Businessmen are the one group that distinguishes capitalism and the American way of life from the totalitarian statism that is swallowing the rest of the world. All the other social groups- workers, farmers, professional men, scientists, soldiers- exist under dictatorships, even though they exist in chains, in terror, in misery, and in progressive self-destruction. But there is no such group as businessmen under a dictatorship. Their place is taken by armed thugs: by bureaucrats and commissars. Businessmen are the symbol of a free society- the symbol of America.

Every movement that seeks to enslave a country, every dictatorship or potential dictatorship, needs some minority group as a scapegoat which it can blame for the nation's troubles and use as a justification of its own demands for dictatorial powers. In Soviet Russia, the scapegoat was the bourgeoisie; in Nazi Germany, it was the Jewish people; in America, it is the businessmen.

• Every government interference in the economy consists of giving an unearned benefit, extorted by force, to some men at the expense of others.

I used to do a lot of apologetics with Muslims but now I think it is a waste of time.  I would rather give them a testimony like this one.

Now my atheist friends is this a rational decision?

Though this is an obvious highlight (though a somewhat terrifying one) to the day, all was not made of sunshine and Dark Crystal muppet look a likes.  As the day progressed my throat began to feel somewhat scratchy and I was developing a headache.  Things that were usually slightly annoying now became intolerable (giggling girls) and so I sat on the floor behind the desk putting GST stickers on books allowing dear Ben to take care of all the patron's extraneous internet needs. When I finally got home I passed out only to feel even worse the next morning.   I attempted to remain immobile for the day, but the unfortunate reality of my life is that when I'm not at work or class I need to run errands.  Hence I went to the Farmers market, Service Repro., the mall, and pet supplies plus while all I really wanted to do was lay back and let someone take care of me.  Another annoyance if you are a single person who doesn't live with their parents you are required to take care of your own sick self, no one to make you soup or tea, but yourself.  Very unfair.

This morning I woke up to a pile of dirty dishes in my sink. They were there yesterday, but I was so absorbed in my misery that I didn't pay them any particular attention.  I feel better today, making my more coherent self take notice and be disgusted by the food particles clinging to the plates in the sink, but still to exhausted to bother doing them.  I'm also at work all day, a nice 8-hour shift to make me feel just chipper about my fifty-million snot rags littering the waste bin.  I could have called in sick, but I cannot afford it and I'm functional enough to sit at a desk and print off papers for our Internet People.  How can one person have this much snot in them?  Seriously, I think I'm just sneezing out my brains or something, because it doesn't stop.

Today just got lovelier when I had a arrogant businessman come in wanting to fax an exhorbant amount of pages.  I tried to get him to go to Kinkos  "I don't have time," I tried to tell him I needed to clear it with my supervisor, "I don't have time I'm going to go pay with my credit card" and I was too tired to put up a decent fight.  Thus I am faxing 74 pages of bridal registrations.  Screw you Bridal Expo.

Over a beer the other evening, my friend Mort said that football players are the third most boring people in the U. S. of A. He awarded the second slot to sportscasters, then went on to say that the fans are the biggest bores of all. Mort tends to make silly lists like that when he’s drinking. Give the man a few brews and he’ll go off the deep end every time.

We were in our favorite neighborhood bar just around the corner from his house, enjoying a cold one and playing darts. Mort, like always, was winning. The funny thing is the more he drinks the better he shoots, and the more he wins the more outrageous his opinions become. Most of his conversational bombshells don’t bother me because I know how he is. I know he likes to drop them just to see what sort of reaction he’ll get—to see me flinch—so I usually let his outlandish statements just lie there. But this time I got upset; the crack about football fans was downright mean. So I came back at him with, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Mort took the time to score his first bull’s eye before he turned to me and said, “Have you ever listened to one of those pests talk once the pre-season games begin—or even during the draft?”

“Mort, I’m a fan myself.”

“But you’re the exception that proves the rule. You’re intelligent—more-or less—but ninety-nine percent of football fans have never had an original thought in their heads. Everything they have to say about their favorite game is warmed-over sportscaster prattle they've gleaned from guys like John Madden. And the worst part is they can’t wait to inflict their secondhand insights on anyone within earshot.”

