I have a lunchtime ritual at work, old fogey that I am becoming, whereby I eat my daily micro p-corn and Peanut M&Ms whilst perusing first the daily news clips posted on the company's web site (staying abreast of the latest in the securities industry) and second Yahoo Finance (staying abreast of the market). YaFi always has a bunch of business-related articles, and yesterday had one about Generation Y in the workplace. I have a great affection for that group, being as my kids are both members, and it got me to comparing them -- their habits, outlooks, etc. -- against the points made in the piece...which were pretty much on the money.
I wound up cruising through the rest of the day with an optimism I haven't felt in a long time. I mean, if you were to base your current big-picture view of How's It Going on the daily news you'd likely conclude The End Of The World Is Nigh. Many polls reflect this gloomy despair.
So today Otto is here to tell ya: With Gen Y rising, and the Boomers waning, everything's gonna be all right. No woman, no cry. Life IS good. And I will submit to you as The Face and Standard-Bearer of Gen Y, none other than Harry Potter.
If you haven't read any of the books (and, full disclosure, I have not -- none of them) or seen the movies (here, I have -- ALL of them), you really should...because whether you're managing people in the workplace, making investments for yer retirement, or even preparing for your next Life Phase as a grandparent, the next 20-30 years are going to be shaped and driven NOT by the Hillary Clintons and Fred Thompsons of the world but by the Harry Potters. The Sixties Hippy Generation is loaded to the gills with conceits, and maybe the biggest one of all is that their legacy will endure. Hogwash (or maybe Hogwarts?)...much of what-is-what in Gen Y is contrapuntal. Such as:
1) When it comes to business, Gen Y will take data over emotion. If I had to read a Big Metaphor into the Potter series, magic = technology. Marches in the streets and the associated sloganeering will never be as powerful as what the computer is telling you.
2) Divorce and abortions are for losers. Which is why the adult characters in the Potter series are ALWAYS on such shifting sands, morally. Is Severus Snape a white hat, or a black hat? Whose side are the grown-ups on? And why do so many of them wind up acting in ways that benefit only themselves? THAT is how the Yers see the Boomers...and it's a crushing indictment.
3) The McMansion Era is dead. There are none of them in the Potter movies, and no aspirations towards them. They cost too much and take too much time to clean.
4) The Muscle Car Era is NOT dead. Another Big (but much easier) Metaphor: Broomstick = Your ride. Which should be fast, manueverable, and a hell of a lot of fun to drive. Yay Mustangs!
5) Relationships are more important than power. Harry in fact would rather be on good terms with his best friends than be Maximum Leader. Can the Boomers say the same?
6) Finally, Parents Matter. Their love and attention and support are what Harry misses, and wants, more than anything else. How does that square up with the attitude the Sixties Kids had towards their folks?
If the Hippies are a poison, the Yers are the antidote. If the Hippies are mold, the Yers are bleach. If the Hippies are rust, the Yers are TrueCoat. If the Hippies are the flu, the Yers are amoxycillin.
We have a LOT to look forward to, as Gen Y comes into its own. Personally, I can't wait.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Horror
From Michael Yon, via NRO, linked by The King:
The official reported that on a couple of occasions in Baqubah, al Qaeda invited to lunch families they wanted to convert to their way of thinking. In each instance, the family had a boy, he said, who was about eleven years old. As Lt. David Wallach interpreted the man’s words, I saw Wallach go blank and silent. He stopped interpreting for a moment. I asked Wallach, “What did he say?” Wallach said that at these luncheons, the families were sat down to eat. And then their boy was brought in with his mouth stuffed. The boy had been baked. Al Qaeda served the boy to his family.
So for all of you Live Earthers out there, and you Economic Doomsters, and you Universal Health Care Now agitators, and you No Blood For Oil pacifists...Otto has a very short but direct message:
The Clear And Present Danger, The Horror, is right in front of you. Stop whatever else you are doing, right this minute, and pay attention to it, lest you be destroyed by it. Everything else is a very distant second place.
