It’s time to celebrate International ‘Get It Off Your Chest Day.’ You’ll feel better if you do.

Posted on June 26, 2011 by Howard Martell

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. For this article Maria Mendez’ recording of “What a difference a day makes” (released 1934) is a must. You’ll find it in any search. engine. And, by the way, Maria is right: the difference is you!
Have you noticed there’s a “day” for everything… for artichoke growers… pizza makers… midgets… apples… moms and dads… you get picture.
However, after exhaustive research ( at least an hour or two) I have discovered an absolutely crucial activity which has not, so far, been granted its own special day.
Thus, I am herewith proposing “International Get If Off Your Chest” Day.
This day was inspired by my nephew Kyle who graduated from college in May 2011. As is customary (at least the graduate so told me) I donated some bucks to the young buck… then sat back (like millions of generous parents, relations and friends) for the effusive letter of acknowledgement, thanks, and gratitude.
I have waited for weeks now (along with those millions cited above) and have received nada, zip, absolutely nothing. It occurred to me that all of us long-suffering folks need an outlet for our chagrin, irritation, and soon-to-be righteous wrath and rage.
But, let’s face it, a special day for the good people who sent money (so far unacknowledged) for commencement would, I think you’d agree be (perhaps) a tad over specific…. even if we extended its focus to be any slothful, lay about graduate of any institution.
So, I put my thinking cap on and brainstormed… to see how the parameters of this holiday could be suitably extended so that more sins of omission and commission could be added.
Then I thought of a no-longer-quite-so-dear friend…let’s call him Thomas Frederick Byrd III… because that is his name. Tommy (for he is not always so formal) borrowed 10 CDs from me, what, an eon ago, making the usual sincere, look-deeply-in-his-eyes promises that “they’ll be returned, Scout’s honor, in a week, ten days tops.” As I said, and as I must reiterate here, that ample deadline has long been exceeded…. hints to Tommy (even quite a lurid one) have gone unanswered… and now the bugger won’t answer my calls. The holiday must be extended to include these miscreants and scoffers.
Tommy’s non-return of my very best CDs is venal compared to William Wilder’s misdemeanors. He put the touch on me for 200 Yankee dollars; I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. I should have listened to Polonius (ok, he’s a trifle windy) about borrowers and lenders. Bill Wilder used to be one of my best friends; now I can hardly think of him without apoplexy… for, of course, he is now in the witness protection program… and my beloved dollars with him.
Near crying at these acid remembrances of people who have let me down, in so remembering I have one “aha!” moment after another, each of which builds the case and need for this deeply sensible day.
There’s Tommy (seemingly a frequent miscreant sobriquet) at the convenience store who has promised me at least half a dozen times to charge back those mildewed strawberries. So far, no action.
There’s my cousin Clarabelle (and no she has no children named Howdy Doody) who has yet to return that lovely pic-nic basket with the (admittedly plate) silver handles.
This list, growing by the moment, represents in miniature just why we absolutely must have a day, perhaps even two, when we can let it all hang out. Such a day would of course feature politicians and the myriad of ways they irritate and abuse us every single day.
“Great idea,” everybody says so.
While writing this article, I have been tending a very busy phone. I emailed a few of my nearest and dearest to clue them in to my Big Idea. I told them their opinion was urgent and expected; my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since with calls from people who have quite clearly mastered the superlative tense; without exception these bright folks want what I am proposing: a chance to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about matters great and small with which less polite and perceptive folks have afflicted them. I am getting used to the constant huzzahs and raucous congratulations.
These, admittedly thrilling, have induced further cogitation on the issue. As I amble and ponder, new facets of this idea emerge and take center stage in my fervid brain; I am like a man possessed.
In addition to the specially designated “Off Your Chest” day… we need a National Registry where aggrieved citizens can post their complaints and miseries; given our digitized age it should be easy to cross-reference these, to create profiles and warning systems for people (even if our nearest and dearest) who have affronted not one, but many, and often.
And, remember, this registry, this most necessary warning system would not be a thing for just a single nation, no matter how grand, but for all the nations, even insignificant little San Marino.
Of course, there might be mistakes… or at least folks claiming they have been victimized.
I am a believer in fairness, a believer in fairness am I. As a result, there must be some means of checking the accuracy of all information and allowing folks to respond. Yes, that is only fair. Of course this will necessitate a very substantial staff; their workload, as is already plain, would be staggering. After all, nearly every person on this planet (except a few Trappist monks) have things they wish, indeed need to get off their chests… and I may be doing a disservice to Trappists who agree. If so, I abjectly apologize.
This is turning into a helluva lot of work!
You know, people like me with good ideas should be designated Super Citizen. After all, WE keep this country, this world, and, may I say, this whole solar system working.
I’m really ticked off now. My original simple idea has now morphed into a multi- dimensional nightmare. I’m over my head, for sure. All I wanted was to chide a few friends and get some bucks back and my very best CDs. Now people are starting to criticize me, yes ME, as some kind of dictator, FBI, CIA, looking-for-skeletons- -in-all-the-closets. Every time they do, I put them on my list for future SEVERE action. It’s what those friggin’ morons deserve.
I give up.
I’m ditching this idea and am heading in a brand-new direction. I’ve written Kyle’s thank-you note and sent him a copy so he knows what he said. I sent a gift card to Tommy giving him CDs he won’t give up anyway. And as for the 200 smackers, I’ll tell the IRS they are a charitable donation to people with incurable insensitivity.
As for me, I’ve sent this letter to the president reminding him the buck stops there.
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About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martellhttp://HomeProfitCoach.com. Check out Traffic Blog Empire ->  http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=nh4VYABW

 

Of Sundays. What we have lost along the way.

