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 Oct 22, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Great debate moments.
It is the season of debates, it seems.
Which got me wondering: What is the greatest closing argument I’ve ever seen in a debate? How about you?
The answer that kept coming up for me was a debate I watched in college several years after it took place. William F Buckley, Jr. debated a California governor who later became our president.
And won.
The issue was one I cared little about: The Panama Canal Treaty.
But there was a modern eloquence–and elegance, passion, wit, and substantive command of the issue at hand that impressed me more than any other debater in any other debate I had seen before or since.
Here is the clip. Agree or disagree, you have to admit, you are watching a master debater at the top of his game:
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Oct 19, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Street ball showdown!
East End Style.
It’s the sports equivalent of a gang fight. Two factions face off like the Bloods and the Crips—but instead of using automatic weapons they settle their differences on the basketball court. Sure it’s a little more civilized way of settling differences—but only a little. It’s still brutal, raw and puts everything on the line in a no-holds-barred free-for-all, where only one side emerges as a winner. Sometimes it’s in teams; sometimes a single player is selected by his “gang” to “represent” the entire gang in a game of one-on-one. It was the latter game that I found myself in the crosshairs of as my gang’s point person on a chilly, overcast morning back in the fall of 1971.
Some people say that high stakes gangland throw downs like this only happen in the inner-city, in the proverbial “West End.” Most the time that’s true. But not this time. The setting was the extreme East End at St Francis in the Fields elementary school, where I had just transferred for third grade and today was the first day of school. It was good to see my peeps again. I had been gone for a year—on hiatus. I had spent second grade at Sunnyland. No, that’s not what they called Juvee back then. It was a small private elementary school in Ft Lauderdale, FL where my family had moved the year before on business and I went with them. But my compadres at St Francis weren’t sure what had happened to me. Only that I had gone away for a while. And now I was back. And that’s all they needed to know.
The tension between third and fourth graders at St Francis in the Fields was palpable that first day of school—spilling over from last year’s unresolved tension between second and third graders, stemming mostly from tether ball disagreements.
Like the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s famous feud, no one could remember the details. Only that a rivalry had developed that wasn’t going away until it was settled. And today was the day. And this was the place. The third grade boys were feeling especially emboldened this day with me back. I was known in second and third grade circles in those parts as a fairly accomplished basketball player.
It soon became apparent to me that I was their ringer—and would represent my entire gang, or grade, as we settled our differences Old School. On the basketball court at recess after second period. The fourth grader’s choice of leader was not a choice at all. It was a forgone conclusion that no one dare question. His name was Allen Lavin. Allen was tall, athletic and handsome—and already good with the ladies (not afraid of cooties. In fact, fearless around the threat of cootie exposure.) I remembered him from a year earlier. I could easily picture him in my 8 year old East End mind one day playing in the NBA. I could imagine him dominating both on the court and then off the court wearing a full length mink coat while holding forth at the after party. He just had that charisma and cockiness of a natural leader who couldn’t fathom ever losing.
Allen Lavin was from a well-heeled horse breeding family in Oldham County. But don’t be fooled by his pedigree. Lavin was all about street ball—first and last—and everyone in the lower school knew he alone owned the basketball court when it was time for recess.
And then there was me. I was a bit of an enigma. A quiet but determined scrappy kid. Short but fast and with a bit of a chip on my shoulder that made me feel I had to prove something. I was the guy that could surprise you. And others felt it. I wasn’t like the Lavins. My family wasn’t part of the Establishment. We were more nouveau riche. Sure we could afford the private school tuition, but as they say on the East End streets, “We hadn’t gotten in country club yet.” And there were external signs of class differences too. I didn’t wear a belt. It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford belts…but rather I didn’t wear them because I had a mild sensory disorder that made some clothing articles, like belts, feel very uncomfortable to me. And then there was the other reason I kept to myself. I felt not wearing a belt gave me an advantage at sports. I wasn’t limited in my range or movement by a belt. There were aerodynamic reasons I chose not to wear a belt. And it made me lighter. And I knew I would need every advantage going up against Allen Lavin.