“It’s a free country, Mort. You don’t have to listen.” I tossed my first dart, which missed the board and stuck in the men’s room door.

“Wrong!” Mort said. “In my office after every game those dunderheads call a meeting near my desk to discuss its finer points. Loud. Over and over and over. I’m force-fed boring football stats and idiotic athletic clichés which have been lifted, word-for-word, from some sportscast, and delivered as Revealed Wisdom.”

“When that happens, Mort, just take a break. Go take a leak.”

“You kidding? It’s even worse in the bathroom. Football fans are stationed at every urinal and stall, ready to talk the ears off the trapped souls who at that moment have no choice in the matter. Others buttonhole innocent hand-washers at the sinks. It never occurs to those dimwits that just because you’re male, it doesn’t automatically follow that you’re interested in childish pro football drivel.”

“Really, Mort, you’re overstating the problem.” My second dart struck the target’s metal rim and fell to the floor. I ignored it. “What’s the harm of a little fan chatter? And anyway, it’s only—what, how many games are there in a complete season?” Right off I was sorry I had asked such a basic question and was glad when Mort didn't notice, or just ignored me.

“Nothing's wrong with it, if it were only once in a while. The fact is, though, football fans give equal weight to each game, and they discuss it all week long with an intensity usually reserved for an event like the Second Coming. Then the cycle starts again, from scratch. Same crap commentary week after week. The fan's endless jock-jabber begins to wear really thin by the end of the season.”

Mort shot another bull’s eye. I could see where this game was going, but I got lucky and during my next series I scored a clean ten, which made me feel a little better; at least I wouldn't be snookered. “Mort," I said, "you just have a low boredom threshold.”

“Only when it comes to football talk. I get fed up starting with the first reports from training camp.” He fired a thirty-pointer, then said, “Look, buddy, I love the game of football—it’s just the boorish and boring fans I can’t stand. Most of 'em have the social graces of a chimpanzee and the I. Q. of a cucumber.”

“That’s a rash generalization, Mort. The fans I know are—”

He cut me off. “Just listen to ‘em. Like for instance that wild and crazy guy at every home game, the one who leads the team cheers. He’s there every Sunday, skunky-drunk, making a fool of himself and annoying everyone around him, and it's not just because of his body odor.”

“Not everybody,” I said. “Some of us enjoy the way he really gets into the spirit of the game." With my next series I managed to score 20 points on the first dart, but the other three somehow wound up in the wall. "Anyway," I said, "that guy is a bad example of your average football fan.”

“Or a good one, depending on your point of view. The grown men are the worst, you know. They’re little boys in large bodies—with skulls as thick as a lineman’s thighs.”

By this point I was at a loss for words. I had to admit that a lot of Mort’s rant was spot on. The interminable discussion of obscure football facts, the endless repetition of certain trite phrases like “We can win it all if the team stays healthy,” and the childish bantering arguments that fans indulge in does get old fast, even for a dyed-in-the-wool fan like me. But I would never admit that to Mort. I pointed to the darts in his hand. “Your shot.”

Mort toed the line and leaned in toward the board. He slowly raised his right hand, a dart pinched between thumb and forefinger, squinted into the bar gloom, and said, “Wait. I’ve changed my mind. Football fans are really victims. They’re like those suckers that P. T. Barnum said are born every minute.” He flicked his wrist and let the dart fly straight for the bull’s eye—”thunk!” Mort took a deep breath, raised the second dart into firing position and said, “Their worst sin is allowing themselves to be manipulated by slick businessmen who, in order to stimulate ticket sales, regularly threaten to move the team to another city.” Flick—”thunk!”— another bull. Mort smiled, then took a sip of beer. “The team owner’s—those powerful rich guys scheming for more cash to feed their greed—they’re the real bores.”

Couldn't argue with that. I decided to go to the men’s room rather than watch Mort throw his last dart. I had to, I couldn’t bear it any longer.

A version of this satirical fiction was originally published in the Baltimore Evening Sun on September 21, 1979. Back then it was about baseball fans; but now, since we’re into the football season, I decided to switch it for the blog rewrite. I've changed the game, but it doesn’t matter; rabid sports fans—the worst of them—exhibit the same extreme behavior anywhere there’s a ball to pitch, swat or punt.