Posted on June 26, 2011 by Howard Martell

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
It is Sunday in Cambridge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The forecast is for inclement weather, buckets of rain, wide puddles to jump across, or, if you are of the distracted variety (I’m afraid I often qualify) to splash through unawares. Even with the intermittent rain, Cambridge will be on this day what Cambridge always is: a place of intellectual power, internecine academic battles often on topics of the least significance (hence their abrasiveness); a place, too, where everyone and his brother has either just written a book, is in the middle of writing a book, or is contemplating writing a book that will transform the world as we know it.
It is beautiful… it is exciting… it is lofty and drenched with youth… but there will be absolutely nothing of the traditional American Sunday here… or most anywhere else in America for that matter. That stalwart of our society is dead…. and today I lament its passing and what we have lost thereby. The great American Sunday, sacred to God, family and jackets and ties at an abundant repast, was one of them.
American values, Midwestern setting.
I grew up in Illinois, the most American of states, ultimate home of Abraham Lincoln, the epitome of American values. All states in the Glorious Republic are American, of course; Illinois is the great beating heart of this body politic.
I didn’t know, what child does, that I was, in the ‘forties and ‘fifties living through an inter-related series of cultural transformations which would, after being boiled and scorched in the cauldron of the ‘sixties, strip my family and all the other solidly middle class prairie families of too many of the verities they loved and cherished, believing them to be essential for a life of republican simplicities, moral certainties, and the resounding democratic principles on which the nation was formed. Our Sundays reflected these essential elements and sustained them.
I’d now like to share with you the contours of that Sunday, for it was good, decent, hallowed by tradition yet as fresh as the quips that flew around the highly polished dining table smelling of beeswax and elbow grease, the ample midday fare always abundant, never ostentatious.
Sunday began, for my mother at least, Saturday afternoon. It was then she did the work she hoped and was indeed confident would pass the critical scrutiny she knew her maternal peers would exact on her, her degree of proficiency in the crucial business of mothering, what manner of house keeper, wife, and mother she was, whatever observations made to circulate around the town as fast as, if not faster, than a Western Union telegram.
Fathers could afford to opt out of the crucial Saturday evening tasks for the morrow; children knew they would be called, and often more than once, to “try this on… you can’t wear that… polish those shoes at once and put them in a bag in the car ” to keep them pristine for the absolutely certain community review and commentary. My mother’s standing amidst other mothers and in the town generally depended on what she did and how she did it. And no one, but no one, was more adept at making every fine distinction and conclusion than the matrons of the town. Sure of themselves… their opinions were resounding, incontrovertible, and could never be challenged, waived, or overruled.
My mother, born and bred in Illinois, the stock of immigrants and pioneers, knew all this, none better. That’s why she was busily at work, including doing things even the most lynx-eyed matron could not see… examining linings… ensuring the car was clean inside (outside being my father’s province)…. examining, re-examining, now dubious, now, Mamie Eisenhower-like, concluding with a white glove review and then to her arrangements and personal presentation. No detail, not a single one, was ever overlooked; each according to the standards of her peers, just so.
“God shed his grace on thee.”
I am a WASP, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, my lineage boasting Scots, Germans, and waves of Englishmen. These days it is rather fashionable amidst the ill-informed and worse advised cognoscenti to pooh-pooh and even deride these nation-founding people as limited, prejudiced, arrogant, self-aggrandizing, and worse. If such things were said, even softly, about America’s other ethnic varieties, there would be mass outrage against such bigotry and discrimination. But such things are said of us with impunity, on the same principle as a “cat may look at a king.” My ethnic fellow-travelers sail on disregarding such remarks and distortions. I wish it to be understood that they are as unacceptable as any words of prejudice and bigotry.
The churches of my prairie town were of the usual variety; each had its own constituency and place in the social hierarchy. The Roman Catholics built schools and basilicas on extravagant Roman models. They were, so my grandmother would whisper, full of immigrants from Eastern Europe (the lesser half) and deluded by the incense and fripperies of Pius XII, a Protestant bug-a-bear. Just saying his name could produce a noticeable frisson.
The Protestant churches were headed, such was the residual pull of the nation we had freed ourselves from, by the Episcopal Church. Then a tie between what was still called the Congregational Church and the Methodist Church. Lesser, suspect denominations like Baptists were never discussed at all; a disapproving silence was sufficient. As for religions which sent zealots door-to-door, that was all they ever saw – the door.
My grandparents sternly approved of religion and its virtues, but rarely went to church themselves. In fact, off hand, I cannot remember seeing my grandfather at any other religious ceremony but the marriages of his 4 children and blessed relations. My parents, however, were different; for both, religion was important and as a result theological discussions, publications, arguments, visiting missionaries were commonplace. It was thought only seemly that I should, year after year, win a prize for memorizing the most Bible verses; something which has stood me in good stead to this day, when a Biblical quotation is apt.
My parents were sometimes parishioners in the Methodist Church, sometimes in the Congregational. My first memory of the latter is a stack of folding chairs suitable for the frequent church socials, all stamped “Congo.” I supposed, being geographically inclined, that meant Belgian Congo, an exotic destination of my imagination. In due course I came to be disappointed, learning it was merely an abbreviation for the church itself. Still, since many of my thousand best friends went to the “Congo,” I liked going there the best. It was simply another school, filled with familiar faces.
Arrival at church, “Congo” most of all, was an event. My parents and I pretty much knew everyone because we were related, friends, school mates, neighborhood buddies. This was the importance of Sunday, for here God, family, country all came together, scenic, vital, reassuring, important. It was the heart of the heart of America. We needed more of this in our challenged land. Instead, we have far less.
* * * * *
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc.,  providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com. Check out Traffic Blog Empire ->  http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=nh4VYABW

You are about to be indiscrete. Midsummer’s Night June 21, 2011.

