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 Mon Jan 27, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Here a photo someone took of me today leaving my workout –after just three weeks of training.
I am as surprised as you. But it really is me.
Seriously. It is.
What? Don’t believe me?
The water in the background? Oh, that’s, um, that’s the Ohio River. I go to a gym in front of the Ohio River.
The tattoo? Oh, easy. That’s a washable I put on just joking around this morning…that’s all that is.
The bracelet? It….It…is a family heirloom, or something, I just wear sometimes and happened to put it on today before heading to the gym.That’s all.
The necklace? Um….That…the necklace. I wear that to work out in….for, um, just because it is important to for reasons that are hard to explain precisely to people who don’t work out a lot.
But, yeah, that is definitely me….
It is…really.
Um, OK, Ok. Fine!
Maybe not entirely me—just yet.
I mean, not me, really, per se.
Um, OK. I’m lying.
You happy now!?
It’s some picture I got off the internet.
But could be a picture of me in the future.
Maybe in another lifetime, if nothing else.
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I started a new workout regiment today. And it lasted only 3 minutes.
Say what you want to about my light and low-stress exercise routine, but at least I am steroid free.
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Exciting Diet Conversations.
Friend: “Well, John, what are you doing right now?”
Me: “Just sitting here, patiently, doing nothing, waiting to lose more weight… ”
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“Diet Face”
This is me after making a healthy order at Vietnam Kitchen (great restaurant, by the way).
I am not happy. And making my order begrudgingly. But it is working.
Down 9 llbs in 3 weeks.
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Score after 3 weeks:
John Brown: 6 6 7
Apple Fritters: 1 1 0
Game. Set. Match.
Lost 10 lbs
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A side benefit of successfully staying on a diet:
No longer viewing a haircut, clipping my nails or shaving as activities that will reduce my weight.
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I have been informed facetiously by a friend that there is bodybuilding competition for men ages 50-59.
I let my friend know that I believed I could put together a compelling posing routine –but the muscle mass, body tone, muscular definition, vascularity and ripped abs parts just weren’t there for me and never would be.
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This is my scale.
After it gives me my weight, it calculates my BMI category –“Fat”
Lovely way to start the day. At least it doesn’t say or shout “Fat!” out loud or make sarcastic remarks to me or sigh with disgust.
On the positive side, if I can lose another pound and a half, I move from the BMI category of “Fat” to just being “Overweight.”
Take that! You dreadful, silently mocking scales!
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Now that I have thinned down from “Fat” to bordering on merely “Overweight” according to the BMI chart, my taste in music has changed.
I find that now I can only listen to bands with really skinny lead singers like Chris Robinson of Black Crowes or Mick Jagger and all of the Rolling Stones.
I guess we skinny and soon-to-be-merely-“Overweight” guys just need to stick together.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Jan 23, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
An example of an inauspicious start.
I bought an “ab bench” at Dick’s Sporting Goods tonight. It was on sale and they let me have the floor display.
They had one that was boxed that would require assembly by me when we got home—but Rebecca said, “Uh uh” and asked the sales clerk, “How hard is it to assemble? Harder than screwing in a light bulb? Would any tools be required?”
The sales clerk looked at me bemused waiting for a response. I glumly said, “Yeah, I’m not very good with light bulbs. Or assembling things. My wife is right. If you can sell us the floor display, that would make it a lot more likely I’d actually ever use the ab bench.”
The sales clerk was terrific and said, “No problem,” and retrieved the display model to the front of the store and checked us out.
I thanked him and the other sales staff standing around and said to them, “I really do appreciate this. I’ll actually use this. And in a few months, you are not going to recognize my abs. I’m serious. I’m going to be shredded!”
They laughed politely and asked if I was going to carry the ab bench to the car myself or have one of them carry it for me. It did weigh about 10 lbs. I told them, “Normally, I’d be too proud to ask for help. But since I haven’t started my workout regimen yet and there aren’t many people here this late who are looking, I’d really appreciate it if one of them would take it to the car for me.” I then turned to my wife Rebecca and added, “Unless Rebecca doesn’t mind carrying it.”
I was joking, of course, and started laughing myself. I grabbed the “ab bench,” thanked the nice sales clerks, and strode confidently to the car.
Geez, though. I gotta tell you, carrying a 10 lb bench several hundred feet to the car is a lot more draining than it sounds.