Well I really don't remember or any Catholic leaders at national level but only one businessman I have heard of in Catholic community Mr. Glen Saldanha of Glenmark Pharmaceuticals one of the top ten pharma companies in India. So this is our representation in a country of a billion.

Are we lacking in entrepreneurship, leadership capabilities ? this is the question we need to ask to ourselves. We need to to do personal assessment and plan what we can do to prove ourselves. We don't have anybody in administrative services, ministry (state or central), police forces (Mr. Ronnie Mendonca ex ACP Mumbai Crime Branch has retired).

We need to identify our potential and work towards achieving our dreams. We have a long way to go in a very short time.

Mohammed Nasim

Former Home Minister, Awami League

Engineer Mosharraf Hossain

President, North District Awami League

Mohiuddin Khan Alamgir

Former Minister, Awami League

AHM Mustafa Kamal (Lotus Kamal)

Former MP (Comilla-9), Awami League

Pankaj Debnath

General Secretary, Shecchashebok League

Barrister Nazmul Huda

Former Communications Minister, BNP

Mirza Abbas

Former Housing and Public Workers Minister, BNP

Mosaddek Ali Falu

Former MP (Dhaka-10), BNP

Gias Uddin Al Mamun

Managing Director, Channel One

Salahuddin Quader Chowdhury

Former MP, BNP

Ali Asghar Lobi

Former MP (Khulna-2), BNP

Tariqul Islam

Former Forest and Environment Minister, BNP

Amanullah Aman

Former State Minister, BNP

Mir Mohammed Nasir Uddin

Former State Minister for Civil Aviation and Tourism, BNP

Salahuddin Ahmed

Former State Minister for Communications, BNP

Iqbal Hasan Mahmud Tuku

Former State Minister for Energy, BNP

Ruhul Quddus Talukdar Dulu

Former Deputy Minister, Land, BNP

Nasir Uddin Ahmed Pintu

Former MO (Dhaka-8), BNP

Salahuddin Ahmed

Former MP (Dhaka-4), BNP

Hafiz Ibrahim

Former MP (Bhola-2)

Chowdhury Alam

Commissioner, Ward No. 56

Gias Uddin

Former MP (Narayanganj-4)

Abdul Wadud Bhuiyan

Former MP, BNP

Engineer Manzurul Ahsan Munshi

Former MP (Comilla-4)

Md. Abdul Qayyum

Commissioner, Ward No. 21

Ariful Huq Chowdhury

President, Sylhet City BNP

M Naser Rahman

Former MP and President, Moulvibazar district BNP

Mufti Shahidul Islam

Former MP (Narail-2)

Nurul Islam Babul

Chairman, Jamuna Group

ANH Akhter

Former Secretary, Energy Ministry

BM Bakir

President, Sonali Bank CBA

AKM Musharraf Hossain

Former State Minister for Mineral Resources of the BNP government

Karim Abbasi

Former MP, Netrakona

Helaluzzaman Lalu (BNP)

Former MP, Bogra

Encho_451

ВИЕНА-битака, м.авгуот-2008

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art, beautiful, beauty, black, blue, celebration, celebrity, clubbing, cocktail, cute, dancer, dancing, disco, dress, earring, elegance, erotic, eye, fame, fashion, female, femininity, girl, glamour, glitter, glowing, hair, human, illustration, lips, looking, luxury, makeup, music, nightclub, nightlife, party, posing, sensuality, sequin, sexy, showgirl, silver, slim, smiling, sparking, stage, symbol, vector, woman

On the drive home tonight, after spending 5 hours in the library studying for classes this week, I was behind a new Jaguar, still with its 30-day tag crisp on its back end. The weather was nice, not hot enough for an air conditioner and not cold enough for a heater. I saw the window come down and out came a grey precision suited arm. The man held it there in the wind, and then he moved his hand up and down, making waves the way I've seen kids do a million times out of the window. I remember doing it too when I was younger.