Read the rest of… John Y’s Musings from the Middle: Street Ball Showdown!
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Oct 18, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
The day (night really) that my life changed.
Not because of something I did. But because of something harmful I stopped doing.
We never know what the markers in our life will look like. The last time we pass a certain street, see a certain friend, embrace a loved one. We only find out afterwards and try to make sense of it after the fact.
Which is what happened to me on this night exactly 27 years ago. In fact, it was October 18th at around 2:30 am.
I had moved back home with my mother and was a listless, beleaguered and bewildered soul. I thought a string of bad luck I had recently endured had led me to drink excessively.
Turns out, I had the string of bad luck because I was drinking excessively.
I was up late alone watching the movie Reuben, Reuben –again. A movie about a rumpled, drunken curly haired poet who had traded whatever talent he once had to sponge off others he was happy to take advantage of—and time was running out for him. I suspect at the time I believed I related to something noble in his character–some potential he had but was throwing away. In retrospect, I related to the excessive drinking and manipulation of others–and mostly frittering away a life that could much more. In the final scene (after the one below), Reuben attempts suicide and before he can change his mind, accidentally dies.
That night 27 years ago after the movie ended, I walked the last bottles of booze out to the condo’s garbage chute and ceremoniously dropped them down one by one. And walked back inside.
And I have not had a drink of alcohol since.
It was perhaps my most important life turning point. I have never seen the movie since, but every October 18th I think of it. And thank God the end of that movie also ended a misguided and unfortunate period in my life. And that I have since—as a result of leaving booze out of my life—led a life that has given me the “much more” I sensed I was losing.
Why do I mention this?
I don’t say it to boast. Removing behavior that harms yourself and your loved ones, is not praiseworthy as much as common sense –and the least you’d expect of yourself. I suppose I share this because I know there are others out there tonight who feel alienated, lost, and confused and who may even be romanticizing destructive behavior by drinking to escape it all.
To them I hope to say, There is nothing heroic or romantic about wasting your life and hurting others.
And if you don’t agree, I believe you are confusing desperation for depth and self-absorption for self-reliance. And foolhardiness for uniqueness. And you are probably going to be the last person in the room to realize this. And that’s OK. You are, like me, about average.
And that’s a good thing. Because help is available. More help than ever in history.
And all you have to do to access it is to set aside the brilliant future you falsely imagine for yourself long enough to notice the unbearable reality of your present circumstances—and then pick up the phone and dial directory assistance on the telephone (411).
And then don’t hang up until you ask for the help you need.
And then breathe a sigh of relief that the awful movie of your current life is about to end. And a new story about your real future is about to begin.
And the new story of your life will still star you –not as an actor playing some imaginary part you thought you were supposed to but performed badly. Rather, it will be you simply playing yourself. A much more natural role that will introduce you to yourself. And allow those same people in the room to finally get to be around the person they’ve been waiting for. And here’s the best part. Eventually, you’ll come to like this person, too
The new movie could be about how to appreciate the poetry of a life lived by humbly following our better instincts –rather than merely rhyming words in the intoxicated hope of sounding clever. Or just about anything we want it to be.
I hope you don’t miss out on it. I’m grateful every day—but especially on this day every year–that I am not missing out on mine.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Oct 17, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
“And just like that….”
That’s how Forrest Gump explains life’s sequences. How we begin something seemingly randomly and it leads to the next thing and that leads on to the next thing. Until a whole chunk of our life is played out and seems not only to make sense to others— but seems perfectly planned out all along.
Except it really isn’t.
Or is it?
I don’t know. But I think Forrest perfectly embodies the beautiful simplicity of living life by a pure and inspired intuition. And if done well—as Forrest does so effortlessly—trying to figure out what the ultimate plan may be seems beside the point. Like an absurd distraction.
“And just like that…” is how, I think, we should endeavor to live our own lives. And let the plan take care of itself.
I think that may be the most important message in this profoundly simple (or simply profound) movie.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Oct 16, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Can you relate?
You know the feeling you get when you oversleep because you were sure you would wake up early enough on your own without a wake-up call to make your flight home from a business trip in a city you’ve never been in before?
