By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Dec 10, 2014 at 1:30 PM ET  I don’t like to ever be negative, especially on Facebook.
But if there was ever a time for a Facebook “Dislike” button to exist, it is now, for Facebook co-founder, Chris Hughes, for dabbling with and then destroying one of our nation’s most respected and thoughtful political publications, The New Republic magazine.
How does one person so single-handedly undo in two years what hundreds of literary giants toiled so diligently and relentlessly for over a century to create and build? The answer to that question –about an astonishing failure– is unfortunately not nearly as interesting or as unlikely as Facebook’s astonishing success.
It is instead the same timeworn story of someone who confuses great ability and success in one area to translate into great ability and success in other and unrelated areas.
For Chris Hughes of Facebook fame it was assuming being a star in anticipating a new niche in the new online medium of social media would mean brilliant success in creating a new niche in the old print medium of political analysis and commentary. Mr Hughes, of course, was wrong.
As stunningly wrong as he was stunningly right about his earlier success with Facebook.
In Mr Hughes’ case, it was hubris caused not from too much intelligence but from too little self-awareness of his own capabilities (and perhaps too much money and idle time) that led instead to his brilliant debacle with the New Republic. And that is worthy of an over-sized and emphatic Facebook “Dislike.” If it existed.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Dec 10, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET Is Chivalry Dead?
Not in Louisville, Kentucky, it’s not.
As I was leaving an event the other night, I walked outside with a group of people including a friend and one of the co-hosts, the lovely Tammy York-Day. I decided to walk Tammy to the multilevel parking lot nearby where we both had parked –as any Southern gentleman would be expected to do.
It was dark out and as we peered into the parking garage it was eerily quiet.
I had parked on the 2nd floor and Tammy told me she had parked on the 4th floor.
“What does modern day chivalry command?” I wondered to myself.
OK. I didn’t really wonder that to myself. What I really thought to myself was “Oh, Sh*t! Am I expected to go all the way to the 4th floor with Tammy and to pretend like I am going to protect her?” I didn’t say this out loud, of course. Just thought it. And then I thought, “I really don’t want to do that. It is two extra full floors up and it is late and I am a little scared to go up there with only Tammy to protect me.” I didn’t say that out loud either.
My mind immediately went into overdrive to quickly come up with an alternative plan. One that was still within the realm of chivalrous but not overly or absurdly chivalrous.
Instead of walking toward the elevator I started up the stairs. I let Tammy take the elevator. It would be harder, I reasoned, for Tammy to expect me to walk up two extra flights of stairs than I needed to for my car. And I figured since her car was on the 4th floor, Tammy would prefer the elevator and she did.
But my real save was I yelled out to Tammy as I said good-bye, “I promise to wait here on the stairs until you get to your car and I will listen for sounds of scuffling or screaming. If you get mugged or attacked just scream as loudly as you can.” I continued explaining my chivalrous plan, “I will be able to hear you because a scream from the 4th floor of the parking garage will carry to the 2nd floor where I will be with my car. Then I will start screaming and from the 2nd floor my scream would be heard at the street level,” and hopefully someone would hear and come to the rescue. Someone other than me, that is.
It was a brilliant, fool-proof, and yet still chivalrous plan.
But as we stood at the stairs and elevator, it became obvious to me Tammy was wondering what would happen if she was attacked then and there. I knew exactly how to calm her worries. I reassured Tammy that even though I wasn’t a tall guy or especially strong guy or even an overly masculine guy, I did have a big vocabulary and high emotional IQ and could use sarcasm —biting sarcasm, if necessary —and “shaming,” shaming from childhood parental wounds, if necessary. I explained I had a powerful “Disappointed father” look I could use on any attacker. And combined with devastating sarcasm, I had a powerful “one -two punch” (metaphorically speaking) that would knock back any attacker who was foolish enough to try to harm her.
Although she didn’t say anything, I could tell Tammy felt safe and secure with a Southern –and chivalrous– gentleman so close by as I stood in the stairwell about a dozen feel away explaining everything (so I wouldn’t have to go all the way up to the fourth floor with her).
As I waved goodbye and promised to wait to see if she screamed from the 4th floor, Tammy knew one thing for absolute certain: That chivalry was far from dead. That chivalry was, in fact, alive and well and flourishing tonight —at least here in Louisville, Kentucky for Tammy York-Day.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Dec 9, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET When I was a young man and someone said something that offended me, I would imagine my eyes lighting up and transforming into the Incredible Hunk — and mauling the offending person.
But now when I am offended, I imagine my eyes going dim and transforming into Super Guru –and forgiving the offending person.
