ask “Have you been flossing, John?” —but now I am flossing.
But this new Oral-B floss broke off between two of my teeth–and part of the floss actually got stuck between my two teeth. And then kept breaking every time I tried to “floss out the floss” that was now stuck between my teeth.
My first brilliant idea was to double-over the floss to fortify it. That seemed like it might work but after much careful and strenuous effort, the “doubled-over” floss broke, too, leaving yet a larger piece of dental floss now stuck between the same two teeth.
But I hadn’t finished digging yet.
Before I took up flossing with real dental floss, I found packets of sugar (or packets of a sugar substitute) worked well as a flossing mechanism. So I picked up a packet of Splenda nearby to try to wedge out the two pieces of dental floss now stuck between my teeth.
And now have two pieces of dental floss and a corner of a packet of Splenda stuck between my teeth.
I think I will fish out the piece of a Splenda packet and leave the floss for when I go to the dentist next time –and just wait patiently for him to ask me the inevitable “Have you been flossing, John?”
By John Y. Brown III, on Sat Feb 8, 2014 at 7:34 PM ET
As a young boy my list of grown-ups I idolized included a long list of what you’d expect with any typical boy—athletes, political figures, a few movie stars (the character more than the actor, of course).
But when I was about 12 years old I was in a hotel room with a friend watching a movie that we were able to get through the hotel. It was Love and Death by Woody Allen. It played in the background while I played with my friend. But I kept trying to watch it. The humor was quirky and absurd. And when there was the scene of the view of a battlefield from the perspective of the generals (which was a pack of stampeding sheep instead of men fighting for their lives on the battlefield), I started laughing uncontrollably. I guess I thought it was brilliant and silly at the same time but it hit my funny bone from an angle and with a velocity I had never experienced before –and I stopped my playing with my friend altogether to watch this unusual and hilarious movie. And watched again a second and a third time before I stopped ordering it for fear my parents would get angry when they saw the bill.
A few years later I asked my mom to drive me to see the movie Manhattan. I heard Woody Allen had written it and starred in it. The same guy who wrote and starred in that hilarious movie I saw at the hotel when I was 12.
I didn’t like Manhattan as much as Love and Death, but left the theater a bona fide Woody Allen fan.
In high school, there were no VCR’s yet, but Louisville did have The Vogue and The Uptown art theaters which often played older and less commercially popular films, and I got to see many of the older Allen movies—Bananas, Take the Money and Run, and of course, Annie Hall, which I adored.
I wouldn’t let other kids in high school know about my Woody Allen fetish but I felt like he “got me.” Or at least, “I got him.” I was a smallish and philosophical kid that didn’t fit into any of the traditional groups or cliques in high school. Woody Allen’s humor provided a refuge for me. A sanctuary where I didn’t feel like as much of an oddity—and the pressure to be like everyone else would temporarily evaporate as long as the movie played, and I could even feel a surge of pride for being a humorous oddball who saw the world through a neurotic lens. Woody Allen helped me feel I wasn’t alone…and wasn’t defective or inferior.
As a college student living in Los Angeles for a year and a half and majoring in philosophy at USC — and still a smallish and slightly neurotic guy— I purchased a VCR and depended even more on Woody Allen’s worldview. I watched all of his movies at least several times. Some probably 10 or 12 times. They continued to provide me comfort in a world that wasn’t receptive to self-questioning, nervous, guys like me.
I also read his books: Without Feathers and Side Effects and Getting Even. And actually read each all the way through. Something I rarely did with any book even though I was a college student at the time. And I didn’t even get college credit for reading Allen’s books! And I bought a rare cassette of his early stand-up routines. Which I also found uproariously funny as well as finding a kinship with the humor. It wasn’t just comic relief any more but absorbing chunks of Woody Allen’s philosophy at life by this juncture of my fanhood.