And then rush frantically getting ready only to realize you didn’t pack a fresh change of clothes for today and have to wear the same shirt you wore on Monday because it’s somehow less wrinkled than the shirts you wore Tuesday or Wednesday and you packed your Dopp kit before shaving but pull out the razor and try to shave enough so it doesn’t look like you didn’t shave?
And then you rush through the lobby hoping to find a cup of coffee but they are out and you see a guy from your conference who wants to talk and exchange business cards and you are too flustered to tell him you overslept and are rushing to the airport so you just pretend like you were getting a call just at that moment and had to take it outside and couldn’t talk to him?
And then can’t find your car for 6 minutes in the hotel parking lot because you wanted to save money by parking yourself instead of using the valet service and can’t recall where you parked last night after you had a flat tire and it took you an hour to drive 5 miles back to your hotel because you couldn’t use your GPS since your iPhone had died—again?
And then you get to the rental car drop off and are told you didn’t buy coverage for the tire and will have to pay for it and will also be charged for running about 5 tolls that you didn’t have change for because you refused to use the EZPass pre-paid service Budget offered you on Monday?
And as you watch 3 employees not be able to answer—or even try very hard to answer—a few simple question about how to deal with the toll violations you’ll be receiving you think to yourself how much time they are wasting and how they aren’t working very hard very hard at all and seem to be wasting a lot of time.. And you start to feel mad because your tax dollars are being wasted on slackers like these even though Budget Rental Car isn’t part of the federal government?
But you start to sympathize with the Tea Party movement and can see yourself being one on days like today but then think to yourself, “Wow. I guess Tea Party types feel this upset all of the time” and realize you might be able to also if things don’t improve soon.
And then you are a little rude to the driver of the rental car shuttle because you are about to miss your plane and are embarrassed when you realize you don’t know which airline you are on but “think” it’s United.
But it’s not and United takes 20 minutes to figure that out since they have no idea what you are talking about before United’s ticket agent tells you that you are actually on USAir and you rush down to the USAir ticket counter and an attractive young lady is talking on the phone to another customer while you impatiently wait to tell her your flight departs at 9:19 and it is already 9:02….and when she does get off the phone she decides to try out some new boundary techniques for talking to rude customers like you.
And refuses to check if your flight is running late or offering you any ticket credit since it is “You fault” that you are late—and says this several times with a smirk on her face until you snap and tell her loudly in front of another customer and a co-worker that “You are not going to put up with this anymore and that people should not treat other people like this” and you try to run down a list of things she’s done wrong but can’t think of anything, really, except that smirk, and so you finish your unintelligible mini-tirade by adding, “And doing it all with that insulting smirk on your face!” and you realize that now both the other customer and her colleague are watching you and smirking along with her and you realize that they know that even you know how ridiculous you sound and aren’t intimidating anyone and, frankly, are too old and too short for this kind of rant but that it’s too late to stop and so you just hope the “Smirk” comment at the end sounds impressive.
And then you try to buy a new ticket from United but they have no flights out but are at least nice about it since they saw the episode several counters over with USAir but you do find a ticket available on Southwest that leaves in an hour later and buy the ticket and then wait endlessly in airport security and are tempted to ask the TSA guard how many finger nail clippers and 5 oz bottles of body lotion they’ve confiscated this week from would-be terrorist but don’t because you had just made a jerk of yourself just a few minutes earlier and want to apologize to the US Air ticket agent but are already though security and really, really, really want a cup of coffee and see a Starbucks sign and walk faster until you realize there is another sign below it saying, “Coming soon?”
And then you go into a gift shop that sells coffee and are trying to write about all this to post on Facebook to relieve some of the stress you are feeling but inadvertently delete the first two paragraphs and put down your phone as an older, chipper Chinese Barista is waving funnily at you saying in her broken English “Hello, Hello, Hello, sir.”
And you smile a little because she doesn’t understand the social cues of your culture for “Do not be nice to me; I am brooding now” and then a young Indian fellow Barista is embarrassed she can’t understand your order and looks down in shame while laughing to herself—but not smirking.
