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 Feb 13, 2012 at 4:30 PM ET
My all-time favorite job interview story.
About a decade ago I heard this story from a colleague in NJ, a manager I admired greatly. He was speaking about how he hired people and used this story as a reference to make his point.
A large corporation was hiring for an executive management position and had narrowed the field to two. The executive team would now take each finalist to dinner at a nice restaurant to get “a feel” for the person and if they fit in with the company’s culture.
The first dinner was with a male, we’ll call him Candidate Jones.
Dinner with the execs could not have gone smoother….Jones was warm, witty, engaging and smart. When he ordered he felt he ordered appropriately, had impeccable manners and fit in seamlessly with the other execs. As Jones himself put it to a friend afterward, “I knocked it out of the park!” Adding “The job is mine.”
Except Jones didn’t get the job.
Why? The executive team explained that although Jones ingratiated himself to them, they noticed that when it came to the coat check lady, the waitress, waiter and bus boy, he was condescending —even rude.
The exec team explained, “We are hiring a manager for people under him or her and not someone who will be engaging with us all day each day. We just don’t feel you are a good fit for that position.”
And that, as they say, was that.
Does this really matter? I can attest that since hearing that story I watch closely how each person I deal with treats the wait staff when at a restaurant. It’s a powerfully effective gauge.
So, want to move up in the world? Treat the waitress and busboy with the same respect you are showing your boss (or future boss), and you just may receive the respect from your boss that you are seeking.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 13, 2012 at 3:00 PM ET
Favorite story on workaholism.
About 20 years ago I bought a daily mediation book on keeping balance in your life if you have a tendency to lose yourself in your work and fail in other important areas in your life.
It didn’t help me as much as I’d hoped but here is the one reading
I think of often and chuckle to myself.
“Every night Johnny’s dad would come home with an overstuffed briefcase–papers falling out and scattering and dad scurrying to keep everything together to work on later that night. And each night the son would watch knowing it meant less time with his dad who would be working into the evening.
One night, though, Johnny had an idea.
When is frantic dad walked in the door, arms drooping from papers and binders, Johnny offered, “Dad, I’ve been watching you work so hard every night after work trying to just keep up. And I’m really proud of you. But dad, it may be time for you to be put in the “slow group” at work.”
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 13, 2012 at 1:30 PM ET
Finally!
2 years ago I was with a group of businesspeople and we were asked to respond to some questions.
One was “If you could go out to dinner with anyone in the world, who would it be?”
Most people wrote down people like Bill Gates and Donald Trump.
I didn’t. Nothing about either of those men makes me hungry.
I wrote down Nelson Mandela but didn’t mean it. In fact, it had never once crossed my mind that I’d like to have dinner with Nelson Mandela. And hasn’t since. I was just trying to impress the moderator.
In fact, no one came to mind and that bothered me.
But now I know the answer. Donald Fagen (formerly of Steely Dan). I’d genuinely like to hang out with him for a night–have dinner and pick his mind and experience his rich imagination. Even more so than Nelson Mandela. A lot more.
Now….where would I like to eat? Hope this doesn’t take me another 2 years to figure out?
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 13, 2012 at 12:30 PM ET
What does it mean to grow up?
When my son was four years old we were up late one night looking for something to do.
He grabbed a chess set and asked, “Want to play!?”
Taken aback by his enthusiasm, I said I did but admitted I really didn’t know how and he’d have to teach me.
He said it was easy and to sit down and he’s show me.
He divided the pieces and set them up in a way I didn’t recognize. I was waiting to be amazed that my 4 year old already knew how to play chess.
His first instruction was a shocker, though. He said what we do is slide the pieces across the board and try to “knock each others pieces down—like in bowling.”
I loved it! “Alright!” I said. “I think I’m gonna like this chess stuff.”
We played for about 30 minutes firing pieces back and forth. He added a few new rules (clarifications, really) along the way that ensured he would “win.” Which was cool.I wanted him to.
I was just thrilled to finally learn how to play chess. It always looked complicated and slow. But turns out it really isn’t. At least to a 4 year old.
