Endless Knots

Time for the Larry story again

I've told this one in different forums since it happened in 1995-ish. A recent incident prompts this version.

Back in the days when Harvard Square was one giant bookstore, a corner of two floors was occupied by Wordsworth. Always jammed, knowledgeable clerkery, books, books, and more books, the place where it was easy to walk out with two shopping bagsful of books.

"The TeamNet Factor is faceout at Wordsworth," Daughter #2 said in 1993. It was a star from Kirkus at the time, an acknowledgement from the arbiter of good books that this was worth reading.

So I went to take a look and there it was, third shelf up faceout.

I gasped and the man next to me said: "What's wrong?"

"That's my book!"

"Great book," said he, "I read it. And have you read my book?" He reached across, a couple of shelves down to hand me Managing Information Strategically, inadvertently pushing me into the woman just beside us.

"Oh, is that your book?" she said. "Well, this is my book, or I mean his book," pointing to the man to her left. "I'm just the editor."

Rewind: The author who reached in front was Jim McGee. The man with the editor was Charles Handy.

Jim and I chatted for a while; he mentioned that he was at Ernst & Young; we exchanged contact info; and I formulated The Bookstore Theorem: The only people there are authors.

Fast forward a year or two to the mail dock at Bear Island where I spotted a couple looking for directions. They wanted to find the girls' camp that their daughter had gone to; they were staying nearby at the Appalachian Mountain Club on Three Mile Island; they'd just paddled over.

Me: "The girls' camp is close to our cabin." Off we went, following the red trail, chatting, who are you, what do you do, until eventually the husband said, "I work at Ernst & Young."

Perfect entre for my book-story to which he had the perfect rejoinder.

"I'm Jim McGee's co-author on that book," said Larry Prusak.

Fast forward again to very recently. Two good friends decided to go to the AMC camp on Three Mile for the weekend so we visited, got the tour of the camp (go, that's all I can say, it's beautiful).

Outside the dining hall was a list of those present for the weekend.

Guess who?

Yes, Larry, who, by the way, is reading Jonathan Franzen's new one, Freedom. "Beautifully written," he says.

And, staying current, Larry and Tom Davenport are working on a new book of their own on judgment. On which subject, they have a post on HBR Blogs, "If Only BP Knew Now What It Knew Then." Great title, guys.

 

 

Sort of a scene: How the person who introduced me to "my person" and I...

When I began drafting my hospital scenes, I didn't know how to refer to my reason for writing them. I wanted to protect my daughter's privacy but realized that my posts would have little credibility unless I could put a face to them. No one hangs out in hospitals without cause.

But how to refer to her? Grey's Anatomy to the rescue, a hospital show, no less, providing the proper referent. I remembered the scene where (oh, do I hope I've got this right) Cristina says to Meredith, "You're my person." And thus "my daughter" became "my person" for the sake of this writing.

So that's the foundation for this note, about how someone else can be one's "person." I always think of that phrase when the show is on.

Next layer: my hard drive crashes in the midst of my person's ordeal, causing me to spend a lot of time on the A. New Yorkers will understand this next sentence. If a train could be my person, it would be the A - with the B, which sadly is shutting down for a couple of years, a close contender (but all of that is for another post). The A has this beguiling trait: it races from 59th Street at Columbus Circle to 125th Street without a stop. In subway life, this is at least an eon's worth of time saved - and because the hospital that my person endured was just a few stops beyond 125th, I clocked many a ride on the A, racing downtown for various things, including numerous journeys taking my broken machine to a surgeon near Columbus Circle.

Much as I love the A, I hated this particular trip that I am about to describe. I was often tired during my person's ordeal. No, I was always tired during those many weeks and, when unforeseen obstacles got thrown in my path, I became a very unhappy person. Grouchy. Irritable. Ungiven to smiling at strangers. 

On this particular Sunday (third layer), I was very very tired and really really annoyed. I was desperately seeking my files, which, as noted below, were supposed to be on my backup drive but which were in fact...missing! I was carrying about fifteen pounds of technology, when adding in all the cables and power cords and my phone and its charger and my camera and its battery. And it was hot. And I only had a little time. And all I could think about were the twelve blocks ahead of me once I got off the train, the long slog to the Mac technician's shop, which, in fact, was in his bedroom, or his bedroom was in his shop, or it was his photography studio because, being a Mac tech, he was, obviously and actually, a photographer, and clearly headed for Paris in a few days, not to mention the gym, toward which I was preventing his departure because I was a little late and...