And you start to feel a little lighter as you put the condiments in your coffee and walk out but notice a new book cover sporting Arnold Schwarzenegger’s mug with a contrite and humbled expression on his face but the book is titled something like, “My unbelievable real life story.” And you can hear his thick Austrian accent as you read the title to yourself and think to yourself he really does have a pretty amazing life story. And you realize that no matter how bad your morning was, your year won’t be as bad as Arnold’s was last year.
And that we are all really doing about the best we can with what we have— and that s**t does happen and sometimes happens in streams—but even then it’s really no big deal. Not really.
And you sit down at your gate and recharge your electronics and think about how nice the person at AAA was last night and how helpful the person was at Southwest and that the people at Budget Rental Car were probably on break and weren’t trying to be difficult.
And as you are board your flight you notice a prominent sign on the side of the plan saying, “Wireless Available” and that wireless service wasn’t available on the flight you booked on the original flight on USAir or United or whatever because you asked when you booked and were told no. And you think to yourself, “Maybe my luck is changing today….and despite my tumultuous morning, maybe, just maybe, today is going to be another lucky day for me after all.”
If you answered “Yes, you can relate” then all that there is left for me to do is chuckle along with you, pat you on the back (virtually) and say, “Really? Oh my gosh, me too! Just this morning!” And hope that the airborne wireless service is working.
Note: The wireless service is working. I am posting this at 10,000 feet. And am feeling like a pretty lucky guy.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Oct 15, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
White water rafting… in Las Vegas.
(Or learning to improvise on father-son weekends)
When I was 13 years old my parents had recently divorced and my father decided it would be a good time to have a father-son bonding weekend and that we’d go white water rafting in Snake River Canyon Wyoming. It was the first and last time I’ve ever been to Wyoming. Or whitewater rafting, for that matter. But
I do have fond and fun memories of what developed into a rather unconventional father-son weekend.
We arrived at the and were told by the guide that the water was unusually placid and there would be no “white water rafting” but we could still navigate the river’s calm waters, fish, and have cookouts where we stopped to camp for the next four days. My father, who was once fairly described as having the attention span of a strobe light, looked horrified—like it had been announced we’d been kidnapped and wouldn’t see civilization again for a very long time—maybe ever. My attention span was slightly better. Like a strobe light running in slow motion. And although I doubt I looked horrified; I suspect I looked seriously concerned and maybe even a little ashen.
JYB Sr., JYB Jr. and JYB III circa 1972
We spent the next 8-10 hours on a raft. That’s it. Just rafting and fishing unsuccessfully. That night we set up camp and had a fire and played backgammon. That’s right, backgammon. My father and I would play backgammon for a dollar a point. I was down by a lot when we stopped playing several hours later because the dice rolling kept others with us from going to sleep. Earlier that evening our tour guide pointed out on a cave what looked like some Indian drawings. I knew my mom would find this interesting but I could tell my dad had dialed into his primitive survivalist instincts and was concocting a plan to allow us to escape. There were some things he knew he couldn’t protect me against in the wild. But boredom wasn’t one of them. I sensed that a real white water adventure was about to begin—one that wasn’t on the tour guides itinerary.
The next morning after several more hours on the raft of unsuccessful fishing and gliding along the undisturbed waters while I continued to lose more of my allowance playing backgammon, I realized my father had convinced the tour guide to go a direction that would drop us off at the first small town were close to. Suddenly there were people and a small store. We were dropped off, said good-bye, and grabbed the duffel bags I had packed for us.
I had no idea where we were going only that the waters were getting more interesting and adrenaline was on the uptick. My father asked for a ride to the nearest airport. He paid a tall Native American man $50 to allow us to drive his old pick-up truck to the nearest airport where he would pick it up later that day. So, there we were—two city boys roughing it but learning to brave the harsh outdoor elements by persuading a strangers to loan us his pick-up truck so we could get to the airport. The truck had a single 8 track tape: Seargent Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club’s Band. I had always liked “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” but got to listen to the entire 8 track during our drive and realized how much I really liked the entire album. Even “A Day in the Life.”