A few years later my son taught me how grown ups play chess. It’s OK but, as I suspected, complicated and slow. I like the way 4 year olds play better. Not everything about being a grown up is all it’s cracked up to be.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 13, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
There is an important difference between having talent beyond measure and being a person beyond reach.
I never thought that would be the legacy for pop star Whitney Houston. But it just may be.
I think it was 1985 when I first heard of–and later saw live at Rupp Arena–Whitney Houston. It was a remarkable and unforgettable performance.
She had a God-given gift–a soulful yet cheery voice that filled up the entire arena and left everyone in awe. She was also beautiful, graceful and seemed to “have it all.”
She was, so it seemed, untouchable. There was nothing critical that could be said of this pure-hearted girl raised in the church who was taking her gospel-trained voice and quickly becoming an international pop diva.
But surely not the usual kind of diva, right? Whitney would be different–it was assumed.
But in the end, none of us are different. None of us transcend the temptations, the human failings and foibles that endanger us all.
Whitney Houston died yesterday far too young–and far too unrecognizeable from the person who we were introduced to over 25 years ago.
Why? It wasn’t Bobby Brown, or just drugs, or just ego and the inevitability of success gone to her head, or fans demanding perfection where there is only a woman.
Although Whitney Houston wasn’t “untouchable” she did manage to become “unreachable.” And that is when tragedies, like her untimely death yesterday, are made possible.
It’s not that celebrities are too different or too good or too anything to reach out for help.
It’s that sometimes they cross a line into “believing” they have become something else (maybe a brand, a business line, or just a bigger than life superstar) and have forgotten how to sidle up along the rest of us and say the simple–but painfully difficult– words, “Could you please help me?” And mean it.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 13, 2012 at 10:00 AM ET
Daily Gratitude.
I try to do this daily.
Think of something–anything–I’m grateful for. Puts me in a pleasant and generous frame of mind for the day. And it’s easier than you think.
This morning I’m at a stop light and look up at a store sign, “Amish Hills Furniture Store.”
I think to myself that I’m really grateful I wasn’t born Amish. I have tremendous respect for the Amish people, their culture and their faith, but I would have had difficulty thriving within it.
I would have been bullied a lot had I been born Amish. For one thing most Amish men seem to wear a beard. For whatever reason I’ve never been able to grow a beard. I’ve tried but have several bald patches and can, at best, only grow a soul patch or Fu Manchu mustache (which is worse looking than a patchy beard).
Another reason I’m grateful I’m not Amish is they seem to spend a lot of time building furniture. I’m a consultant and lawyer and not good with my hands. I wouldn’t be good at making chairs and tables. I may have invented Amish Minimalism but wouldn’t have succeeded in woodworking.
And Horse and Buggies? I gotta admit I like to get places faster and have a mild allergic reaction to horses. And wouldn’t do a good job mucking the stables. I’m better with cars.
So by the time the light turned green, I was feeling a heavy dose of gratitude for being Presbyterian and not Amish. I do wish Presbyterian was easier to spell. But other than that I know it’s a much better fit for me—and something I’m grateful for today. Especially the beard part.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Feb 13, 2012 at 8:30 AM ET
Eureka!!
On Atlanta Concourse train and finally figured out a major conundrum about men and women and talking.
Recent studies show that contrary to conventional wisdom women do NOT talk more than men.
Then why do we assume they do?
I’m watching the men and women around me talking and the answer is clear. Women are into to it more. A lot more!! They are really engaged and talking like it’s a fun activity in and of itself.
On a scale of 1-10 (10 being highest) women feel about an 8 when talking (the equivalent of sunbathing).
For men, talking rates about a 2.5 (the equivalent of relieving themselves in the airport men’s room. Necessary but no external enjoyment apart from functionality).
In fact, one woman close to me on the Concourse appears to be saying a lot of words purely for the enjoyment factor alone. There is no other logical reason for her to be saying so many words in a row out loud except the intrinsic enjoyment. And her female friend and daughter are enjoying it too….what researchers call the “multiplier effect.”