Posted on June 22, 2011 by Howard Martell

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note: There was never any doubt about which music I’d recommend for this article… it was “The Little GTO”. It was first recorded by Ronny and the Daytonas in 1964; later it went cosmic with the rendition by the Beach Boys. Right from the first line — “Little GTO, you’re really lookin’ fine…” this tune moves. You’ll find it in any search engine. Watch out… when you play it you’re 18 all over again…
This is a story that every boy who was not cool in high school can relate to. It’s a story about that day you were down at the beach (if you were in Beach Boys territory it had to be Zuma). You had gone with your best bud Herbie, but he was the president of the Chess Club. You couldn’t say a word to him; all he knew was Harvey Mudd. He’d never understand… there was no point in telling him…
Then, there it was… first for just the shortest instant as it made the turn towards the beach… … you knew exactly where it was.
Then, the sun in your eyes, a burst of color — it was ice-cold metallic blue… something cool against the heat of the day…
Then the first glance, that mobile palace of an insouciant prince of the road… his eyes dead ahead. You knew he wasn’t looking at you… but he knew you…. and every other person on that oiled body packed beach — were looking at him…
… and at the girl lucky enough to have the privilege in being his prop du jour. She had been carefully chosen by the driver… right down to the way her lightly frosted hair blew in the wind (no detail too small)… but only the clueless missed the point: the focus was not the girl… but the girl in the car…
“… let ‘em know… that I’m the coolest thing around”.
And so it was….. as you ate your heart out… knowing you ached… for the car, the girl… and the profound satisfaction of being a prince in command of a certified muscle car. No wonder you barked at Herbie and told him to shut up already about Harvey Mudd, when everybody knew he couldn’t do any better than Santa Monica Junior College. He looked hurt… maybe you’d make it up to him later…
Blu Sera 385 Spiders.
Every American boy cherished his own particular image of triumph and in every story there was a car… the car… the vehicle he not only wanted, but dreamed about, obsessive, in the places in the night only he could know.
For the subject of this article, let’s call him “Alt”, that object of acute, obsessive desire was the Ferrari 348 “Blu Sera” (Metallic Evening Blue) Spider, made only in 1994 and 1995. Alt discovered through assiduous research that the other Spider colors, red, yellow, black, and white were common, hence instantly dismissed as inferior and infra dig.
Alt also discovered that the rarest interiors were grey (always spelled the English way, never “gray”). Like I said, NO detail was too small. We’re talking about The Dream and no one dreams of acquiring anything but perfection.
In due course Alt graduated from high school and put childish things behind him; only the “Blu Sera” wasn’t a childish thing… it was a part of him, something that tugged at his heart and wouldn’t go away. Godlike though it was, it might have been sent by the Devil, so insistent was the thought reiterated over and over in his brain. He wanted it. He had to have it. He couldn’t live without it. It was just as simply complicated as that.
Oscar Wilde, who understood the nuances and depths of desire, would have told him, “The only way to overcome temptation is to yield to it.”
Enter The Wife…
As every boy learns as he grows into a man with a boy’s desires… girls, even the wife who adores you… don’t get the “car thing”. A car, for them, is nothing more than a gas-guzzling necessity designed for moving screaming kids from Point A to Point B. If there’s an attractive gray interior (the English spelling means nothing to them), that’s terrific, but what matter? They know the kids will be autographing it with their spills and sticky hands. No, few women (maybe none) understand that a man makes eternal vows to only one thing: his dream car… adored in “sickness and in health”, committed till “death do you part.”
Alt had a dream. Alt had a wife. Alt had a problem.
There was no problem, of course, until his Dream became reality. And because of the rarity of this car, every arcane detail enhancing its desirability and decreasing its likelihood, there was no problem… except the problem of a man thwarted by what he could not possess. And this he could live with, just.
Then came the day, on Ebay, when the dream became reality, not something of paint and metal but a partner of power and sensuality. It was intoxicating… it was within your grasp… it was a lot of money. But there was no problem — yet. First, he had to be sure that this car, seemingly so perfect, right down to its grey interior, was The Car, His Car. He dogged the Ebay site, sick at the thought his baby would get away, but like all lovers he wanted what he wanted on his terms and his terms only. He watched, biding his time… and waiting. The car, his car, remained unsold, available, closer to his grasp.
First visit to his beloved.
Alt arranged to visit what looked to be, what quite possibly might be, the car of his dreams. He didn’t tell his wife he was going; why upset her until he knew this one was The One. He rationalized that this was better so, for her own good.
And so he went, dressing up as if for a first date to someone he had long desired.
A wealthy collector owned the car, by great good fortune so close to Alt, he could easily drive there without arousing comment. He went (perhaps too quick for strategy)… and the car, deftly arrayed to best advantage, met him. It was there… in ice-cold blue… waiting for him, just as he’d always imagined.
The owner, who had no doubt his own experience with temptations and obsessions, wisely stayed out of sight… until he saw Alt run a caressing hand over the metal morphed by a master into enticing flesh. The collector knew… Alt knew… it was a done deal… but there were the niceties to go through and the thrill of acquisition to mask. The value of the object demanded complete compliance to the code. And so it went…
Now Alt remembered The Wife and made this bow in her direction. “I have to clear it with the old ball and chain,” he said, feeling stupid, belittled, diminished at saying so. But the man who held the keys to Alt’s desire casually said “you should have brought her; we could have settled it now.”
But Alt couldn’t explain (though the collector knew) that bringing her was impossible, like bringing her to the boudoir of a more favored lover. Impossible.
But the acid in the response, the condescension, aroused Alt… and so they went toe to toe, the discarding lover, the acquiring lover, to arrange the terms of transfer, soon acceptable to both. It had been done by gentlemen, now friends.
There was now only one obstacle left, the biggest, the wife. He mulled over his options… arranging with the seller to make delivery in three days. Alt needed some time…
And on the third day, Alt arranged with the cooperative seller to meet him a block away from his house, there to take possession; the seller to exit in a car driven by his son.
Now, not as suitor testing a vehicle, but as owner of what he always wanted, Alt got behind the wheel and drove to his home…. there to surprise the old ball and chain.
He didn’t need to be told her Irish was up. He knew. She was about to say Something Disagreeable… but Alt knew his business.
He ushered her into the front seat (no prop du jour) and told her,as if in a Confessional, about his dream, that he could put the girl of his dreams in the car of his dreams. It was schmaltz… overdone… but there was something in his eyes that made the girl melt.
And there was something in his hand, serious bling in a magnificent box, to seal the deal.
“C’mon and turn it on, wind it up, blow it out, GTO.”