He turned off into the neighborhood of expensive colonial-style houses and still had his arm out as I passed the street he turned on. I'm not sure why it made me smile, but just the thought of a 50-something businessman, who obviously lived in an expensive home and drove a brand new Jag, getting a kick out of feeling the wind through his fingers on such a nice day made the frustration of the day melt away.

I have often dreaded growing up, coming out of the age where being young and spontaneous and forgetful and dreamy isn't acceptable anymore, into an age where being responsible and rigid is what is expected. It scares me to grow up sometimes, to gain all these heavy responsibilities, to be the one that other people, one day even children, will rely on. But seeing a grey suited arm out that window today gave me a hope, an assurance that, yes, I can still be the dreamy person I am, even if it's just on the way home from work each day.

Sinead Breathnach-Cashell ... (for more: http://www.myspace.com/draw_in)

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Neil Brogan ... (for more: http://caff-flick.com)

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Margaret Hagan ... (for more: http://penelopebox.etsy.com)

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David Timlin ... (for more: http://www.creativematch.co.uk/portfolio/david_timlin/ or d_timlin@mac.com)

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Stuart Sloan ... (for more: http://www.youtube.com/user/sloanowski)

Here are my goals for the week: Get work done, golf, eat some good BBQ and Mexican food, and get a few massages. That shouldn’t be too hard. One of my coworkers suggested the Bob Bullock Texas State History Museum—does anyone know if that’s worth going to?

• Arts and Entertainment in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas
• Cool and Fun Things to Do in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas
• Golf Courses in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas
• Luxury Vacations for Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas
• Museums in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas
• Places to Visit in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas
• Spas in Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Padre Island and Southeastern Texas

Erano conosciuti come Businessmen, ma non erano un azzimata congrega di professionisti: erano una banda di giovani di colore che negli anni Cinquanta ha cominciato a scorrazzare per la periferia di Los Angeles, contendendosi il territorio con la gang rivale (gli Slausons) e lasciando sul terreno, nelle proprie scorribande, più di qualche morto.

Gli anni sono passati, la banda si è sciolta e ognuno è andato per la sua strada: chi ha trovato la via della criminalità (e del carcere), chi un lavoro serio, chi addirittura una professione di un certo livello.

I superstiti si sono reincontrati per ricordare i cinquant'anni della gang, e hanno preso una decisione: aiutare i ragazzi di oggi a non cadere nei loro stessi errori. Così, in una ideale riedizione della banda, si sono organizzati per creare un centro dove i ragazzi disadattati della "loro" periferia possono entrare in contatto con una realtà diversa, trovando stimoli culturali e pedagogici per uscire da una realtà che, nelle periferie fatte di noia e criminalità, è quasi una strada obbligata per troppi ragazzi, nelle strade della west coast americana come a Scampia.

I Businessmen, come chiosa Gaggi, avrebbero potuto fare altro: incontrarsi per ricordare il passato tra una partita a carte e un drink. Hanno scelto la strada più difficile: ricordare il passato mettendo a frutto la loro dolorosa esperienza. Lontani da inutili autoreferenzialità e vicini ai bisogni di chi, oggi, rivive le stesse vicende e gli stessi pericoli dei giovani di ieri.

Naturalmente non sono i soli a impegnarsi socialmente per i ragazzi di periferia, ma hanno una carta in più rispetto ad altri: possiedono un'esperienza diretta e concreta che permette loro di capire meglio di chiunque altro i bisogni, le frustrazioni e le speranze dei Businessmen di oggi.

Indubbiamente una bella lezione: mica facile avere la il coraggio e la lungimiranza per mettere a frutto le proprie esperienze.

Viene da pensare a tutte le volte in cui, in passato, ci siamo ritrovati ad affrontare situazioni difficili, critiche, magari traumatiche. Ne siamo usciti, ma senza trovare una risposta plausibile alle nostre domande.

Chissà che la risposta ai perché di ieri non stia proprio in quell'esperienza che, oggi, potrebbe aiutare gli altri.