I saw Woody Allen once at about this time in my life. My stepmother, Phyllis, was working for CBS news and living in New York. I visited her one weekend and we went to Elaine’s restaurant. Phyllis kept trying to introduce me at our noisy table to Pat O’Brien who was a sports colleague at CBS. But I couldn’t take my eyes of the two gentlemen seated quietly in the corner talking thoughtfully between themselves, Woody Allen and Dick Cavett.
Again, I was too self-conscious to mention—especially to a sports loving crowd at our table—I wanted nothing more than to meet Woody Allen. Inside I felt like one of those screaming teenage girls you see as the Beatles get off the plane for their first trip to the US. But outside I tried to pretend I was listening to a funny sports story I couldn’t care less about and laugh along with everyone else.
That same weekend in NY after everyone in my family was asleep I played a Woody Allen movie I had rented. My father woke up and got some ice cream and sat down with me and asked what I was watching. I told him and hoped he’d watch a few minutes and find the scene we were watching as hilarious as I did. He chuckled awkwardly as he had before when I tried a Woody Allen joke on him. I asked him why he didn’t like him more. He said, “Woody Allen reminds me of eating cauliflower. It just didn’t look very good and I never bothered trying it.”
In his defense, my father was never a very self-conscious person who would appreciate Allen’s humor and we just had very different taste in film. The night before I took my father to see the movie “The Gods Must be Crazy.” But we left after about 25 minutes when my father said it was too slow and he couldn’t figure out what it was about.
By the time I reached my 20s, I started coming into my own as a person and began to feel it was safer to acknowledge my Woody Allen infatuation. I read a piece—maybe in the New Yorker—about a young woman who secretly wanted to be Woody Allen, only a female version, who snarkily and with wry and sophisticated humor poked fun at others around her for being shallow. It was safe to come out of the Woody Allen closet.
Until recently.
When Allen was awarded the Cecile B Demille award for lifetime achievement at the Golden Globe awards last month. Of course, as always, he didn’t attend to receive his award. I felt like I had been vindicated in my adoration of Woody Allen’s work. But moments later I read about a series of Tweets from Mia Farrow and Ronan Farrow bringing up old accusations about child molestation charges about Woody molesting Farrow and his adopted daughter, Dylan, when she was 7 years old.
Initially, I am disappointed to report, I thought, “Oh, please. Enough already. Let the man receive this well-deserved award for his art without going there…..”
The next few days and weeks became a full-blown rehash of a shocking episode in Allen’s career that had stayed publicly buried for nearly 20 years where he and Farrow broke up after Woody fell in love with their then adopted daughter Soon-Yi Previn and later married her. It was an ugly public battle and shook my worship of Allen to its core at the time. But I somehow mustered the denial and distinction between one’s art and personal life give him the benefit of the doubt to eventually continue my admiration for Woody Allen, although it would never quite be the same as before.
But this time –over the past few days—sifting through the sordid accusations and factual details again as an older and wiser man, I can’t deny that something outrageous and wholly inappropriate happened between Woody Allen and his young adopted daughter over 20 years ago.
I acknowledge that fact and am saddened to learn that you are never too old to become disillusioned with those you place on a pedestal. Or even find part of their life—which is inextricably part of who they are—despicable. And that is true even if you are a 50 year old fan and moved on from hero worship many years ago. But it still stings…and still hurts, too.
So, no, I won’t defend Woody Allen art or try to distinguish it from his personal life. But please don’t expect me –just yet anyway– to line up behind his ex-wife and adopted daughter and pile on Allen either. I would like to say that I won’t be doing that because it is a personal matter and should be handled in private. But the real reason is there is still a part of denial in me that my childhood hero was capable of doing such inexplicable things. And since I am only a fan—and not a direct player in this drama—in my defense and in defense of all similarly situated Woody Allen fans, I ask that you understand it is not the grieving of the public death of a man’s reputation that makes us unable to be objective right now. It is the grieving of the private death of part of ourselves.
I am so mad at someone right now who has wronged me that I am thinking about talking behind their back!!
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