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I was going to get this exercise outfit at Dick’s tonight…. and believed it would fit me…but didn’t buy it.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Jan 22, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
WWKWHD?
Most of these wristbands are proactive and preventive in that they urge us to ask ourselves What would a certain person do “before” action is taken.
But let’s be real. We don’t always remember to ask ourselves before we do something and sometimes still make mistakes.
Then what?
I have a solution. I also wear a second wristband for just such instances. When I screw up, I look at my wrist and ask myself “What Would Kayne West Have Done?”
The question is past tense. And what Kayne would have done is always something much worse and crazier than what I did. And that makes me feel better.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Jan 21, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
I was reminded today of a concerning game I devised at age 5. That was a long time ago and wouldn’t seem to have any reflection on who I am today except what I came up with was so out of the ordinary, it made me wonder less about the events themselves and more about what they said about me.
We lived in a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee and I was playing outside at the bottom of the hill in our front yard with my then best friend George Baker. George was as easygoing and likable a guy as I’ve ever met and I was glad to have him as a friend. He was tall and athletic but I was able to persuade him to play games I made up even if they didn’t make a great deal of sense and even if they happened to put him at bodily risk. George was a good sport.
A few weeks earlier I had broken George’s thumb playing Batman and Robin with him. I asked George to play The Penguin and I played Batman because I wanted to jump off the bed and on top of my 5 year old friend George (now The Penguin) just like Batman had done in an episode we just watched. I put on a towel cape, got into the mindset of the caped crusader about to rescue the city of Gotham and got a running start on my parent’s bed and pounced just like Batman on little George. But unlike the Penguin, George started crying like a baby after I jumped on him. Whaling, in fact. I tried to get him to be quiet because he was going to ruin our game but he wouldn’t stop until his mom came in. The next week George came over to play with a cast on his thumb and I was told I couldn’t jump on him anymore for awhile.
This day we were playing outside and looking for something new to do that didn’t involve capes, jumping or reenactments from Batman and Robin. I don’t know how I came up with the game I’m about to describe, but I did. All by myself. And in just a matter of seconds.
I reminded George that we both liked to run and having a cast on his thumb didn’t prevent him from running. He agreed. But how could I make plain old running interesting? I told George to step down right beside me on the side of the road that ran in front of our house. The speed limit was about 35 miles an hour but often cars, when they would drive by, would go even faster.
I said we’d wait until the next car came and when it got really close to us–maybe 10 feet away–we’d take off running as fast as we possibly could run when I said “Go!” and try to get across the street before the car hit us. I guess, according to my game, if we made it across without getting flattened by the car, we won. If that didn’t happen, I guess that meant we lost. Frankly, I hadn’t fully thought through all the details at this point. But I was ready to get started.
I can’t say in retrospect that I understand why George, the sensible one between the two of us, went along with my idea. But he did. Or seemed to.
We stood beside the road for a couple of minutes waiting for the next car so we could get started. Finally, we saw one coming. Going about the speed limit, all I remember about the car was it was a dark green color and an older car. As it approached –and got within my “adrenaline zone” of within 10 feet –I shouted “Go!” and took off running as fast as I possibly could. I wasn’t wearing my usual superhero cape but felt I had some sort of superpower as I took off running. Think Flash Gordon not Batman. Except that superhuman feeling didn’t last for long.
They say baseball players can see a 90 mph pitch in slow motion so that they can even see the seams on the ball slowly spinning before they swing. After about 5 paces of hard run, I could see the gleaming metal front fender of that old dark green car just a few feet away from me–and it was moving in slow motion.
And here’s the hopeful part. I may be an adrenaline junkie; but I’m I’m not stupid. OK. I am stupid but not really, really super stupid. Anyway, at that moment I made a brilliant split second decision to turn around and run back the other way to the side of the road. And I did.
I looked up and there was my sensible friend George just standing there looking at me with this goofy scared and confused grin on his face as if to say he was sorry for not running with me—but also saying that he never even considered running with me and couldn’t believe I was serious.
The car came to a screeching halt and the woman driving was white as a ghost, mortified at what I had just tried to do. She took a few moments to gather herself and catch her breath. She was still in a state of mild shock and with her voice quavering she scolded me (and George, even though he hadn’t done anything) and made me promise her I would never ever try anything like that again. I promised I wouldn’t.