And then turning into the Incredible Hulk and mauling him
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Dec 8, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET It looked like it was about to really happen. That rare and unnatural act that violates the most deeply entrenched parts of our genetic code: A wife apologizing to her husband.
There we were. Standing in my home office. Rebecca had initiated the conversation to bring resolution to the issue of who was most to blame for us going to bed sulking last night that led to 5 consecutive hours this morning of short matter-of-fact sentences, no ‘love’ or even ‘L’ at the end of text messages, pained pouting and the inability to smile at one another –although admittedly Rebecca had tried breaking the tension with a smile at around 10am but I stopped her “c’mon, let’s get over this silly thing smile” with a stern look that said,”Not this time. An example needs to be made. That was my favorite show last night you kept me from watching. And this cannot stand.”
Rebecca read me loud and clear and dropped all pretense of believing a casual reconciliation for last night’s transgressions were within reach.
There we stood. At that quiet and serious marital face-off. Who would blink first? More often than not, it is me (that is to say about 99.7% of the time). But not today. And Rebecca knew it. She could tell we were standing in the middle of one of those rarified historic moments like when Cicadas return or Haley’s Comet passes. There was a cosmic tinge in the air that made one feel like the universe was about to crack.
Rebecca slowly opened her mouth and sighed, “I…” She faltered momentarily as she struggled to form the sound of a soft “a” that begins the word “apoligize.” But she got it out. Then seemed to recover as she finished the entire sentence, “I….apologize….that you got angry with me last night.”
Rebecca exhaled. Relieved it was finally over. Or so she thought.
“What?” I blurted. “You…you are sorry for my bad reaction? That’s not an apology. That doesn’t count,” I reasoned. “You can’t, technically, apologize for someone else’s bad reaction to something you do. I mean…You can only apologize for you say or do” I paused for effect. “You see what I am saying?”
Rebecca knew she had missed the mark…and was willing to try tried again. Digging deeper into her guilty conscience than maybe ever before from an argument involving watching television together, the apology began tumbling out . “I apologize…for making you angry” I vigorously started shaking my head “no” but Rebecca rebounded with “and my part in causing that.”
Oh my Gosh. O!M!G! I ….I was completely overwhelmed! And touched! And touched deeply enough that at that exact moment everything seemed right in the world again. And it seemed crystal clear to me that God not only was real…but was standing somewhere behind me in my home office –where he was mouthing the words for Rebecca to repeat so that my over-sized hurt from my super-sized overly-sensitive feelings could be suaved over –finally. Like a mommy who realizes her 5 year old crying son just skinned his knee and almost broke the skin and that she has to pretend like it might require a trip to the emergency room to pacify the son and make him feel loved. Except instead of the son being 5 he is 51.
And God worked His magic. His grace. All was right again. I was able to forgive Rebecca even though she feel asleep during my favorite show last night and was snippy when I kept asking her if she was still awake (even though I already knew she wasn’t because I held my hand in front of her face for over 30 second and she never said anything).
She doesn’t know it yet. But at the end of my next text message to Rebecca, I plan on ending it with a capital ‘L.’ For love.
Heck I may just spell out the whole entire word ‘Love.’ I feel like after Rebecca’s soul-searching apology for last night’s TV debacle, it is the least I can do. And that, all things considered, I am a pretty darned lucky guy.
By John Y. Brown III, on Fri Dec 5, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET Going to a weekend spiritual retreat is about the scariest and most exciting plan you can have for a Friday night.
If you are going for the right reasons.
It’s not a business networking opportunity or about being liked. It’s not about looking good. It’s not about sounding good. It’s not even about being good.
It’s about thinking anew while also letting go of old thoughts and beliefs that no longer serve their purpose. It’s about being silent –or as quiet as you can be –on the inside. It’s about listening when you normally speak–and actually listening to understand. It is about NOT filling up awkward silences with others or when alone. It is about standing stiller and seeing more. It is not about meeting others but meeting yourself. It’s not about networking with others but about networking with God —which includes long awkward lulls. It is about being real and laying yourself as bare as you are able. And then peeling off one more layer after that.
But it is mostly about the difference between the man (or woman) you left with and the man (or woman) you return with.
And although you think only you will really know if you’ve changed, you are wrong. And if you do it right, you will be comfortable being wrong, again, about so many of the things you were so certain you had been right about just a few days earlier.
That is both the scary and the exciting parts of a real weekend spiritual retreat.
We shall see.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Dec 4, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET Airports seem to be a good place to be if you are an asshole and want to go undetected.
Airports have lots of food to eat that neither tastes good nor is good for you nor is affordable. You don’t get that combination anywhere else I can think of.
Airports are a great place to buy books you will never read. And would never have bought if you hadn’t been stuck in an airport.