The A was pulling into Columbus Circle. I slung my backpack over my shoulders in a less than graceful swoop. One strap caught in my pendant, the other tangled around my purse, my shirt got caught behind my back, falling off my shoulder altogether, the train jerked to a halt and I stumbled off the A onto the platform directly into the path of a "person" waiting to get on the train.

Have you figured it out yet? Cristina Yang! Yes, Sandra Oh! And until tonight, when I caught up with the season opener, I hadn't put person-to-person together. Cristina (and your writers), that bedraggled woman with the forlorn look on that Sunday several weeks ago, owes you (all) one big THANK YOU for providing cover for "my person."

Mirabile dictu: Phish phans @ Phenway

Fotos by Eliza Stamps

Given the large number of Phish fans (and the hilarity that sweeps the phamily recalling the time I repherred to the band as "The Phish") and given that one such phamily member* went to the concert, I must repher phans to Sarah Rodman's review, "Phish and fans come back together for a pledge of mutual allegiance," in today's Boston Globe. I love her lede (the word phormerly known as lead but somehow transmuted in recent years):

"The Star-Spangled Banner" felt like an appropriate opener for the Phish show at Fenway Park last night, as the members of the Vermont rock band reconvened with one another and their nation of fans to pledge allegiance to the jam.

If band members were seeking a good omen for this reunion, following a five-year hiatus, they had to look no farther than the sky. In the time it took them to get back from the rain-soaked infield - where they performed an intricate a cappella version of the anthem in Red Sox jerseys - to the stage for the start of the show proper, the sun had broken through and a rainbow appeared over the outfield.

 

View from pitcher's mound

*First-hand report of small miracles: due to phamily scheduling conphlicts, said member was phorced to take a taxi to the T into Boston in a horrible downpour. As she departed the cab, the taxi driver gave her an umbrella. Moments later, she emerged from the T to phind her concert-mate at the appointed spot. The rain stopped, the clouds parted, the sun emerged, and as they took their spots, centers seats on the phield, the rainbow appeared.

The "you never know" principle

I'm a believer (wasn't that a song?). Countless the times when something of the vin ordinaire varietal transpires - give a talk, write a book, take a workshop, go hear someone else's speech - and then eons later, something else happens that connects back to that moment, one that you'd never imagine could have grown from that. I mention the "give...write...take..go hear" because in a few cases that I can quickly recall, such things have resulted in unusual follow-ons, sometimes years later, of which one came to pass yesterday.

It all begins in 1984, when Jeff and I were faculty in the School of Management and Strategic Studies, the first online executive education program. Click around on that link and you'll get the flavor of the students, their sponsoring organizations, and other faculty. Quite an honor to have been faculty -- and the setting was, hands down, the most beautiful place I've ever given a speech: La Valencia in La Jolla, California, where the meeting room overlooked the Pacific and the people at the front, i.e., the speakers, got to look out rather than in. I think of it often, especially when speaking in meeting rooms with no windows, no ventilation, and that are typically freezing.

OK. Point is that Don Straus, who passed away in September, 2007, was a student in that class, representing the American Arbitration Association, the organization that he headed for many years. You must read Don's bio at the link in prior sentence. His patrimony is astonishing: his paternal grandparents died on the Titanic, his grandfather having been a co-founder of Macy's. (There's more too.)

Soon thereafter, Don said we had to meet his son, David, who lived in Boston and who was doing work with similarities to ours. The titles of David's books scream the connection: How to Make Meetings Work (his classic with Michael Doyle, who also passed away in 2007) and How to Make Collaboration Work. David also co-founded Interaction Associates (IA), a consulting firm that specializes in these topics and over the years developed unique expertise in the collaborative process. I could go on but I'll leave it here: we got to know one another, did some stuff, Jeff and I spoke at two landmark IA conferences, and we became acquainted with IA's spinoff, Interaction Institute for Social Change (IISC), a nonprofit founded in 1993, whose clientele is the nonprofit sector.

Fast forward to last fall, when out of the seeming blue, we receive an email from IISC's Curtis Ogden, pictured (not well but you get the picture, so to speak) here. Curtis had just read The Age of the Network, networks being a big part of what IISC does, noticed that we live in West Newton, and asked to get together. We had a great meeting at, yes, of course, Taste, and agreed to hold a "download" session, in which Jeff and I would share our story around our work with networks.

That session took place yesterday, historic for us in that we've never been asked to tell the whole story of how we developed our work in networks, what got us started, what we've learned, and how the whole thing has played out to date. Quite moving for us and useful, I think, for the IISC folks. One interesting element: IISC's colleague Louise O'Meara videoconferenced in from Belfast, Ireland, which was an ongoing reminder of the challenges and advantages brought by the virtual world.