We arrived at a tiny airport with few flights and none looking to arrive in destinations more appealing than where we already were—except one. We flew to Las Vegas. As we walked into the hotel lobby in Vegas, I think it was fair to say we were the only ones checking in with duffel bags. Because I’d only packed outdoor clothing for our rafting trip—and most father-son activities in Las Vegas were geared more for indoors—we each had to buy new clothes that night. Which was fun. And we had room service where I discovered Matza Ball Soup. Something that wouldn’t have happened had we continued White Water rafting. And to this day I still order Matza Ball soup whenever I have the chance.
We stayed for a couple of days and I not only got even in backgammon, but came out a little ahead. And most important there was the father-son bonding, city style. And the ancient and important ritual tradition of father passing on important life survival skills to the son. I learned well how to improvise, adapt and think out of the box….and am rarely bored in life. Even without having to go to Vegas. And then we boarded a 747 and headed back home to Kentucky from our rugged and largely improvised—and unforgettable— white water adventure.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Oct 12, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
The personal impact of movies on our lives.
I just went through the drive through at McDonalds and ordered coffee the same way I have ordered it for the past 18 years, “Lots of cream; lots of sugar.”
That’s always the way I take my coffee but not always the way I ordered it. Before seeing Pulp Fiction in 1994 I would ask for coffee “with extra cream and extra sugar.”
But this scene with Winston Wolfe changed all that. And for the past 18 years and probably the rest of my life, a small but noticeable change occurred in my life.
The coffee tastes the same, of course. But I get a little subconscious Wolfie rush every time I order coffee. And feel like I am a little more in control of the situation —because of my ordering style—than I used to me.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Oct 11, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Leadership and leaning….
If you feel at a crossroads with some worthwhile endeavor a version of the “fight or flight” instinct is about to kick in.
I call it the “lean away from” or “lean into” syndrome. It’s not so much an instinct or syndrome as much as a habit we develop over time. How people approach the “check out” or “ramp it up” decision is what distinguishes, in large measure, the winners and losers in life.
Those who anticipate tough times ahead when undertaking any job worth doing and are prepared to kick it up a notch when that inevitable tough moment comes, are the people I admire most. Some say what these role models emulate for us is courage; some say it’s persistence; others say it’s a commitment to a clear vision.
I think it’s more of a habit we have developed. A habit of how we chose to lean when it counts.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Oct 10, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Funny the memories that get jogged.
On a Saturday night in the fall of my junior year in high school, I was at a friend’s house who took out an album and handled it with the reverence and care that might be expected if he were handling the Hope Diamond. Carefully, he placed the needle on the vinyl and announced we were listening to one of the greatest albums of all time…..and proceeded to read excerpts to me from a book about the Beatles and the White Album.
16 year olds aren’t supposed to be reverent about much of anything….so I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or listen with rapt attention as my friend went into this hypnotic Beatles mode. So I did neither. I finally just gave in and listened, somewhat reverently, to the music.
And got it.
“Dear Prudence” was my favorite song on album. And ever since that night I still to this day speak of the White Album in hushed tones. ; )
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Oct 9, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
Disappointing iPhone discoveries.
I am very disappointed with the camera app I discovered last night on my iphone that also records video.
It’s a very cool app, for sure. Not being critical of the app or of how it works. In fact, it actually works extremely well–which is really the cause of my problem.
It was the disappointing quality of what I decided to record that is bothering me.
But then again I am probably being way too hard on myself.
I mean think about, how many people have ever said the words, “OMG, I just recorded myself singing and I sound much better than I even imagined I would.”
Not many. And I am in the majority.
Was hoping I sounded like an aging American version of Paul McCartney singing Blackbird. Instead it sounded more like my father’s half-hearted attempts to sing along with the hymnals at church before he’d eventually stop because he didn’t want to call attention to himself for carrying a poor melody.
Maybe Apple should include a warning saying, “Actual recordings will sound like a time your parents sang and embarrassed you and not like the singer you are impersonating.” That might help a little.
Very disappointing discovery, and the last time I’ll be pointing that app in my direction.
Here’s my last video recording of me ever on my iPhone. Without the audio. Because, frankly, I learned last night that I look much better singing “Blackbird” than I sound.
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