If You Seek Amy…You Might Want to Check Flight 370

So… This legitimately happened today.

"Hey, whatever happened to Amy?"

"I don’t know.  But I still seek her."

Speaking of seeking, let's talk about this Malaysia Airlines Flight 370.

Now that all the lands have been discovered, and it's possible to travel across whole continents in a 5-hour span, and Google-mapping satellites let you zoom in on your house from outer space, and the internet allows you to video chat with someone on the other side of the hemisphere, and Disney has that insatiable ride to remind us how small the world is…it's difficult to remember just how large the world really is. Any rescue worker can attest to that.

I remember how it took police a month of searching to find Lori Hacking's body in a landfill, even though they knew the date she had been deposited there. Susan Powell was not as fortunate. They never could find her remains because--given Josh Powell's story--she could have been anywhere between Salt Lake City and Las Vegas. They called these cases a needle in a haystack. Now, we're talking about one commercial jet in the middle of how many thousands of miles of ocean?

Having said that, considering we track migration patterns of honey bees from Georgia to Minnesota and whales from Australia to Alaska, it seems a bit odd airliners don’t automatically come equipped with a homing device strong enough to make itself known (Ba-OOOOO-oook! Come to Mommy!). I guess migration patterns aren’t really pinpoint accurate either. Just an occasional ping here and there. And there really isn’t anywhere to put a tower in the middle of the ocean. Or…IS there… I see a billion-dollar idea forming!

My other thought is this: what if the Indian Ocean is just a red herring? What if the plane is just circling around Antarctica (another place where there is nothing to ping), waiting to draw Scotland Yard, and Interpol, and all authorities to the Indian Ocean so they can swoop in and take the Western Hemisphere in its completely vulnerable state???

What if the movie being shown on the plane as it circles Antarctica is Clue—a 1980s comedy featuring a butler used as a red herring—and, ironically, passengers don’t have a clue it parallels the plans because the movie is comedic, American, and from the 1980s—none of which can be taken seriously????

One final thought: it’s kind of interesting how closely mayday resembles Malay, as in the language and people of Malaysia.

“Mayday! Mayday! Come in Maylay! This is Maylay A and we’re in mayday!! Onboard it's melee!  Do you copy, Malay? We are mayday!”

Unduckover Boss

I recently finished reading The Duck Commander Family, an autobiography written by Korie and Willie Robertson of Duck Dynasty fame.  It was interesting. 

Korie’s contributions are sweetly vapid.  They are written with all the detail of a Christmas letter and all of the gravitas of a pageant answer.  Willie’s writing is much more forthright and to the point: this happened, this happened next.  He only slips into saccharine semantics when it seems goaded by a publicist, publisher, or his wife.  His authenticity is what draws people in, and fortunately for him, his life has been far-fetched enough that recounting it without additional commentary or insights is interesting enough to entertain.

Willie talks a lot about business.  In the second half it’s mostly about steps he took to grow Duck Commander as a business.  In the first half, however, he relays salesman skills that were very apparent even as a child.  Willie set up his own fish bait business that put any lemonade stand to shame.  He also had success selling crawfish, and at one point, an underground candy ring out of his locker that was so successful the school had to shut the competition down.

“I quit selling candy, but I still found ways to make money.  I sold everything from pencils and erasers to orange juice tops (which I claimed once sat on Abraham Lincoln’s eyes!).  The kids were just used to giving me their money, so I found creative ways to take it.  I would eat June bugs for fifty cents and sing on the school bus for a quarter.  One of my favorite money making schemes involved my turning into a human jukebox.  Kids would put quarters under my arms, and I would start singing.”

It becomes very evident this man has made his way through life (very successfully) by selling himself, whether it be to business partners, teachers, winning his wife’s hand in marriage, or just to avoid a whooping.  He talks of swindling as a youngster, using charm and good looks as a teenager, and ultimately networking as an adult.  He even mentions that if you want to fit in at the Robertson dinner table, you best be able to tell a convincing whopper of a story. 

Indeed, his prosperity can be attributed to an uncanny ability to come across so genuine you don’t even realize one hand is in your pocket.  No one markets himself better.  The book (itself an opportunity to make a dollar by capitalizing on the success of the television show) contains a family recipe along with each chapter.  And each recipe—no matter how simple—calls for what?  Phil Robertson’s Special Cajun Seasoning: a ploy to lead you to another market the family has assessed there are dollars to be acquired.

If there is one thing this book has taught me it’s that business is done with handshakes, not contracts.  It’s all about schmoozing, marketing, and hobnobbing, and those most successful are those who can do so with sincerity.  Some people think handshakes are an old-fashioned thing of the past.  But, even contracts require a hand to sign them.  Best to inspire that hand with a friendly shake.

Contrarily to his wife, Korie—who irons over the wrinkles to hold up a perfectly pressed family—Willie is so blunt and forward, openly admitting things and owning the dark spots.  That quality is like a giant, personality handshake.  It is so beguiling (to men especially, and men—especially in the hunting industry—conduct most of the business) it dissolves away cares that people should maybe hold on to. 

He makes people feel like long-time friends and it becomes difficult for them to remember, or worse, to care, that the behavior beneath all that charisma is still that of a man who has sat around the family table and laughed about his ability to pull the wool over peoples’ eyes.   Yes, he is charming, gracious, and full of friendly warmth…but he’s also a man who has Harold Hilled people into buying trash, tall tales, and a scripted reality series.

It’s a fraudulent world out there.  Personally and professionally.  While reading this book I mulled and concluded we’re all salesman.  Some more than others.  Some more gregariously than others.  Some more instinctively than others.  But…think about it…you would be hard pressed (if possible) to find any position or occupation that does not involve sales/salesmanship.  We all sell ourselves.  We all put on a face—whatever face we need to—and do what it is necessary to get what we want. 

At their core I believe the Robertson’s are kind, loving, good-hearted, wonderful people.  But, simply put, it was fascinating to note how willing people were to do business with this man even while he concurrently discusses his gift to easily manipulate them.  This book left me with two reminders that have created this quandary: you can never trust a salesman.  We’re all salesman.