So, woman don’t talk more than men….they just seem to because they get so much more out of it!! The are going at it with gusto and joy and men are treating talking like a learning disability they never overcame.
So, ladies and gents, when you are home tonight in bed talking to your spouse….remember, your wife is figuratively slathering on sun tan lotion all over herself and feeling like she’s on vacation.
And husbands are the metaphorical equivalent of being in line in the airport men’s room trying to patiently concentrate and get through this exercise with as little effort and mess as possible.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Feb 10, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
TGIIST!
Thank God it isn’t still Thursday!
I can’t say TGIF because Friday is just starting. It may be worse than Thursday for all I know.
TGIF is an aspirational thought that may or may not be correct. If Friday is a disappointment, I can still look forward to Saturday–or even Sunday if Saturday goes bad too– and not be wrong and regret saying TGIF.
I’m just overly cautious like that.
I mean, sure, I’d like to have a good day today and thank God for it and all that. But more than that I want to avoid making a mistake by getting my hopes up only to be disappointed.
For all I know….today (Friday) could be worse than Thursday.
But by saying TGIIST, I cover my bases. I really am glad Thursday is over. It was lousy yesterday. And by not getting my hopes up for today, I won’t be disappointed.
So, you know, TGIIST. That’s my way today of saying something positive that isn’t possibly misleading.
Did I explain that well enough or do I need to elaborate more?
Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is, if you want to have a good day today, go ahead.
But if it turns out to be a bad day, don’t blame me.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Feb 9, 2012 at 12:00 PM ET
A true Fish Tale.
I don’t have a “Bucket list” just yet (I’m still not conceding death is an inevitable option) but do have a “Parent list,” a list of about 10 things I want to do with my children before they leave home.
This happened 7 years ago when my son, Johnny, was 10 years old. I had recently checked off “Flying kites” and “Going fishing” was on deck.
We decided on a Sunday afternoon and immediately started by packing a picnic basket. True, I had never really been fishing and only imagined what I should do…but a picnic basket seemed like a no brainer. My daughter made ham sandwiches and packed them for us.
On the way out the door I shrewdly remembered we’d be sitting in grass and grabbed a throw blanket for us to sit on while fishing.
We went to WalMart and bought fishing poles. We found a public lake nearby and set up our gear and lay down the throw blanket.
I tried to demonstrate casting for Johnny. “Watch me, honey. This is how you want to do it.” I shanked it into the marshy grass.
After untangling it I realized in addition to a flubbing the cast I had not baited the hook. I had forgotten to buy bait and had to improvise.
What to do?
Those ham sandwiches had stringy, soggy slivers of ham that I reasoned could be confused for a worm by a fish that wasn’t paying attention or had below average intelligence.
So, we baited our lines with ham and cast like two men who had never before had to eat what they killed. Our lines intertwined and as we tried to unravel them it began to rain…..
A Fish and Wild Life officer pulled into our lake and walked toward us and barked, “Excuse me. Do you have a fishing license?” I said, “Oh no! I didn’t know we needed a license officer.”
He looked at the intertwined fishing lines with soggy ham hanging from the hooks and then at the throw blanket we were standing on and said in an almost whisper,
“You don’t fish much do you, sir?”
There was really no point in me responding. It was what is called a rhetorical question—a questioning device that is rarely used by law enforcement unless the person being questioned has failed so badly at something that further evidence isn’t necessary.
He let us off with a warning and we packed our belongings and sat in the car waiting for the rain to let up and split the second ham sandwich.
My son noted, “I’ve never been arrested before, Dad.” I explained this whole episode would help with his “street cred” at school but not not give too much detail about the cause of our brush with the law.
We both seemed to like the idea of feeling a little like outlaws, especially if it meant not having to fish.
Afterwards we drove to a more modern place for fathers and sons– where we played video games and miniature golf and raced go carts.
None of which were on my “Parent’s List,” which I have since thrown away.
My all-time favorite job interview story.
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