About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses.
Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com. Check out Visitors Dotcom -> http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=ow4PGvJe

Blogging is booming. Look who’s blogging… and why.

Posted on June 23, 2011 by 

Howard Martell

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
I feel lucky to be alive and on the cutting edge of what is fast becoming The Age of Blogging… and you should feel the same way. And if, by some chance, you don’t know what a blog is and how it works for your benefit, you are lucky again; I’m going to reveal the true importance of blogs and some key observations on how to derive maximum benefit from them. Why blogging is sweeping the ‘net and the globe. Consider this. The history of machine publishing begins in 1454 with the preparation of what became known as the Gutenberg Bible. It took over a year before finished copies were available. This was thought to be — and was — a great advance; hitherto books had to be copied by hand, a process that resulted in many errors, of omission and commission. Printing the Gutenburg Bible was a laborious process; as a result today just 21 copies are known. Over the centuries publishing developed. Books were easier to print… there were many more publishers to print them (thereby increasing the number of opinions and points of view available)…. and in due course publishing advanced to where books could be universally distributed and available. But all this, important as it was, was as nothing compared to the most signal advance since Gutenburg himself. This is the blog. A blog is the publishing marvel which enables any person anywhere to post and distribute any message they want any time they want. It expunges the middle man, called the publisher, from the publishing equation and enables the new publishers — you! — to set their own agenda and make sure that their message is written just so… and distributed worldwide within minutes. The implications of this development are staggering. Until just the other day (in historical terms), to get your message out to the world, you either had to persuade a publisher or his designated representative (an editor) to publish your article… or you had to establish your own publication with all the expense and uncertainty that entailed. These days the process is radically different. Subscribe to a blogging service. Write your message. Update your message as necessary and desirable, even daily. And, always and forever, keep building your subscriber lists so that more and more people see what you have written. No longer must writers cringe like Uriah Heap before publishers; you, not they, control your content and can shape and refine it to the satisfaction of a single individual — you! This has never happened before in the history of mankind and is an event of the highest significance for our species as a whole and the crucial availability and distribution of information. So, who’s blogging? Powerful institutions are not always known for their ability to move quickly, understanding change and working at once to use such change to their advantage. But the advent of the blog has caused many to leap into this brave new world. One of many examples is Cardinal Sean P. O’Malley, Archbishop of Boston, Massachusetts, a prince of the Church, beloved of the Pontiff. O’Malley has become one of his Church’s “go to” guys in the pedophile priest scandal and its related sexual issues. Like other Church leaders, I suspect O’Malley has been grievously unhappy about the constant drumbeat of terrible press his beloved church has attracted. You can imagine his eminence’s eyes popping as he learned about the blog and grasped its implications. He probably jigged about his office… O’Malley no longer needs to submit to the impertinent, probing questions of pesky reporters and their insistent editors. Instead, he can shape and nuance his message just the way he wants it, to the very last comma. This is an unadulterated benefit for O’Malley… though not necessarily for truth since those pesky reporters authority figures do not like… are the means of digging, digging and digging some more; now they would be, to a significant degree, cut out of the process. The O’Malley’s of the world can breathe easier. Recently (June, 2011), O’Malley used his blog to deal with a nasty issue that had parishioners of every hue very angry indeed. A liberal priest (no, not a tautology) had announced a “liturgy to commemorate Boston Pride 2011,” an annual celebration of the city’s gay, lesbian, and transgendered community. Conservative Catholics were enraged, many of them blogging their anger. This, then, had the result of haviing the mass “postponed” (church-speak for “it won’t happen until hell freezes over, if then”). This, of course, had the predictable result of angering the liberals… and causing their blogs to erupt in a frenzy of vituperation. What’s a poor prince to do? In years past, his eminence would have been forced by the hostilities of his brethren to go before the media and submit to questioning. That is not a thing princes like to do; in fact they abhor this profoundly irritating and degrading event of lese majeste’. Now they blog… now no one ever sees them sweat… because they no longer sweat at all! O’Malley, thanks to his growing proficiency as a frequent blogger, dealt with this more than tempest-in-a-tea-cup when HE wanted, how HE wanted… his blog carefully nuanced to his liking. In due course, working behind the scenes, with the message completely his without having to bother with reporters, the matter was solved…. at least this time. Not as smart: the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams. Whereas Cardinal O’Mallley got the point about blogs and their utility, the Archbishop of Canterbury, senior cleric in the Church of England, did not. In the most recent (June, 2011) issue of the “New Statesman” magazine, his grace lashes out at the Conservative – Liberal Democrat coalition, which came to power 13 months ago. Williams was appointed in 2002 by Labor Prime Minister Tony Blair. Willams, way behind the technology curve, missed a grand opportunity not merely to get his message out to a worldwide audience far larger than the readership of a single magazine, but to grow his list (something no serious blogger can overlook). He opted for the traditional paper method… and that instantly limited the effectiveness of what he had to say. Had he, instead, set up a blog and posted his message there… his readership would have exploded and he would have added a host of new readers to his blog… where he could have worked early and late to convert them to his often irritating point of view. His grace will learn, however; he really has no choice. No “leader” of any kind does. For all, for each, it’s “blog or atrophy and die.” The same applies to you… which is why you must blog today, tomorrow, forever, or create your own irrelevance and obsolescence. a state of affairs you would really not relish.
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com. Check out Traffic Blog Empire -> http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=nh4VYABW

‘Run, Barefoot Bandit, Run.’ The story of Colton-Harris Moore, exasperatingly cute…. and as fast as the wind!