If Business Executives had a Hall of Fame, Lee Iacocca would probably have a floor dedicated to him. Iacocca's life was wilder then a roller coast, his failures made headlines across the nation and his successes were ‘larger then life'. He came from an Italian immigrant family, and in the first few chapters speaks of his experiences in school, college and pre-Ford life. Initially an engineer, he switched to the sales force and is largely credited for the phenomenal Ford Mustang car and for his nationwide programs along with being credited with the revival of the Mercury Brand and making Ford Fiesta (older model) and was also the ‘moving force' behind Ford Pinto, Mercury Cougar and many other cars.

He rose through the ranks of Ford to become Ford Motor's youngest president and stay on for 8 years, only to fired by an arrogant boss Henry even when the company made record profits of $2 billion. He tasted sweet revenge in an almost capitalistic way by taking Chrysler out of bankruptcy and beating Henry Ford in the marketplace.

Lee Iacocca exemplifies the battered business executive who led a battle for a dying cause to bolster Chrysler, which made his name a symbol of integrity, grit, hard work, and guts for millions of people.

The one quote of his I really loved was

There are times in everyone's life when something constructive is born out of adversity. There are times when things seem so bad that you've got to grab your fate by the shoulders and shake it.

In one such adversity, he convinced the United States Congress to extend a $1.5 billion loan guarantee to the company (Chrysler). This propelled him to he set up his old management team at Chrysler, sell off their tractors division, and spend aggressively on advertising. In order to make the company profitable he was forced to take very tough decisions like introducing spending cuts, laying-off workers, closing plant divisions and personally taking home a $1 salary to give inspiration to employees to accept pay cuts.

If someone wants to learn and grow, read about leaders, and how to overcome adversities, then this book is a must read for them!

If you like this article, you'll love the book review/note I wrote on Sam Walton too - why not check it out...

Post your comments and interesting stuff on Lee iacocca on our comments page.

I plead guilty to being an intellectual snob. It comes from having been a poor outcast fat kid in the backwards backwoods of Texas long ago. I had to cling to SOMETHING to have value in my own eyes, and I chose the contents of books. The ability to read "hard" books and to become lost in them was the only thing I had going for me.

Compared to those contents, as illuminated by my imagination, the squalid surroundings and dimwit country culture of my small-town Texas childhood became dismissible. It was like being thrown into prison and coping with the noise and danger and ugliness and cruelty and excess macho nonsense of the other prisoners by dreaming about your life when finally released. Seen through the mist of those dreams, it was all dismissible, hence bearable.

There is lots in American culture now, 40 years later, that remain unchanged (after a brief abortive flirtation of the USA with being civilized that occurred in the 1960s). If you actually live within the soup of media-business-religion-sports that constitutes all the "culture" that the USA has, then you will slowly be de-brained. I understand that this lowest-common-denominator culture is the natural product of a country made up of persons of so many ethnic and national backgrounds that, other than a burning desire to make as much money as humanly possible, they have historically had very little in common. But I don't have to join the de-brained brigade just because I was born here.

After a lifetime of being regularly fed drivel, I now watch no TV, read no magazines (celebrity, so-called "news", or otherwise), consume no contemporary movies, go to no theme parks, read no best sellers, and listen to no radio but NPR.

But I still actually live in the American South. People here are friendly and polite in their personal lives and daily contacts. And this state I now live in is unique among Southern states in having a strong minority population (the Cajuns) with a distinctive culture that influences many aspects of life here. But the public reality that reigns in this place and time is still highly driven by the larger mass of US media ideas and images that flood in upon us daily, and by a good deal of local self-deluding nonsense about the glorious Old South. The result needs continually to be dismissed if one is not simply to despair for one’s country. I can’t turn on the main local AM radio station without hearing a local Homer or Jethro imitating Rush in order to book his own transient local fame. (The usual chorus of drawling dittoheads always obligingly call in to agree.) This city, Baton Rouge, has a paroxysm every time the LSU Tigers play a football game and doesn’t notice much else that happens publicly. In politics it is cruel, in art is is limited to country and rap and phony Cajun music, in public thought it is limited to a slavish love of business and business persons, and a widespread desire to try to guess what they might want before they want it, so they won't get in a huff and take their many dollars to some even more accommodating Southern state.