The official reported that on a couple of occasions in Baqubah, al Qaeda invited to lunch families they wanted to convert to their way of thinking. In each instance, the family had a boy, he said, who was about eleven years old. As Lt. David Wallach interpreted the man’s words, I saw Wallach go blank and silent. He stopped interpreting for a moment. I asked Wallach, “What did he say?” Wallach said that at these luncheons, the families were sat down to eat. And then their boy was brought in with his mouth stuffed. The boy had been baked. Al Qaeda served the boy to his family.
So for all of you Live Earthers out there, and you Economic Doomsters, and you Universal Health Care Now agitators, and you No Blood For Oil pacifists...Otto has a very short but direct message:
The Clear And Present Danger, The Horror, is right in front of you. Stop whatever else you are doing, right this minute, and pay attention to it, lest you be destroyed by it. Everything else is a very distant second place.
Monday, July 02, 2007
For All You Golf Fans Out There...
It's always cool when you manage to do something, accomplish something, that you've never done before in your life. It's trebly cool to do it once you're older. I mean, 49 isn't OLD old, exactly...although I would have told you it WAS twenty years ago...and am now hearkening back to a great comment a golfing bud up in WV made a few years ago. He had just turned fifty the previous month and I asked him how he handled it. "Well," he said (paraphrasing), "that number certainly gets your attention. By any standard, you're now on the back nine of your life when you turn fifty."
So, right, you're about to make the turn on your life, and you do something you've never been able to do before. It gives you hope. It inspires. Such was the case in my round of golf on Saturday, on the back nine, ironically.
I hit all nine greens in regulation.
For you non-golfers, that means my ball was on the putting surface in two shots less than the standard score ("par") for each hole. On the par 3s, my ball was on in 1. On the par 3s, in 2, and on the par 5s, 3.
What does it take to accomplish this? Basically, you can't miss a shot. Meaning, you can't top the ball, or chunk it, or hit a bad slice or ugly hook. You have to hit the ball straight and solidly on every shot. I wouldn't call it perfection, but it's getting there.
And golf is such a hard game. SUCH a hard game. All those muscle groups, large and small, from the glutes to the little stringy whatevers in your fingers, they've all got to cooperate and work together as they move in one direction to bring the club back, and then pretty much the opposite direction as you move the club forward and strike the ball.
Oh, and I did this off the blue tees...which is no huge shakes when the blues only play to 3,300 yards at The Woodies. But I normally play off the whites, so this was like jumping off the big diving board at the pool when you normally jump off the little one.
So before this post completely disintegrates, the point...the key...it IS aimed at golf fans, already...
Distance control.
Every single iron I hit was within a pace or two of the flag, distance-wise. They weren't always on line, but their weights were about spot-on. There wasn't much wind, which helped alot, but I REALLY worked hard on calculating distances, pin positions, and even elevations between the ball and the green surface.
And at least for the average golfer, the weekend duffer, whatever, that may be a bit of new news. I play with them alot, and by and large their number one goal on approaches is to hit the ball STRAIGHT. Time and again, their shots are straight, but short...or less frequently, straight and too long. And what I perceive is that they look at the distance and think, "My best shots with a (fill in the blank, let's say nine iron) go X yards. I have X yards to the flag. It's a nine iron."
NO!
How far does your AVERAGE shot go with this club?
That's the crucial question.
I had those decisions twice, on that beautiful back nine. Perfect sand wedge or average pitching wedge? Both times, I selected MORE CLUB, the PW, and made the assumption that I would not hit the ball perfectly, but perfectly average. Both times, doink! On the green.
I had two birds, one three putt bogey (the F word had to have been invented by a golfer after a three putt bogey), and shot 35.
Easy game, right?
Nah.
I had 47 on the front, with two OB. I couldn't play dead on the front.
Hard game. SUCH a hard game. Fun game, though. REALLY fun when you play well. Inspiring, even...
So, right, you're about to make the turn on your life, and you do something you've never been able to do before. It gives you hope. It inspires. Such was the case in my round of golf on Saturday, on the back nine, ironically.
I hit all nine greens in regulation.
For you non-golfers, that means my ball was on the putting surface in two shots less than the standard score ("par") for each hole. On the par 3s, my ball was on in 1. On the par 3s, in 2, and on the par 5s, 3.