So back to the title of this post, the "you never know" principle: Had we not taught in the program in La Jolla, we would never have met Don Straus who would not have introduced us to David who would not have invited us to speak at conferences in 1995, which would not have led to our book being in the IISC library, which would not have meant our telling our story for the first time ever yesterday. (And I won't bore you with all the other connections, including one of my oldest friend's being IISC Exec Director Marianne Hughes's former housemate, etc.). Here we are with the group (that's Marianne in the pink sweater in the front). Many thanks. Still whirling inside.

In real but not quite

We all know my fave coffee house and you're beginning to get the picture of how much I (and we) frequent said establishment. And so it was no strange event that took us there last Sunday, collllllldddddd as it was, following a walk along the Charles River in nearby Cambridge. And we all know that people have a habit of offering me their tables when they are one and I am more than one (which is a bit of an existential statement).

Happened again this particular day as the place was packed at 4 in the afternoon. Nary a table in sight so we took our places at the bar, also a congenial location as you get to watch the baristas performing their art. I had turned my back for a moment when a man sitting near the window motioned to Jeff and, next thing I knew, we were relocated to the front of the house. I stopped along the way to admire the photo exhibit now showing (here's one of those great photos).

Enjoyed the cappuccino, as always, came home, and there were a coupla twitter messages a-waiting:

ctanowitz: was that you at Taste today at 4:15?
ctanowitz: I was the guy at the counter who let you have the table.

Of course, I inquired why Chuck Tanowitz, photographer, blogger, and new media strategist at Schwartz Communications hadn't said hello. He wasn't sure it was me and, thus, being a nice person didn't want to pester someone if not the right one.

So we almost met - and to underscore how silly the virtual world really is, it turns out we live just a few blocks apart. And still haven't met.

Waving to Chuck as he's probably walking past right now.

Meet Henry the Fiddler

After Networking, our first book was published lo' those many years ago, we received many letters, phone calls, and visits from readers around the world who felt kinship with the ideas and networks we wrote about there. One early correspondent was a guy with the curious name, Henry the Fiddler (click and you'll see why). We wrote back and forth for a while, talked on the phone, and he once came to visit - or we met up at a conference somewhere (I'm sure Henry will correct me!). Henry introduced me to Burning Man, the crazy, wild, unlike-anything-else gathering, which he rightfully called a network and, from that point on, whenever I saw anything about Burning Man, I thought of Henry. Last I heard from him was perhaps a dozen years ago.

Fast forward to a month ago when our Dutch friend, Ton van der Hoeve, posts pictures to his Facebook page from this year's Burning Man. Of course, I thought of Henry and instantly wrote on Ton's Wall, in the Facebookish way of enthusiasm and multiple exclamation points: "Ton - have you run into Henry the Fiddler yet? Great pics! Don't get sunburned!!!"

Comes then last night's email. Guess who? Henry the Fiddler - but he wasn't at Burning Man, has never heard of Ton...instead, he's reappeared via this path:

So here's a blast from the past.  Here is a good full circle networking example:  I started at Worldchanging.com, took the off ramp to my old friend Gil Friend, took the next ramp to Gil's blog, and bingo ... an off ramp to Jessica Lipnack's blog!  I recall talking to you from Memphis back in '96.  Good to see you are still at it and still on the networking trail...

Thanks, Gil! And nice to "see" you again, Henry. And please, readers: feel free to post your coincidence stories. As often as it happens, never ceases to amaze.

Dear Hillary,

We both know we hold one common thread: we each married men who, in 1969, lived at 46 Leckford Road, Oxford. Other than that, our lives have been, well, different. But in your interview with Charlie Gibson of ABC News aired tonight, you revealed what truly binds us: Fabian.

Only here I think I've got you bested, sister: while you were president of the Fabian Fan Club, FABIAN KISSED ME.

Somewhere in my precious childhood belongings, I have the picture he signed for me at Sunnybrook Ballroom, in Pottstown, Penna., where he had come to perform with Dick Clark and some of the regulars from American Bandstand (Arlene and Kenny, for example, were there that night).

Janet Alison Kindsvatter, then a reporter for the Pottstown Mercury and our next door neighbor, had gotten back-stage tickets. Knowing that I wanted to be a reporter when I grew up *and* that I was in love with Fabian, she invited me, age 9, to come along.

So it was that after the performance, there I stood, face-to-face with the dreamboat.

"Jessica?" Fabian said when Janet introduced me. "I've never heard that name before."

And then he kissed me. On the right cheek.

If you'd like more details, just drop me an email. And be sure to let me know if you'd like a copy of the picture.