Three Scoops is a Blast! (6 page)

Any more times than three and I get bored out of my skin and one has to at least seem interested in one’s own material. Fewer than three rehearsals, however, can leave me vulnerable to searching around for the best way to express an idea or make a point. Ten years into my career, I decided on one occasion to deliver a presentation with no preparation at all. I figured if I could wing it and not think about things beforehand, the anxiety would be eliminated.

It worked up to a point. I wasn’t terribly nervous during the drive to the site. But then I walked into the room and saw 100-plus people in their business suits. My attitude took an abrupt 180 degree turn. It was a dinner presentation and wine was being served. To ease my nerves, I had a glass or two. Feeling only a little better and now in a bit of a fog, I was called to the front.

Most of the grizzled businessmen in the audience could tell I didn’t have a firm grasp on what I was saying. Early on, they started ignoring me and talking among themselves. That caused me to lean into the microphone harder and crank up the volume. Then to really get their attention, I began to make things up. I started with mild untruths that quickly blossomed into outrageous fabrications. Let’s leave it that I still shudder when I think back to that night.

The things that go through my mind in the one hour before I go behind a podium are explosively confusing. My life flashes before my eyes. What am I doing here? Why on earth would anyone want to hear what I have to say? Is there anyone in this room who knows less than I do? What if I have to pee? Where are the exits? I’m pretty sure this is the worst way ever to make a living.

My father had a deep and rich manly voice. He craved listeners and attention. My voice doesn’t match his for media-quality timbre. But I’ve come to understand there are advantages in not sounding or appearing like everyone else. Thank goodness for microphones that can amplify tones even if a figurative marshmallow somehow becomes lodged in one’s larynx.

Often, I’ve had to sit at a raised dais with other presenters at the front of a conference room. That’s where one can get more insight into the speaking experience. I’ve known experienced men and women who’ve thrown up with regularity just before every presentation. I’ve had to endure the cash and key janglers who make so much noise in their pockets you can’t hear what they’re saying. Then there are the guys who bold-facedly say that their slides tell it all. “Just read what I have to say.” They stand aside and leave the audience in stunned bewilderment.

The worst situation occurred once when I sat beside some poor unfortunate soul who I’m sure wished he could have been anywhere else but headed for what he assumed would be public humiliation. Sitting next to him, I could not help but notice he was developing the flop sweats that stand-up comedians sometimes talk about. Then I heard some barely audible groans.

What to do? If I ask if he’s alright, this will bring attention to his plight and probably make the situation worse. If I don’t say anything, he might lose all control and leap from the room or go into cardiac arrest. Then I would bear considerable responsibility. Somehow we got to the appointed time, the oblivious chairperson introduced my new “buddy” and he did miraculously manage to get through his material without too many people noticing his distress.

I once read somewhere that when one passes the age of 50, the brain cells controlling anxiety start to die off. This is supposed to be a self-defence mechanism against aging and the “dying of the light”. Whether or not it’s really true, I choose to believe that such is the case. It seems to have helped me deal with anxiety better as I’ve become older. It certainly has played a role in my not being as concerned when it comes to public speaking.

Here’s another factor. Most of the people I used to care so much about impressing or not letting down have left the industry, retired or are dead. That puts things in perspective. There are gruesome advantages to having such an advanced number of years under my suspenders.

The Weatherman, the Economist and the Gypsy Lady

December 1, 2009

A weatherman, an economist and a little old gypsy lady were attending a forecasters’ convention. After all the speeches and the events of the first day, they met in a bar and had a few drinks together.

As the night wore on, they challenged each other to reveal their worst forecasting errors.

The weatherman spoke about how he completely missed Hurricane Katrina. He didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself for the oversight.

“That’s nothing,” said the economist. “I blew the whole sub-prime mortgage fiasco and then completely underestimated the ensuing Great Recession. My career has been suffering ever since.”

That left the gypsy lady. “I failed to foresee I would be arrested for fraud and spend a year in jail.”

“That’s pretty bad, all right. How’d that happen?” said the weatherman.

“I had a client who was a judge. We had a falling out and he had me arrested. Judges can pretty much get away with murder in the legal system, you know. And who’s going to believe me over a judge?”

“There has to be more to the story,” said the economist. “He must have had some pretext if you were sent to jail.”

“I admit I’m not really a good person. I was using some confidential information I had on the judge to try to bleed him dry financially.”

“So maybe you deserved to be arrested,” said the weatherman.

“It wasn’t really the money that bothered him. He didn’t like the fact I kept asking for his endorsement. He didn’t want his name connected with my crystal ball operation. From my side, I was trying to do everything I could to promote my franchise.”

“Sounds to me like he was justified in being upset,” said the economist.

“Maybe, but I still think he took advantage of his position. Anyway, I got my revenge. I put a curse on him the last time I saw him. Whether due to remorse, fright or bad luck, he had a heart attack and died within a week.”

“You mentioned blackmail. What was that all about?”

“In the course of his many visits to my quarters, I found out certain things about the judge. To his community, he came across as a nice family man. But I learned he had a secret mistress and he was taking bribes.”

“That’s terrible,” said the weatherman and he looked glum as could be.

“I know and I have decided to make amends. Later this week, I plan to turn all of my ill-gotten gains from the judge back to his family. My own guilt has overcome me.”

Now both the weatherman and the economist were looking deeply troubled.

“What’s the matter?” said the gypsy lady.

“Should we tell her?” said the economist.

“I guess we have to, now that it’s been done,” said the weatherman. “We’re the judge’s sons, we heard about the curse and we’ve been poisoning your drinks on the sly since you first sat down with us. You now have only a few minutes to live.”