‘Run, Barefoot Bandit, Run.’ The story of Colton-Harris Moore, exasperatingly cute…. and as fast as the wind!

Posted on June 24, 2011 by Howard Martell

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note: I had no trouble at all coming up with the theme music for this article..It’s “East Bound and Down” from the smash 1977 hit film “Smokey and the Bandit.” It’s got toe-tappin’ energy. Go to any search engine, you’ll find it. Make sure you keep the link because, sure as shootin’, there’ll be some morning or other when you’ll wake up ornery and irritable, the world too much with you. This tune will cheer you up in a flash… and make you smile. Just as this article’s going to do….
“a’we gonna do what they say can’t be done!”
You’ll never understand this story until you see the culprit.  Born  March 22, 1991, “Colt” Harris-Moore was a teen-ager until just the other day. He still looks like a teen-ager, and 16 or 17 at that. And he has the look of a fresh-scrubbed Disney character, all firm flesh and smiles and “yessir” and “thank you, ma’am”.
He’s a big boy; a really big boy, 6 foot 5 inches tall, 205 pounds.  He’s a boy’s boy and you know, with that wicked grin, he’d be mischievous… but you’d bet your bottom dollar he’s a good boy, not a mean bone in his body. But there’s a dark side to this story, and it’s a good idea to get that out right away, so you can make up your own mind about this important matter.
“Colt” Harris-Moore grew up in his mother’s house in Camano Island, Washington. It was a zoo there; chaotic, disruptive, a mess. Neighbors said they made several calls to Child Protective Services, believing he was neglected or abused. His father, Gordon Moore, used drugs and was in prison while Colton was a toddler. When he was just twelve years old, his abusive father walked out during an argument at a family barbecue after attempting to choke him.
According to his mother, Pamela Kohler, his stepfather died when he was about seven years old, and from the time Colton was in first grade, she knew there was “something off about him”, “sort of a disconnection.” He wouldn’t listen to his teachers, starting altercations at school and would sometimes deliberately break things at home.
According to a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation, Harris-Moore said that his mother drank and became mean, breaking his possessions. Any way you slice it mother and son lived in a snake pit of anxieties, fears, and dark depressions… a place to avoid and escape from.
At about the age of 7, Colt started living in the wild; it was better than what he got at home.
It was then he learned his craft as an agile, nimble thief, motivated by what he could get, of course, but increasingly, as he sharpened his skills, pushing the envelope, showing himself how far he could go, how good he could get. He was determined to excel…
He started with robbing the vacation homes of people from far away places; rich, they’d never miss the stuff so easy to purloin, all indications of the stable, ample life he could only know second hand and would never have. They had so much; he so little. Why shouldn’t he just help himself? There’s hardly a kid, even those from the “best” homes who didn’t steal something, sometime. But if they were lucky, they got caught and learned a thing or two.
But Colt didn’t get caught — yet. And so he got better and better. And the game more exciting. He wanted to know, he had to know just how far he could go….
une 24, 2011 | Author: Jeffrey Lant | Posted in Dr. Jeffrey Lant’s Article Archive