Airports are places where you can shop for things you don’t need and would otherwise never consider buying –and pay twice as much for them as you would anywhere else if you did decide to buy them for some inexplicable reason. And yet buying these things in airports still makes you feel a little bit better on the inside.
Airports are in-between places. And no one likes to admit they are in an in-between place. Especially when they are at an in-between place that looks like an in-between place.
At the departing airport you see people who look just like you that you are leaving behind, and that makes you sad. But you also sense that the place you are going is going to be a better place –just by looking at the people in your airport. And that makes you happy.
But when you arrive at your destination you can tell that the new place isn’t going to live up to your expectations. And you can tell by looking at the people in the arriving airport —who also look just like you do. And that makes you sad again.
Airports are places where women don’t always wear make-up. And men don’t notice because men get to scratch and pick in otherwise off-limit areas when they are at airports. And secretly believe if they wear shorts, white socks and black dress shoes in an airport nobody can really see what they are wearing. Not even the women still wearing make-up.
Airports are a good place to pick up fashion tips if you want to know what looks good when you are exhausted, irritable, impatient, bored, sweaty and have just over-eaten —and are about to lose your cover as an asshole.
And airports are a terrible place if you want to plug in and recharge the things that normally help prevent you from being an asshole.
And airports, best of all, are a place you can feel almost invisible as you watch tens, hundreds, maybe even a thousand people pass by as you as you pass judgment on their most human follies and foibles and momentary inadequacies. While feeling certain that no one else in the airport would even consider doing that to you. As you quickly look down to make sure you aren’t one of those guys who is wearing shorts, white socks and dress shoes and thinks he’s invisible.
By John Y. Brown III, on Thu Dec 4, 2014 at 10:00 AM ET  Miller, Hale and Brown in 1995 25 years ago this fall, I found myself shoveling books in and out of a law school locker next to a tall, clean-cut young man who was soft spoken and kind yet also very thoughtful and keenly intelligent.
We became easy friends and enjoyed each others company through our law school years. We went out weekends with our wives and served together as summer associates at Brown, Todd and Heyburn (now Frost, Brown, Todd). By the end of our legal education I counted David Hale as one of my closest friends in life.
A few years after that, David was my closest advisors in my effort to run for Secretary of State. When my campaign seemed in trouble, David intervened. He introduced me to his dear friend, a Harvard College and Harvard Law grad named Jonathan Miller. The two men single handedly managed my campaign, wrote my commercials, and David even used the backyard of his parent’s house (and his father’s office inside) to film my commercials. I was 31 and David and Jonathan were in their late 20s. We had a lot of pluck and energy and had no real idea what we were doing —but had the youthful exuberance that led us to believe we could do it successfully anyway. And we were right.
David continued to be a dear friend and advisor ever since. We became neighbors for many years and in times of personal self-doubt or spiritual upheaval, David Hale was always there…always offering to be helpful and give his time and thoughtful and caring insights. But perhaps most importantly, to always listen. David listens better than about anyone I’ve ever known. And has the rare gift of being a person who has never heard a stupid or silly question. I remember pulling David aside in my mid 30’s one day after we had lunch and asking embarrassingly, “What exactly is the Holy Spirit? I think it is something I’ve felt before but didn’t know there was an actual term for it.” David explained it to me calmly and matter-of-factly without ever wincing — just like I had asked him directions to the nearest convenient store.
David’s priorities have never wavered. When he wasn’t at work, he seemed to be involved at his church or doing something with is family. And if he wasn’t doing any of those things, he was reading some meaty book or talking to a close friend about history, law, politics or religion.
In the 25 years I have known David he has never spoken a curse word or shared an off-color joke. At least not in my presence. It’s kinda maddening, to tell you the truth. And forces me to reign in my own salty language and penchant for occasional coarse humor when in private. This side of David may be maddening to me. But it also makes me a better person. David has that affect on people. Most remarkably of all, you never feel like David is judging you or feeling holier than thou. You just get the sense that you are with a good friend, no better and no worse, but who is perhaps trying a little harder than you to be a little bit better person that day.
David is a devoted father and husband who pays attention to the big things in life. But he also tends to the smaller details. I remember several times walking or driving by David’s house and seeing him pulling up “crab grass.” He explained to me what it was and why it had to be yanked out— but I never paid close attention because I never wanted to feel compelled to comb through my yard pulling out irritating weeds. I never said it to David but thought to myself, “Hell, I can’t tell the difference between crabgrass and real grass…why don’t you just leave it and pretend it all blends together?” And I didn’t say it, of course, because David would never do that.