All three of them looked morose and depressed.

“I didn’t see the events of this evening coming at all” said the gypsy lady.

“There have been some disclosures I didn’t expect either,” added the weatherman.

“Seems like we’re all at the wrong conference,” said the economist.

The Red-Suit Mistletoe Initiative

December 8, 2009

Little Jimmy Flotsam, aged 10 and living in Tampa, had never known Christmas. The current year was 2025 and in 2015 Santa Claus and his wife had wrapped things up at the North Pole and skipped town, so to speak. In a sadly mimicking blow, Jimmy’s father abandoned his family when his only child was three. Jimmy was left to ponder the delights of a family Christmas only through books and old movies. But all of that changed in the most recent December.

Jimmy’s mother, Heather, struggling to raise her son as a single parent, managed to claw her way up the ranks at the network that owned one of the major local television stations. She became a regional researcher for the nationally syndicated show that asked, “Where are they now?” Recently, she had lucked upon a story that would make headlines around the nation.

She discovered Santa Claus and his wife were living in the Eternal Springs retirement home in the panhandle region of northern Florida. They were known to the rest of the residents as simply Christopher and Noelle Beard. She discovered this amazing fact by way of a tipster who noticed Mr. Beard bore a striking resemblance to one Kris Kringle. Everybody had been wondering what happened to Santa Claus since his disappearance many years before.

Heather called Mr. and Mrs. Beard to make an appointment to visit with them. Mr. Beard was at first reluctant to talk and he was shy about admitting his true identity. But with some prodding, he began to open up and eventually seemed eager to tell his tale. So many people had been upset when he closed down his reindeer and elf facility, but there was another side to the story and it was important to make everyone aware of the difficult situation he found himself in.

Heather made the several-hours trip to Panama City and spent the afternoon with Mr. and Mrs. Claus. She took Jimmy with her for company and to meet the formerly jolly old man. While Mrs. Claus baked and served gingerbread, along with egg-nog, Heather listened with keen attention to what Santa said. The way he put it, a “perfect storm” of misfortune overwhelmed him.

Santa’s problems started way back in the fall of 2008. The endowment fund that financed all of his activities at the North Pole, from making toys to keeping his employees housed and fed, was destroyed along with many hedge and private equity funds when the stock market collapsed. He tried to save what he could, selling the remainder of his shareholdings and putting the money into U.S. Treasuries. They held up for a while, but then the value of the U.S. dollar plummeted. Santa’s operations were world-wide. This second financial blow was devastating.

Santa’s parcel delivery system was never able to fully recover. Nevertheless, it did limp along for another couple of years. Staff members and livestock kept leaving through attrition, old age and illness and there were no means to replace them. Then came the torpedo that sank the ship. There were new government regulations that finally worked their way through the approvals process. Under other circumstances, Santa would have eagerly endorsed the measures. They set emissions standards to clean up the environment.

The threat of a carbon tax had been hanging in the air for some time. Santa’s North Pole was sitting on a thermal coal deposit. That’s why he was always able to hand out lumps of coal to children who were not very good during the previous 12 months. Fuel for his production line and all of his heating needs came from an unacceptably dirty source.

The carbon tax was the drain on his funds that broke his back. Furthermore, on this issue, he stood firmly on the wrong side. He was never going to be able to win over the hearts and minds of the general population to let him continue operating in the same old manner. Talk about a public relations nightmare. Besides, he no longer possessed the money to hire lawyers to fight on his behalf. He knew he was licked. He and Mrs. Claus packed it in and moved to Toronto.

For a while, Santa was able to get by on his reputation. After all, he did have expertise in certain areas. He knew about chimneys, for example. He could scamper in and out of them in the twinkle of an eye and, therefore, he spent a few good years working as a steeplejack. But Santa wasn’t a teenager anymore, the work was strenuous and, to be honest, it was boring.

Then he tried his hand at running a comic book store. The problem was he lacked the right amount of business acumen. He kept giving away his merchandise. One would think Santa might have a problem coping with new technology. That was never the case, however. He had always been a quick study when it came to advanced scientific methods.

He was one of the first private-sector non-combatants to understand the “stealth” system developed by the U.S. military. That’s how he had been able to keep the location of his northern property a secret for so long. It also accounted for his ability to navigate his sleigh across the night skies while maintaining such a strong safety record versus other flying objects.

No matter what Santa did to keep busy, however, he was always wracked by thoughts of how he let so many people down. He imagined looks of reproach and disapproval all around him. It became impossible to bear. He and Mrs. Claus took their lead from many other Canadian snowbirds. They decided to relocate to Florida and start over again under assumed names.

In their new home, they made many friends and their lives were comfortable. But there was always a residue of guilt and regret to haunt him. Maybe now was the right moment to tell the whole story. With the passage of time, the weight of public opinion might have lifted.

Santa and his missus agreed to be interviewed at the local TV station. The program aired the night before Christmas. He had been right about the timing. Their plight was a sensation. Public sympathy swung over to their side. Save-the-Claus Foundations were set up on the Internet and money poured in.

But this presented another dilemma. Santa was once an advocate of the “go big or go home” principle of corporate management. Look how that turned out. For much of the past hundred years, things were clearly out of hand leading up to the holidays.

No, this time he was going to do things differently. That’s where Jimmy came in. From the date of their first exploratory meeting at the seniors’ home, the two of them became good pals despite being mismatched in so many ways. Santa was the father-figure Jimmy needed for emotional sustenance.