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note: I had no trouble at all coming up with the theme music for this article..It’s “East Bound and Down” from the smash 1977 hit film “Smokey and the Bandit.” It’s got toe-tappin’ energy. Go to any search engine, you’ll find it. Make sure you keep the link because, sure as shootin’, there’ll be some morning or other when you’ll wake up ornery and irritable, the world too much with you. This tune will cheer you up in a flash… and make you smile. Just as this article’s going to do….
“a’we gonna do what they say can’t be done!”
You’ll never understand this story until you see the culprit. Born March 22, 1991, “Colt” Harris-Moore was a teen-ager until just the other day. He still looks like a teen-ager, and 16 or 17 at that. And he has the look of a fresh-scrubbed Disney character, all firm flesh and smiles and “yessir” and “thank you, ma’am”.
He’s a big boy; a really big boy, 6 foot 5 inches tall, 205 pounds. He’s a boy’s boy and you know, with that wicked grin, he’d be mischievous… but you’d bet your bottom dollar he’s a good boy, not a mean bone in his body. But there’s a dark side to this story, and it’s a good idea to get that out right away, so you can make up your own mind about this important matter.
“Colt” Harris-Moore grew up in his mother’s house in Camano Island, Washington. It was a zoo there; chaotic, disruptive, a mess. Neighbors said they made several calls to Child Protective Services, believing he was neglected or abused. His father, Gordon Moore, used drugs and was in prison while Colton was a toddler. When he was just twelve years old, his abusive father walked out during an argument at a family barbecue after attempting to choke him.
According to his mother, Pamela Kohler, his stepfather died when he was about seven years old, and from the time Colton was in first grade, she knew there was “something off about him”, “sort of a disconnection.” He wouldn’t listen to his teachers, starting altercations at school and would sometimes deliberately break things at home.
According to a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation, Harris-Moore said that his mother drank and became mean, breaking his possessions. Any way you slice it mother and son lived in a snake pit of anxieties, fears, and dark depressions… a place to avoid and escape from.
At about the age of 7, Colt started living in the wild; it was better than what he got at home.
It was then he learned his craft as an agile, nimble thief, motivated by what he could get, of course, but increasingly, as he sharpened his skills, pushing the envelope, showing himself how far he could go, how good he could get. He was determined to excel…
He started with robbing the vacation homes of people from far away places; rich, they’d never miss the stuff so easy to purloin, all indications of the stable, ample life he could only know second hand and would never have. They had so much; he so little. Why shouldn’t he just help himself? There’s hardly a kid, even those from the “best” homes who didn’t steal something, sometime. But if they were lucky, they got caught and learned a thing or two.
But Colt didn’t get caught — yet. And so he got better and better. And the game more exciting. He wanted to know, he had to know just how far he could go….
And so it began.
The authorities all knew about Colt… although even in his early days he had no trouble outsmarting them. Still, he got his first conviction for stolen property when he was 12; by the time he was 13, he had three more. Now diagnosed with depression, attention deficit disorder and intermittent explosive disorder, he reckoned he had nothing to lose. Each conviction bought him just 10-days in a detention center, or in community service.
In 2003 things changed and the stakes went up. He stole a neighbor’s camcorder; the police found it in his room. This time he got a sentence with bite: three years. He looked in the mirror, liked what he saw, combed his hair… and walked out of a halfway house. It was April, 2008…. and the Barefoot Bandit was about to show America how folk heroes are born….
“We’ve got a long way to go and a short time to get there.”
Now this master thief, gifted by God with a cherub’s face and a dazzling smile, got serious.
With adolescent energy and grit and determination which any entrepreneur could envy, he found his vocation… and ran with it, bare footed. He stole just for the joy of stealing. It didn’t seem to matter what he stole… although he favored toys that could move him on… for Colt was a moving target… the fastest of all.
He pinched bicycles automobiles, light aircraft, speedboats.
He was a boy who liked speed… liked turning it on, turning it up… the wind always blowing through his hair… getting away from mother, from teachers, from court-ordered psychiatrists… and from every other trammel and inhibition.
“I’m east bound just watch ol’ Bandit run.”
He zoomed east with manic energy and no purpose whatsoever except to keep on moving. The crazinesses added up: he stole flight manuals and flight simulators… so he could steal planes…
He would often slip into homes along the way to soak in a hot bath… or steal ice cream. He stole a credit card to order bear mace; remember, he generally slept in the woods. He stole another card to order a pair of night vision goggles for $6,500.
On May 30 or 31, 2011 police found a handwritten note and $100 at a veterinary clinic in Raymond, Washington. The note said, “Drove by, had some extra cash. Please use this money for the care of animals.” He signed it “Colton Harris-Moore AKA ‘The Barefoot Bandit.’ Camano, Washington.” It was just the kind of thing a real folk hero would do.
And so America began to root for this boy who robbed with his shoes off, in the freedom of bare feet. He moved, always fast, through states he saw only as a blur… authorities everywhere eager to nab him…
“… he’s hot on your trail and he ain’t gonna rest ‘tiill you’re in jail”
And so it went…. running… robbing.. running some more through Idaho, South Dakota, Nebraska, Iowa, Illinois… over 100 thefts and counting.
“So you gotta dodge him… you gotta duck him”
And so he did… and while we paid bills, bought groceries, went to work, the image of that boy whirring through time and space grabbed us and grew. We knew he’d get caught…. we just hoped it wouldn’t be for a while yet. We knew he’d go to jail for a long time…. but he had freedom, real freedom… albeit purchased at a staggering price.
It all came to an end in Harbour Island, Bahamas, July 6, 2010. He was about to steal a boat, bless him, and local police shot out the engine and grabbed him. Colt had a gun to his head when apprehended. It’s a nice point about whether he’d have been better off using it.
Instead they apprehended him and, in due course extradited him back to Washington State and law and order in the shape of U.S. Attorney Jenny Durkan. She knows nothing of folk heroes and her rage about the boy and his celebrity is palpable. She made sure Colt would never benefit from films, books, or anything else. It won’t matter… we know Durkan is right, doing her job… but she is not the stuff of Americana. Colt is… and she knows it. So do we…. movie, or not.
“Keep your foot hard on the peddle… son, never mind them brakes.”
“Keep your foot hard on the peddle… son, never mind them brakes.”
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martell <a http://HomeProfitCoach.com. Check out Traffic Blog Empire ->  http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=nh4VYAB

It’s time to celebrate International ‘Get It Off Your Chest Day.’ You’ll feel better if you do.