It finally began to sink into me that my idea was, in fact, a very bad one despite how much fun it may have sounded when I first thought of it. And it did sound pretty exciting. I just didn’t do a good job of thinking the game through to the end before proposing it.
I can’t believe, in the first place, I would ever think up such a game. Yeah, I was only 5 but that’s not a good enough excuse. I didn’t bother to think. I just had a fun idea pop into my head –and went for it. Along with anyone else I could get to join me.
That was 45 years ago and my friend George Baker is alive and well and has a nice family of his own and many new friends besides me. And I’m alive and well, too, but had to wonder what this long ago incident says about me. They say kids who drink alcohol are “self-medicating.” Maybe the risky games that I made up was a form of “self-medicating.” A 5 year old jonesing for an adrenaline hit.
Or maybe not. Maybe I’m overthinking it all. Perhaps I was just an adventurous kid who overshot himself with that particular game. And there’s nothing more to read into it. Maybe.
A few weeks later my dad pulled into the driveway and found me playing by myself in the backyard –not the front yard near that dangerous road. This time I was climbing up the side of a wall where my parents parked their car. I had climbed all the way to the top and was hanging by my hands and had gotten stuck. My hands were getting very tired and if I let go I would drop about six feet and that looked like a bad idea. So, I decided to just hang tight and wait for someone to drive into the driveway and rescue me. My plan worked. My dad came home and helped me down before my hands got too tired.
Another day; another game.
But also the beginning of the end of my days as an adrenaline junkie. I had hit my bottom. I guess hanging by the whites of my fingertips made me re-think things.
I can’t remember what game I made up after that. But if memory serves, my parents started buying me lots of board games after that. And I became one heck of a Chinese Checkers player.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Jan 20, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
We’ve all heard some version of the story of a great basketball player who in some big game misses the clutch shot that could have won the game.
After that the player is forever haunted by that “moment” and asked over and over again by fans who recognize him, “Aren’t you the guy who ……?”
Over time the wound dissipates but never quite fully goes away.
My father wasn’t a basketball player (at least after high school). But as a former professional basketball team owner, he has had to live with a similar kind haunting basketball “moment.”
Call it the “Salina Bros Shakedown.” Call it the “Greatest sports negotiation of all time.” Call it the convergence of tenacity and blind, dumb luck. Whatever it was, it now has a final-seeming price tag of $800M.
And it’s $800M that, theoretically, my father—had my father been a different kind of person and a more ruthless kind of negotiator- may have gotten a piece of.
Yesterday I was with my dad when we ran into Joe Arnold who stopped him to do this interview. Joe does a masterful job of explaining succinctly what happened and capturing my father’s unbothered and good-humored attitude about it all.
I believe in negotiating hard and negotiating smart. Always. And my father has taught me that well. But he has also taught me to negotiate honorably with an eye toward your reputation and future business opportunities. At the end of each negotiation you have a “bottom line” business deal and a “bottom line” reflection on your character. And both are of equal importance.
In this particular negotiation there was a fluke in which had my father been focused merely on squeezing every last penny out of this deal at the expense of his reputation, he may have gotten a piece of this improbable windfall. But that would have meant sacrificing who he is and his reputation as a fair dealer with people who had trusted him and were relying on him to close the biggest deal of their lives. The entire ABA/NBA merger was being held up by the Salina brothers final demand for TV rights in perpetuity and they knew they had the NBA and ABA over a barrel and merely had to wait them out until they capitulated. And they did.
Is a person’s reputation worth $100M, $200M or even $400M dollars?
I guess the takeaway for me is that I believe that question is the wrong question. Because one’s reputation should never be for sale. Period.
And as so-called “missed opportunities” go–they should never be the cause for time-consuming and soul-draining bitterness but rather something you laugh off magnanimously and then keep moving ahead, from, lest you miss the next opportunity.
And that’s a pretty good lesson for a son to learn from his pop.
Is any of this just some sort of happy rationalization trying to pretend a missed opportunity wasn’t really wanted anyway? Probably a little. But only a little.
Because, at the end of the day, sometimes a missed shot in a basketball game, literal or figurative, is just that. And nothing more. And leaves behind an interesting story but not something to haunt or define you. After all, it’s just a game.
I attended Washington Community Fellowship when I lived in Washington D.C. But once I moved to New York, I stopped attending any kind of religious fellowship.
