On communication, professional and otherwise.
… but I call it an action shot of me ripping down Irving Park Road like a total badass in my motorcycle in my baseball uniform (with a close-up of my super cute butt in my my baseball pants!) for only $35.
A bargain at twice the price.
Being a father to a teenage girl (no, a teenage woman) is watching the new marathon Beatles documentary and wanting to show her how genius-level creativity works, by having her sit down and watch just three minutes of the seven hours, where McCartney and the gang invent “Get Back” from whole cloth while they wait for a tardy John Lennon to arrive for rehearsal.
It’s calling her in, but being told, “I’m in the middle of something.”
It’s asking, “In the middle of what?”
It’s being told, “I’m dyeing my eyebrows.”
And it’s having the rest of the night ruined, by the time-consuming and cumbersome process of distilling your filthy rage into pure sadness, at the memory of hoisting this same person onto your lap where she would eagerly watch any YouTube video you put in front of her, whether Fred Astaire singin’ in the rain, or young Cassius dancin’ in Miami.
Well, she and I are headed to St. Louis tomorrow for a soccer tournament. And if you think she’s going to get through that 12-hour round trip without watching this, then you don’t know the depth of my animal determination to continue to influence her tastes and expand her vision, right up until the day she throws dirt in my face.
Today, dedicated Writing Boots reader, please take a short trip over to ProRhetoric.com, where I do my rhetorical best to obliterate “the false arguments, unconsidered attitudes and convenient canards of corporate leaders, about the creation and delivery of oral communication”—all of which were put forth in a Harvard Business Review piece earlier this year.
Whether you agree or disagree with my assessment, I’d love to have you add your voice.