Miles To Go.

Fred w phone. No unlimited data plan just yet...

There is a yawning gap emerging in the world and I think this gap will define the advancement of societies, the creation of jobs,  and even the happiness of populations in the decades to come: it is access to mobile data and I call it Flintstones vs. Jetsons. (shout out to April Rudin for the headline).

• Generation segue: Some of us remember Fred Flintstone. Worked in a quarry, drove a foot pedal car. Loved to bowl and eat steaks. Life was simple, and there was not a lot of reason to innovate. Pebbles and BamBam didn’t seem to be a big generational culture gap. A loveable guy in the Jackie Gleason vein.
• And his cartoon counterpart, George Jetson. Worked are Spacely, drove an automated space scooter. Astro walked himself, Rosie the Robot did the chores. Skyped with the office, used the tele-puter on his wrist. Loveable knucklehead is in a fast-moving world, but he kept adapting and he kept pace.

So my point, my belief, is that we have arrived at a crucial inflection point in our history, where people, countries, leaders (and entire industries) are choosing to go Flintsone or Jetson. And the catalyst for this decision is, clearly, the smart phone and the data it generates. The Flintstone are content with how things are. They have found ways to live until now without technology, and they resolved they would coast from here on in, whether in their carreers or their lives. Financial planners are on the list. So is much of the financial services (non retail) industry. Traditional media has hated the transition. KONY is no fan. Nor is Assad, or Mubarak. People of a certain age (but not all!). There are lots more.

Meanwhile, the Jetsons accelerate. The gap has not even yet begun to present itself.

mOcean at Mobile World Congress

If you have any doubt of how quickly this industry has grown, check out the Mojiva/Mocean (I am an investor) booth at The Mobile World Congress. MWC was, five years ago, just a bunch of suits from Nordic and Asian countries wielding flip phones for voice and text. Today, MWC is heralded as the biggest and the best mobile technology event in the world. According to conference organizer the GSMA, this year’s event played host to a record number of attendees, topping out at 67,000 visitors from 205 countries; an 11% increase over the 2011 show. The four-day conference and exhibition attracted mobile operators, software companies, equipment providers, Internet companies and media and entertainment organizations, as well as government delegations from across the globe. More than 50 percent of this year’s attendees hold C-level positions, including more than 3,500 CEOs.

Most telling perhaps, CEO’s were wearing jeans, T’s and blazers…

So here’s the shocker datapoint from cisco: 40% of the worlds smartphone data is consumed by… 1% of the world population. That means a small group of people are gaining an unfair (perhaps) advantage because of their access to information

• The subways are down: take the bus.
• This new place is overcrowded: here’s another local option.
• Gas prices are skyrocketing, but discounted in NJ this weekend.
• This client has spent xxx seconds on the site and is ready to take the next buying step
• Yo Twitter! The rally to unseat the government has been moved to the following sidestreet!

The examples go on and on. A few minutes saved. A better solution for the moment. A bit more background before the interview. A better way, on the way. Compound that millions of times over billions of people and guess what: you have a new gap between the haves and the have-nots. Food for thought before you make your choice between Flintstone or Jetson!

"Play responsibly"

I’ve been trading everyday phone calls and emails with the developer that built our new family home. The experience hasn’t been perfect, from my perspective, but I acknowledge the guy probably has plenty other things going on besides the faulty control panel on my Kohler steambath.

Turns out, I was right.

Seems Brandon won the Connecticut Powerball lottery earlier this month, and it all came out today. For those that don’t know it, our new nhometown of Greenwich does not see a lot of suffering. In fact, if there was ever a town that did not need a lottery winner, that would be ours. If there is an Occupy Greenwich Avenue movement starting soon to decry the inequality of the 1% winning a lottery designed for the 99%, consider this: the town is full of rags to riches stories. It’s just that they usually involve numbers that come through a Bloomberg terminal, not spit out for a dollar at the local BP station. Luck is random, and this proves it, again.

But the BP station is where Brandon and his two boyhood buddies went in equal (I surmise) on a dollar bet that pulled a lump sum of $100,000,000. (Powerball markets it as $254,000,000 but that’s a 30 year payout into a black hole of tax policy no one in or out of Greenwich should take a bet on). I was recently told by an EO leadership swami that you can’t control the world, you can only control how you react to it. This is a good example of that.

He has been sitting on this news for the past three weeks. In the meantime, he has been responsive and professional about the various punchlist fixes he owes at the house. We knock something out every few days. And that says a lot about Brandon; old school, honest and possessing a genuinely good heart. I spend a lot of time thinking about Trust, and have written about the Heuristics of Trust , actually more than once. I’m not sure who bought the ticket, but the fact the three shared it also says a lot about their Huck-Finn like trust dynamic ($.66 would have bought out the others a few weeks back).

Today, they came clean and told the public. They had formed a trust, and will give a large amount to charity. They don’t strike me as the type of guys about to go on a race to the bottom and be deeply in debt 5 years after winning. It will probably not change their lives all that much, but that’s an outside view at this point. All I can say is, it has not changed my friend in the past three weeks.

That is a good story. Good on you mate.

seriously good… jazz

I spent a few hours recently with a few of my “younger” friends, quizzing them on social mores and probing the boundaries of what’s generally acceptable these days.

It’s a long way down.

I’m convinced we- and they- are complicit in a race to the bottom in terms of what is socially acceptable. Years ago, William Bennett brought it up in the phrase “Moral Poverty”, which didn’t resonate with me. Chill out dude was as much as I thought at the time.