Posted on June 26, 2011 by Howard Martell

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author’s program note. For this article Maria Mendez’ recording of “What a difference a day makes” (released 1934) is a must. You’ll find it in any search. engine. And, by the way, Maria is right: the difference is you!
Have you noticed there’s a “day” for everything… for artichoke growers… pizza makers… midgets… apples… moms and dads… you get picture.
However, after exhaustive research ( at least an hour or two) I have discovered an absolutely crucial activity which has not, so far, been granted its own special day.
Thus, I am herewith proposing “International Get If Off Your Chest” Day.
This day was inspired by my nephew Kyle who graduated from college in May 2011. As is customary (at least the graduate so told me) I donated some bucks to the young buck… then sat back (like millions of generous parents, relations and friends) for the effusive letter of acknowledgement, thanks, and gratitude.
I have waited for weeks now (along with those millions cited above) and have received nada, zip, absolutely nothing. It occurred to me that all of us long-suffering folks need an outlet for our chagrin, irritation, and soon-to-be righteous wrath and rage.
But, let’s face it, a special day for the good people who sent money (so far unacknowledged) for commencement would, I think you’d agree be (perhaps) a tad over specific…. even if we extended its focus to be any slothful, lay about graduate of any institution.
So, I put my thinking cap on and brainstormed… to see how the parameters of this holiday could be suitably extended so that more sins of omission and commission could be added.
Then I thought of a no-longer-quite-so-dear friend…let’s call him Thomas Frederick Byrd III… because that is his name. Tommy (for he is not always so formal) borrowed 10 CDs from me, what, an eon ago, making the usual sincere, look-deeply-in-his-eyes promises that “they’ll be returned, Scout’s honor, in a week, ten days tops.” As I said, and as I must reiterate here, that ample deadline has long been exceeded…. hints to Tommy (even quite a lurid one) have gone unanswered… and now the bugger won’t answer my calls. The holiday must be extended to include these miscreants and scoffers.
Tommy’s non-return of my very best CDs is venal compared to William Wilder’s misdemeanors. He put the touch on me for 200 Yankee dollars; I don’t know what I could have been thinking of. I should have listened to Polonius (ok, he’s a trifle windy) about borrowers and lenders. Bill Wilder used to be one of my best friends; now I can hardly think of him without apoplexy… for, of course, he is now in the witness protection program… and my beloved dollars with him.
Near crying at these acid remembrances of people who have let me down, in so remembering I have one “aha!” moment after another, each of which builds the case and need for this deeply sensible day.
There’s Tommy (seemingly a frequent miscreant sobriquet) at the convenience store who has promised me at least half a dozen times to charge back those mildewed strawberries. So far, no action.
There’s my cousin Clarabelle (and no she has no children named Howdy Doody) who has yet to return that lovely pic-nic basket with the (admittedly plate) silver handles.
This list, growing by the moment, represents in miniature just why we absolutely must have a day, perhaps even two, when we can let it all hang out. Such a day would of course feature politicians and the myriad of ways they irritate and abuse us every single day.
“Great idea,” everybody says so.
While writing this article, I have been tending a very busy phone. I emailed a few of my nearest and dearest to clue them in to my Big Idea. I told them their opinion was urgent and expected; my phone’s been ringing off the hook ever since with calls from people who have quite clearly mastered the superlative tense; without exception these bright folks want what I am proposing: a chance to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about matters great and small with which less polite and perceptive folks have afflicted them. I am getting used to the constant huzzahs and raucous congratulations.
These, admittedly thrilling, have induced further cogitation on the issue. As I amble and ponder, new facets of this idea emerge and take center stage in my fervid brain; I am like a man possessed.
In addition to the specially designated “Off Your Chest” day… we need a National Registry where aggrieved citizens can post their complaints and miseries; given our digitized age it should be easy to cross-reference these, to create profiles and warning systems for people (even if our nearest and dearest) who have affronted not one, but many, and often.
And, remember, this registry, this most necessary warning system would not be a thing for just a single nation, no matter how grand, but for all the nations, even insignificant little San Marino.
Of course, there might be mistakes… or at least folks claiming they have been victimized.
I am a believer in fairness, a believer in fairness am I. As a result, there must be some means of checking the accuracy of all information and allowing folks to respond. Yes, that is only fair. Of course this will necessitate a very substantial staff; their workload, as is already plain, would be staggering. After all, nearly every person on this planet (except a few Trappist monks) have things they wish, indeed need to get off their chests… and I may be doing a disservice to Trappists who agree. If so, I abjectly apologize.
This is turning into a helluva lot of work!
You know, people like me with good ideas should be designated Super Citizen. After all, WE keep this country, this world, and, may I say, this whole solar system working.
I’m really ticked off now. My original simple idea has now morphed into a multi- dimensional nightmare. I’m over my head, for sure. All I wanted was to chide a few friends and get some bucks back and my very best CDs. Now people are starting to criticize me, yes ME, as some kind of dictator, FBI, CIA, looking-for-skeletons- -in-all-the-closets. Every time they do, I put them on my list for future SEVERE action. It’s what those friggin’ morons deserve.
I give up.
I’m ditching this idea and am heading in a brand-new direction. I’ve written Kyle’s thank-you note and sent him a copy so he knows what he said. I sent a gift card to Tommy giving him CDs he won’t give up anyway. And as for the 200 smackers, I’ll tell the IRS they are a charitable donation to people with incurable insensitivity.
As for me, I’ve sent this letter to the president reminding him the buck stops there.
* * * * *
About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martellhttp://HomeProfitCoach.com. Check out Traffic Blog Empire ->  http://www.HomeProfitCoach.com/?rd=nh4VYABW

Why you should join me today and profit!!! Howard Martell’s first visit with the CEO of Worldprofit Dr. Jeffrey Lant at his Cambridge Mass Home.