What does it take to accomplish this? Basically, you can't miss a shot. Meaning, you can't top the ball, or chunk it, or hit a bad slice or ugly hook. You have to hit the ball straight and solidly on every shot. I wouldn't call it perfection, but it's getting there.
And golf is such a hard game. SUCH a hard game. All those muscle groups, large and small, from the glutes to the little stringy whatevers in your fingers, they've all got to cooperate and work together as they move in one direction to bring the club back, and then pretty much the opposite direction as you move the club forward and strike the ball.
Oh, and I did this off the blue tees...which is no huge shakes when the blues only play to 3,300 yards at The Woodies. But I normally play off the whites, so this was like jumping off the big diving board at the pool when you normally jump off the little one.
So before this post completely disintegrates, the point...the key...it IS aimed at golf fans, already...
Distance control.
Every single iron I hit was within a pace or two of the flag, distance-wise. They weren't always on line, but their weights were about spot-on. There wasn't much wind, which helped alot, but I REALLY worked hard on calculating distances, pin positions, and even elevations between the ball and the green surface.
And at least for the average golfer, the weekend duffer, whatever, that may be a bit of new news. I play with them alot, and by and large their number one goal on approaches is to hit the ball STRAIGHT. Time and again, their shots are straight, but short...or less frequently, straight and too long. And what I perceive is that they look at the distance and think, "My best shots with a (fill in the blank, let's say nine iron) go X yards. I have X yards to the flag. It's a nine iron."
NO!
How far does your AVERAGE shot go with this club?
That's the crucial question.
I had those decisions twice, on that beautiful back nine. Perfect sand wedge or average pitching wedge? Both times, I selected MORE CLUB, the PW, and made the assumption that I would not hit the ball perfectly, but perfectly average. Both times, doink! On the green.
I had two birds, one three putt bogey (the F word had to have been invented by a golfer after a three putt bogey), and shot 35.
Easy game, right?
Nah.
I had 47 on the front, with two OB. I couldn't play dead on the front.
Hard game. SUCH a hard game. Fun game, though. REALLY fun when you play well. Inspiring, even...
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Celluloid Excellence
Son and I went to see Knocked Up last evening. And then I spent practically all night dreaming about the movie. When was the last time that happened, a movie having that kind of effect on my mind? Probably George Roy Hill's A Little Romance, which was like what, 1980? No, 1979. So, a while.
Knocked Up was that good. Nay, great. Son pointed out on the drive home that at a couple of points in the movie, especially the crucial scene between the main guy character (Seth Rogen) and the main girl character's (Katherine Heigl's) sister (in an unbelievable performance from director Judd Apatow's real-life wife, Leslie Mann) outside the delivery room, several of the audience were hitting the lines, word for word, as the dialogue played out. THAT would indicate a pretty good repeat viewing audience, eh?
It wouldn't be hard for me to spend this blog riffing like Keith Richards about the several deep political messages embedded in the flick. Ross Douthat from National Review already did a pretty good take on that angle of it all. Suffice it to say that while the average evangelical Christians I know would be greatly shocked by the language (F bombs fly like freakin' Dresden), alcohol and especially drug usage (massive), and zero-subtlety depictions of the OB-GYN world (yes, there are a few seconds -- real? hard to tell -- of an actual birth, uh, down there, you know)...shocked enough to likely leave the theater...the ultimate message of this movie is of a piece with what they, we, believe. And have been trying to sway the culture on for the past thirty years.
And I'm not gonna lie to ya...you can read about all the statistics you want re the drop in teen pregnancies and the drop in abortion rates and whatever...but when Big-Time Ho-Lie-Wood releases a movie that all but says, I mean right up there on the screen, that abortion is the taking of a human life...there is HUGE vindication. There shouldn't be, I know, but there is...
Because the film is structured the way it is, the baby at eight weeks is already being acknowledged as a living thing, a viable thing, viewable via the magical technology of ultrasound. We're not talking second or third trimesters here, basketball-in-stomach sized here, we're talking eight weeks. And in four week segments after that, neatly done as intros to the next chapter of the story, we get more ultrasounds. And the baby gets bigger and bigger on the screen, until it's basically overspilling the screen towards the end. Any thought of "mass of tissue" just disintegrates in a presentation like this. Whoomp, there it is: Head, heart, hands, feet. A human being.