But since then, the slide has only  accelerated. Maybe thanks to the web, social media, mobile and similar phenomenons (which I invest in- I admit). In short, perhaps I’d be happier in the 50′s… maybe because I wasn’t there. But the movies were good and my parent’s stories were fine. People had a firm grasp on what was important: mostly family, fun, respect, dignity, honor, grace and a lot of similar words that cannot be found on cable TV or your Facebook Wall or Twitter feed.

Sure, it was a simpler world, with less options in the day and on the dance card. Cary Grant found way to be both funny, charming, and quite a dashing gentleman. John Wayne (or even Clint) held forth as men or integrity, dignity and toughness. But by the 70′s Whipped Cream and Other Delights printed their cover for Herb Alpert above. I was eight, but looking at that photo, even I should have known that all hell was about to break loose.

1. Charlie Sheen pushing the edge of outrage so far as to make Tucker Max feel outdone, embarrassed, and frankly somewhat gentlemanly. “This is my porn room…”
2. Kim Kardashian & Co. showing off the good life from her “business empire/lunch date” while hawking credit cards to her gullible wannabee audience as their ticket to the good life. Then sticking them with exorbitant fees and rates.
3. The guy in the next row on the train I am riding rambling into his cell phone that “I hate marshmallows on his baked yams, and he won’t be embarrassed in front of his parents with that casserole again”.
4. Donald Trump simultaneously declaring bankruptcy at his Atlantic City casinos and firing people for poor management skills.
5. So many NBA children born out of wedlock the family reunions are about as predictable as a Miami Heat shot chart.

So here’s my point… I realize one cannot arrest the slide by simply saying something- listening skills are nearly defunct as well. No, for those that are interested, only actions will do. Walk away from the things that rot your brain. Do something… meaningful, that brings value to the party. Listen more, talk less. Then maybe dignity, grace, courtesy and compassion will make abit of a comeback.

Or so I hope.

I’m in.

Anyone else?

Buehler?

Shortly after the French bit the bullet and elected Nic Sarkozy (American lover! Immigrant not-lover! Salami eater!) over Ms. Royale (Well dressed!, Well mannered! A true French mum for us all!) it seemed like a good time to check in on mes amis francais to see how they were getting along under la nouvelle salade compose’. I am pleased to report the French are going about doing what they do best: being French. In my opinion, this means getting a very quiet revenge on the entire rest of the civilized world by drinking wine, eating foie gras, and playing La Boule like that’s all there is.

In the words of the now immortal Sebou, plus que ca change, plus que c’est la meme chose.

And where is the best place to enjoy this most French of traditions of tossing steel balls in efforts to get close by a small cork one? Without a doubt, The Café outside the fortress wall of St.Paul de Vence. Uh, that’s in France, BTW.

First, a wee bit of background on St.P.de V. Situated on the hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, the town was a medieval fortress with commanding views (always that way, isn’t it?). The winding streets are a haven for art galleries and food lovers. Palm D’or is there. Chagall has a museum down the street (he’s gone, though). The city itself has preserved its fountains, cemeteries, cathedrales, cobblestones, public wash basins, and other key elements in drawing busloads of tourists to the place. A visit to St Paul de Vence is on many a must-see list, but many people rush from bus to shop and back, and walk right on by the best part of it all.

La Boule, played to the death!

I’ve watched this game from afar, played it up close, and observed it from every angle imaginable. (My buddy Gauthier at Quarterback actually hosts the Petanque Championships in Arles each year, but this piece isn’t about winning, it’s about living). A few rules to begin perhaps? Start with a softly undulating chipped clay surface, with just enough stray stones to knock the ball off course every once in a maddening while. A small (golf ball size) cork ball is tossed gently. Then each player takes a turn trying to lodge his boule closest to the object. (think shuffleboard, in a circular way). If your toss does not better the previous, you toss until done. Rolling gets you no-where. Pebbles disrupt everything. The prized shot is actually the sky ball, descending from the heaven, to annihilate a tightly clustered bunch of opponent’s boules, a partner’s shins, and perhaps some poor dog’s tooth who was after the chicken bone dropped nearby sometime earlier. When each team (of two) has finished, a succinct analysis is made, that being who remains closest the object ball, which has likely moved by now. Bonus scoring is achieved if all three of your boules are inside the best of your opponents. Everything is argued passionately: the boule moved! The pebble got in the way! The object was too far (left, right, away, close). The dog interfered! You cheat like Sarkozy! You cry like Segolene! Finally, peace is restored when a tape measure is introduced to settle once and for all in centimeters what the eye just can’t discern. And voila, one team declares victory for the round. Whereupon, the cork is gently tossed, the boules are wiped clean, the dog scatters for cover and we go again.

The game is sublimely simple. Maddeningly complicated. Requires no great physical prowess. And goes on forever. Which is why it is good to choose a good place to play. I knew the busloads don’t get it, but when I came upon – Café I knew I was in Yankee Stadium. It is has an amazing view of the valley and the coast, and room enough for at least 30 games of boules simultaneously. The Horse chestnut trees have halogen lights. The café is alongside to serve cold drinks, wine, and more wine. A clubhouse is nestled in the corner, with tapes, ball cloths, and extra visors. And the gravel is divine, some absolutely perfect clay that really only hangs around in that area, I am guessing.. No doubt, I am not the first to notice all this, because the crowd for boules is entirely locals, huge, and entirely mad. They play and play and play. They make the nuts in Jardin Luxembourg look like schoolboys. And they play well into the night. Like 2am into the night! The café never turns out the lights on a game. The bathrooms stay open. Wives who call the bar are told the last game is just finishing up… and the wine never runs out.

Kind of like the way it should be in more places, I think.

If you go
» St Paul de Vence
» Musee Chagall
» Gallerie Unicorn
» Quarterback