David sees the big picture about as well as anyone I know. He stays focused on the main point of the main thing and for the main reasons in every matter. But he also deals with the details just as deftly — and prunes away the extraneous crabgrass as he mentally mows through a complicated concept or situation he is analyzing — whether in his personal or professional life. And when he is finished explaining to you why he has decided whatever conclusion he has come to, you feel grateful David has so thoughtfully simplified and clarified such a complex and thorny situation for you. And pointed you in the right direction.
And the same traits that have helped make David Hale such a great friend to so many and a model person I look up to so admiringly, are many of the same traits that will help make him a great federal judge, just as he has served so honorably as our U.S Attorney in recent years.
It’s a cliche to say when something good happens to someone that it “Couldn’t have happened to a better guy.” Except in that rare instance when it is not a cliche. And such is the case with David J Hale’s appointment today, by a unanimous U.S Senate vote, to make him our new federal court judge for the Western District of Kentucky.
And we are all fortunate to have David in this role overseeing the proper dispensation of justice –where he is sure to be as good and decent and thoughtful a federal judge as he is a good and decent and thoughtful person.
By John Y. Brown III, on Wed Dec 3, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET
I used to think the professional life span of a rock and roll group was about the same as an NFL lineman. 4 or 5 years on average. In a few exceptional cases maybe a little longer. But never more than the culturally transofrmative Beatles who survived together for a stunning 10 consecutive years. Longevity was never a concept that seemed applicable to rock and roll.
At least that is what I believed as a boy who was born in 1963 and watched rock legends and one hit wonders whizz by me like cars passing through a busy intersection. Whatever flashy car caught my attention was soon gone and replaced with a new flashy car –and so it went.
But there was one exception even tben. The Rolling Stones were formed in 1962 and several years after the Beatles disbanded, I read an artcile in Rolling Stone about how remarkable it was that the Stones were still standing the test of time — rocking into their 12 consecutive year. Nearly unthinkable in 1974.
But that was 40 years ago. And now as the Stones rock into their 52nd year (longer than my entire life) — they are still the gold standard for all rock bands — and they have helped make the concept of longevity in the context of rock and roll wholly compatible. Thankfully.
By John Y. Brown III, on Tue Dec 2, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET I woke up on my own this morning several minutes before a quarter after (the time my alarm goes of), so I hop up and shower, shave, and get dressed. And am excited –even proud– to be running about 5 minutes ahead of schedule. I think to myself “I am going to start getting up 5 minutes earlier every day.”
I throw on a sports jacket and pack my laptop bag and pause to wait for Rebecca to tell me to have a good day. But Rebecca isn’t on cue.
I now worry I am about to lose my 5 minute advantage and make noise moving things around in my laptop bag hoping to wake up Rebecca. She stirs a little but still doesn’t wake up.
I sigh loudly (over my fake frustration from having to move things around in my laptop bag –which is realy just a pretext to awaken Rebecca so she can finally tell me to “Have a nice day” before I leave).
I have to admit some of the sigh was real because I had now lost my entire 5 minute advantage from waking up on my own.
Finally, Rebecca, raises up and looks at her clock and asks me in a perturbed voice, “Do you realize it is 2am?”
I looked at my clock. Ummm…
Apparently when I woke up on my own I noticed the minutes but forgot to look at the hour.
Actually it was only 1:58 am now (not 2am as Rebecca insisted), but I didn’t see the point in correcting her since I had mistakenly gotten up not 5 minutes early — but 5 minutes and 5 hours early.
I didn’t know what to say except “Well, I didn’t know it was 2am.” I quietly got back in bed and when my alarm went off at 615am, I turned it off and over-slept my usual 5 minutes. And told myself there were just too many variables involved in trying to be 5 minutes ahead of schedule all day long — and that it is sometimes better to just stick with what you know.
By John Y. Brown III, on Mon Dec 1, 2014 at 12:00 PM ET  What is the next big thing in social media? I think I know.
Instagram. Snapchat. Twitter. Is there any thought or feeling we can’t communicate these days?
What we need next is a social media tool that allows us to post an image of those fleeting moments each day when we are not thinking or feeling anything at all. Call it BlankInstaTweetSnap.
It will allow us to post a blank image of the nothingness we are thinking and feeling so others can view it —and, hopefully, “like” it.
Perhaps our non-thinking and non-feeling moments will mean something to others who view it and bring meaning to our blank moments. With this new social media tool we will be able to eliminate ever having a waking moment that isn’t worth sharing with the rest of the world.
Of course, our blank, empty and meaningless posts will have to be limited to 140 characters and the image of our blankness that we post will only be viewable by others for 10 seconds before it is deleted and destroyed. To make room for future BlankInstaTweetSnap posts.
Sometimes in life, “Less is more.” But when it comes to social media, “Nothing is the new less.”
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