Of course, my dream-spiced sleep may have been because the story of the guy and the girl, and what happened after they got together, is very similar to our story, my wife of 25 years and I. VERY similar. The way I handled the news of the pregnancy, the fights, the Big Fight (brought on in no small part by my continued pursuit of partying), the split, and the reconciliation. And then the baby. Who was, and is, my son. Among all the other things to recommend about this flick, from the way it skewers the Hippie Insensibilities of the Sixties/Seventies (Becker and Fagen from Steely Dan may still be in the hospital) to its utterly democratic sharing of POVs for the guy and girl characters, the ending is magnificent. Baby born, being loved by both parents, screen fade to black...and then back up for some home movie shots to finish, with people in the audience going aww-w-w and me fighting back tears as the baby girl is now two, now three, now four, looking incredibly like a little of Rogen and a little of Heigl...
I can't help myself...I have to end with this: A political party that, for whatever its other flaws, supports The Right To Life is a political party that's got it right. And a political party that, for whatever its other virtues, supports abortion is a political party that cannot, and must not, be trusted with the big and important decisions about life -- LIFE -- in this country.
Knocked Up was that good. Nay, great. Son pointed out on the drive home that at a couple of points in the movie, especially the crucial scene between the main guy character (Seth Rogen) and the main girl character's (Katherine Heigl's) sister (in an unbelievable performance from director Judd Apatow's real-life wife, Leslie Mann) outside the delivery room, several of the audience were hitting the lines, word for word, as the dialogue played out. THAT would indicate a pretty good repeat viewing audience, eh?
It wouldn't be hard for me to spend this blog riffing like Keith Richards about the several deep political messages embedded in the flick. Ross Douthat from National Review already did a pretty good take on that angle of it all. Suffice it to say that while the average evangelical Christians I know would be greatly shocked by the language (F bombs fly like freakin' Dresden), alcohol and especially drug usage (massive), and zero-subtlety depictions of the OB-GYN world (yes, there are a few seconds -- real? hard to tell -- of an actual birth, uh, down there, you know)...shocked enough to likely leave the theater...the ultimate message of this movie is of a piece with what they, we, believe. And have been trying to sway the culture on for the past thirty years.
And I'm not gonna lie to ya...you can read about all the statistics you want re the drop in teen pregnancies and the drop in abortion rates and whatever...but when Big-Time Ho-Lie-Wood releases a movie that all but says, I mean right up there on the screen, that abortion is the taking of a human life...there is HUGE vindication. There shouldn't be, I know, but there is...
Because the film is structured the way it is, the baby at eight weeks is already being acknowledged as a living thing, a viable thing, viewable via the magical technology of ultrasound. We're not talking second or third trimesters here, basketball-in-stomach sized here, we're talking eight weeks. And in four week segments after that, neatly done as intros to the next chapter of the story, we get more ultrasounds. And the baby gets bigger and bigger on the screen, until it's basically overspilling the screen towards the end. Any thought of "mass of tissue" just disintegrates in a presentation like this. Whoomp, there it is: Head, heart, hands, feet. A human being.
Of course, my dream-spiced sleep may have been because the story of the guy and the girl, and what happened after they got together, is very similar to our story, my wife of 25 years and I. VERY similar. The way I handled the news of the pregnancy, the fights, the Big Fight (brought on in no small part by my continued pursuit of partying), the split, and the reconciliation. And then the baby. Who was, and is, my son. Among all the other things to recommend about this flick, from the way it skewers the Hippie Insensibilities of the Sixties/Seventies (Becker and Fagen from Steely Dan may still be in the hospital) to its utterly democratic sharing of POVs for the guy and girl characters, the ending is magnificent. Baby born, being loved by both parents, screen fade to black...and then back up for some home movie shots to finish, with people in the audience going aww-w-w and me fighting back tears as the baby girl is now two, now three, now four, looking incredibly like a little of Rogen and a little of Heigl...
I can't help myself...I have to end with this: A political party that, for whatever its other flaws, supports The Right To Life is a political party that's got it right. And a political party that, for whatever its other virtues, supports abortion is a political party that cannot, and must not, be trusted with the big and important decisions about life -- LIFE -- in this country.
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