Oh yes, the folks did stir from their torpor recently to get incensed when the state legislators voted themselves big raises—raising themselves from tiny salaries originally based on the fact that theirs was once a part time job to middle-class ones. Smart people I knew joined the brigade of the incensed. I didn’t point out to them that if you pay people with power peanuts you give them tremendous incentives to take bribes.

It would have been pointless, and gotten a lot of folks mad at me.

The USA has a history of driving its artists and intellectuals into exile. In the 1920s through the 1940s it seemed as if most such folks were to be found in Paris. Now they have found a precarious home in academe. For those of us who are unacademicized, there is only the internal exile of dismissiveness. One gets ones information through the Internet, and lets the drivel go.

Blue or grey eyes, no glasses, pale (but not in a sickly way). Very straight-backed but not stiff. He gazed calmly at me and said, "We heard you've had a bad time and are very sorry to hear it; can we do anything to help?"

He was cool and reserved, though polite, and I found I didn't really want to discuss whatever it was. I was just a minor problem to be dealt with, and I found that chilling. I started to answer him, then stopped mid-flow and said to myself "I don't want this conversation."

He was still looking at me, waiting for my answer, and even while returning his gaze, I cut off and stepped away. There was no flicker in his eyes, no reaction; there was nobody there. It was just a dream – it was as though he was a Star Trek hologram and I had said, "computer, freeze program!"

I 'freeze' my dreams when they get too frightening... big cats, heights, storms, floods, soldiers. Adding a suave executive to the list is new. Sort of.

As I watch all the businessmen walk by, I kind of envy them. They look so professional with their suits, laptop cases, bluetooth headsets, iPhones/Blackberries and nice hair. They have very little belongings with them and walk through the airport as if it is their home. They are the quickest ones through the security gate as they know the process inside and out; you will never see a businessman getting searched at security.

Speaking of getting searched, I think this is the first time in like 5 flights that I did NOT get searched! It never fails, I forget to take something out of my bag like lotions, fingernail clippers, scissors, gun... ok, I've never brought a gun, but the way the security people treat me, you'd think I did. Sometimes they just search my bag, and sometimes they search my whole body and practically require a strip show out of me. There's nothing like getting felt up by a big, angry, female security guard. One of the instances was because I forgot to take off my knee brace and I kept setting off the the metal detector. I told them I could remove it and send it through the machine, but NO, they had to search

me from head to toe and put some weird stuff on my brace to make sure it wasn't really a bomb. As annoying as it was, I found it to be an interesting experience.

Now, I must give yet another little promo for my iPhone 3G. I currently live in a location that will does not have 3G coverage (but I'm moving to Denver next month) and haven't been able to test the 3G leetness. Now that I'm in San Jose I got to really get a feel for the change in speed. I must say, I am VERY impressed! Although it's still not quite as fast as WiFi (naturally), there is a HUGE improvement from the EDGE network. Yay for iPhone 3G!!

Well, I am nearing the time for my departure and should start packing up. Wish me luck on finding a place to live in Denver, CO!

‘You need to show you're not a dumb Westerner. They had set up the competition by talking about their boss being such a great drinker. I couldn't have cared less, but they kept emphasising this, as if they were throwing out a challenge. If you walk into their trap and you do it their way and don't win, basically you are down-graded in their eyes. If you avoid the challenge altogether, you'll lose their respect. By working out how they do it, and winning, you get a lot of kudos. They think, “This guy's got standing. He's smart”.’

The toasting isn't the only challenge this executive has to deal with. Another is food.

‘They serve up all kinds of food. I've eaten rice sparrows. The sparrows eat the grains of rice at the rice harvest. They puff up and can't fly. The farmers net them and drop them, as they are—feathers, beak and all—into boiling oil. They come out like black squash balls. You chew the whole lot up. The Shanghai fairy crab is another special dish. First they'll have the big white worms you dig up from the sand. Then they bring on the crabs. Once in Shanghai I was sitting next to a Chinese lady engineer. She picked up the crab, pulled its feet off and twisted the top shell off the bottom shell and sucked up the meat, roe and everything. They serve tortoise in its shell. They take the lid off and you tear into it with your chopsticks. Snake, duck feet, chicken feet, pig intestines chopped and fried in chilli …’