BY

Howard Martell President of Homeprofitcoach.com

My day started off great.  I woke up early and motivated to finally meet the CEO of my online home business which has helped me grow so much in knowledge of marketing using automation , history, and finally learning the art of writing good article content.
The drive was quite pleasant, for only being only 2 hours away from  the hotel where me and my wife were staying in Connecticut, while visiting family. As we entered the Cambridge area, wow was it beautiful and quite hard to navigate through all the one way streets and round abouts. I finally asked a local Cambridge man wearing a Boston Red Sox cap, “Can you tell me where Follen Street is located”?  He said “Its the last brick building on the right hand-side after the stairs”. I told him Happy New Year.
I walked towards the red, brick building and finally saw the correct number and was quite happy and looking forward to finally meeting Dr. Lant. As I rang his suite number, the door opened. I traveled towards the right hand side and took the elevator up 5 levels. When I turned the corner to enter, the first thing I saw was this vibrant and famous red room which he shows to the world online. The color and the contrast I saw when walking into his home would take any historians breath away.  He greeted me and shook my hand with a sincere look and smile and told me and my wife please come in.  Dr. Lant, as you know is a noted Historian and has at his home a life-like museum which has taken him over 20 years to procure. All of his collection worth millions.  Our tour started in the blue room, which is where he keeps his office. We were being very careful not to lean against or brush into any of his collection. This room was so vibrant, it felt like we were walking at a Hollywood Red carpet event.  The chandelier is the highlight of the room.  It was completely made of sparking diamonds.  When you first come into the room you see his computer monitor and next to it all his papers from which his masterful articles come to life for the whole world to see. This is where he sits and works his magic from 4:30 in the morning till 4:00 pm everyday. He has these beautiful columns made of rare marble and topped with gold. Finally the emperors chair, as we call it, is not a fancy chair but a sturdy black wooden chair with a pillow for his back.
Proceeding to the next area he has pictures of all the head of states autographed and in protected frames.  The paintings, from the 16-18 century, come to life as you stare at them.  There were these emperors chairs that were well restored and the stitching was something you will never see in your lifetime. As we continue on, he told us history of each piece of his collection down to these beautifully detailed clocks of pure silver and gold.  He has a special hand-picked team help him restore each and every piece of his living museum.
After the tour, Dr. Lant and I were helping get some lunch ready for all of us.  It consisted of Tempered Shrimp, and some yummy looking pigs in a blanket. I was offered some Sherry with cream and it went down your throat smooth and warmed your entire belly.
Dr. Lant wanted us to take pictures of his collection while he was broadcasting live to the world, helping our thousands of members and growing globally with closing of sales. So I started in the red room and started snapping shot after shot of all of his collections. As I was waiting for my que to come into the blue room, I was taking pictures of Dr. Lant broadcasting to the world. I spoke with my wife and explained to her what he was doing and we were saying to each other “he surely does have a passion for reaching out to people and in a direct but sincere manner”.  His words are cutting edge like a sword, but reach up and grab your attention with every sentence coming out of his mouth. The live web-cast was 20 minutes long. As we listened to each sentence coming out of his mouth, we could truly tell he loves helping others to become not only better marketers, but better well cultured people.
Dr. Lant called to me and said you will be sitting in my chair in 15 minutes. As the time approaches, I was nervous but excited to share with the world what I had seen so far.  His chair was comfortable and well positioned for the world to see the first ever Monitor who came to visit the good Dr. Lant and his collections.
As I spoke into the mike it was just like me broadcasting from my home but without all the vibrant colors and sitting in the CEO’s Emperor’s chair as we call it.  My voice was sharing what I could remember since arriving into Dr. Lant’s world.   The time flew by as I shared my experience with the world on what 2011 will be like for all the World Profit Dealers globally. So hold on to your seats everyone and get ready to have your world rocked with automation is what I said, and thanked Dr. Lant, George Kosch, and finally Sandy Hunter for helping me  and others make a nice residual income which keeps on growing following a proven system.
Dr Lant, then took over and shared what he thought about all of what I said and thanks me for coming up live to the world to share my experience. We all decided after a long day that it was time to conclude our day with a nice dinner at a local hotel, less than  1 block away from his home. Dr. Lant spoke to us while  we carefully navigated the snow and ice of the red brick walkway and was  explaining each detail of all the historic events within the
Cambridge area in detail. We all entered the restaurant and Dr.Lant was greeted by all the staff members with respect and admiration as we were seated.   The conversation ranged from history, religion and finally asked Dr. Lant about where he thought World-profit’s were going in 2011 and he said just wait and see what George has in store for you and all the members.  I was thinking to myself while seated, this seemed surreal that I was here with the CEO of the company that I work with online.  This is unprecedented in the history of Internet Marketing. I just smiled and thought feel so blessed to be in the presence of a pioneer online.
As we sat down and talked, I could tell he was enjoying the dinner and the company as we were following along with all he was saying. For all the nay-sayers who don’t like Dr. Lant and call  him a scam artist,  he is quite frankly  an honest business man.   My first impression of the him is that he is sincere and wants to help anyone who wants to invest time and effort into any of his or her businesses online.  So stop the negative press, you’re only helping him write more articles and get more exposure for the company.
In closing, as I had a private goodbye with Dr. Lant, I shared  my thoughts and told him my wife enjoyed the experience but fully didn’t understand why I do what I do and why this was so important to me. He said, most of the wives who have husbands who work online, feel at times that the business is taking away from their family time.  When in reality, it is helping create more time for your family. As I was about to leave, Dr. Lant gave me a nice fatherly hug and told me to drive safe and was looking forward to my next visit to Cambridge. He told me you’re well on your way to becoming a millionaire.  Keep up the work you do as Senior Monitor and you are positioned for success online now. Walking away, I was so blown away and felt so empowered that the CEO thought that much about me. This article shows each and everyone of you who is struggling online that dreams can come true and that through having the right system and education the world is your oyster.
Thank you,
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Howard Martell is the President of HOMEPROFITCOACH.COM and has worked online for well over 12 yrs part time while holding down a full time career of  over 18 and half years active duty US Navy. For the past year, with World Profit online, he has helped people create residual income using automation.
FOR MORE INFORMATION FEEL FREE TO COMMENT ON HIS BLOG or call him at 757-962-2482 serious inquires only!!!
Visit my site for the following free goodies: Since 1994, Sandi and co-founders Dr. Jeffrey Lant and George Kosch have built Worldprofit into the company known as the
Home Business Experts.  Republished with author’s permission by Howard Martell MCEWC http://HomeProfitCoach.com