I have often wondered why it happened that way: Why had I wandered off the path taken by the rest of my family? What I understand now is that I was one of those people who did not appreciate the weapons of the spirit. I have always been someone attracted to the quantifiable and the physical. I hate to admit it. But I don’t think I would have been able to do what the Huguenots did in Le Chambon. I would have counted up the number of soldiers and guns on each side and concluded it was too dangerous.
I have always believed in God. I have grasped the logic of Christian faith. What I have had a hard time seeing is God’s power. I put that sentence in the past tense because something happened to me when I sat in Wilma Derksen’s garden. It is one thing to read in a history book about people empowered by their faith. But it is quite another to meet an otherwise very ordinary person, in the backyard of a very ordinary house, who has managed to do something utterly extraordinary.
Their daughter was murdered. And the first thing the Derksens did was to stand up at the press conference and talk about the path to forgiveness. “We would like to know who the person or persons are so we could share, hopefully, a love that seems to be missing in these people’s lives.” Maybe we have difficulty seeing the weapons of the spirit because we don’t know where to look, or because we are distracted by the louder claims of material advantage. But I’ve seen them now, and I will never be the same.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Jan 16, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Secret confession
Sometimes when I am at a point in my life when it is time to reinvent myself again, I ask myself if I think I can get away with using one of my older reinvented selves and hope no one notices because I cant think of anything new to do with myself.
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I want to become a better person.
Not so much because of ambition or a sense of calling.
But because I am I feel that I am capable of better–more dignified– targeted online ads.
I am better than the current ads targeting me! And I know deep down that I have better targeted ads inside me. Ads my mom would be proud of.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Jan 15, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
Is it possible to prove God exists through higher mathematics?
I recently saw a discussion on this matter and it got me to thinking. Suffice it to say, that I do believe it’s possible to use higher mathematics to prove God’s existence.
And I even have first hand experience on this very matter.
No, I’m not going to get all highfalutin talking to you all fancy-like about mathematical ideas you won’t understand. Not at all.
But here’s how it happened for me. I escaped high school only having taken Algebra and Geometry. I always loved math. But once they started introducing letters into it, I figured they had just run out of practical uses for math and were trying to make it deliberately harder—or they were just showing off. After the letters started up, I just lost interest.
My only exposure to calculus was four week of pre-calculus my freshman year in college. That’s all it took for me to realize the stuff had to be Divinely inspired –because it made no logical sense to me.
But that’s not the part about calculus that convinced me to believe in God. Into my fourth week of this class –and convinced I was going to fail– I started praying nightly for God to please help me–some how, some way. And the next week it happened. My friend and mentor, junior Allen Ragle, explained to me about the college phenomenon of “dropping” a class. If you are taking a class and it turns out you hate it or it is too hard for you, no problem. You just “drop” the dang thing and all you get is a little ole “W” on your transcript. High schools don’t allow this but colleges do.
It was a religious experience for me just hearing this good news! I dropped the class the very next day and had never felt such a rush of Grace in all my young life.
15Ever since learning I could drop my pre-calculus class, I’ve never doubted that God existed. And, in fact, when I graduated college, I had a whole host of “W’s” on my college transcript to prove God’s mercy was very much alive and real in my life!
Hallelujah!
For Jerry Eifler, Lee Whitlock, Gene Thompson, Ivan Schoen, Jim Sichko and my other friends who are also well-connected with the Big Guy…. I would have included a list of friends who had likewise established themselves in the field of mathematics, but don’t seem to have any at the moment…. Which, I guess, is what happens when you leave math at pre-cal.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Jan 14, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
“Want to quickly and easily get your credit score right now for free?
If you answered ‘Yes’ then click here….
Oh, wait a minute….
Let’s decode that offer.
“Would you like to pay a $30 monthly fee to have your credit score sent to you each month (nearly $400 a year if you forget to cancel) and if you try to cancel it’s a real pain in the neck because although they will sign you up in a jiffy… online, to cancel you have to call in during certain hours and remain on hold for a maddeningly long time until you speak to a customer-service representative who will essentially refuse to cancel your membership until you shout at them that, “Yes, you understand all the amazing benefits of having your score sent to you monthly and despite the fact you are an inexplicable ignoramus unable to decipher obvious commonsensical benefits to yourself and my family, you still want it cancelled?”
I started a new workout regiment today. And it lasted only 3 minutes.
“Diet Face”
This is my scale.
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