Life Lesson

“Do you mind if I reach out somewhere down the road with a question or two?”

I say that at the end of every meeting I have with a CMO or a VP of product marketing. Every single one. I don’t know if I’ll actually reach out. I don’t know what the questions would be. Sometimes there never are any, and the ask just sits there like a spare key under a flowerpot that neither of us thinks about again.

I ask anyway. The asking is free. The not-asking gets expensive later.

Here’s the story that taught me why. A vendor came through the bar a while back selling landjaeger, the dried sausage. He wasn’t just selling it. He was writing a book about it, too, which tells you something, because a man who loves a sausage enough to write a book about it is a man worth knowing. Before he left, he asked: when the book comes out, months from now, could we host a pop-up at the bar for the release?

Sure, I said. Easiest yes of my week. It cost me nothing that day.

Then months passed. Seasons changed. Kegs came and went. And when he finally emailed to coordinate, the strangest thing happened, which is that nothing hard happened at all. The yes was already sitting there, warmed up, like a car someone started for you on a cold morning. He didn’t arrive as a stranger with an ask. He arrived as a plan we’d already agreed to, finally showing up.

People will tell you goodwill fades, and they’re right. Gratitude has a half-life. Do someone a favor in March and by October it has quietly composted into “oh right, that guy.” But he never asked me for a favor. He asked for permission, and permission keeps differently.

A favor is fresh bread. Permission is landjaeger, a food that was invented specifically to survive: hunters’ pockets, long winters, forgetful months. Cure it right and it outlasts the season it was made in.

He was selling shelf-stable meat and accidentally teaching shelf-stable asking.

Marketers already run this play, though most of them have forgotten what it is.

An email signup box is just “do you mind if I reach out?” wearing a sweater. Every opt-in is a pre-ask, a tiny down payment of consent made when the stakes are low. The brand that collects permission early gets to show up months later as a follow-through. The brand that shows up cold has to build the bridge and cross it in the same breath, and bridges built at full sprint tend to wobble. Cold outreach pays retail. Permission pays wholesale.

(I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to calm down a room that freaks out when someone admits that people who signed up for a newsletter haven’t gotten anything yet and we should send something ASAP. Wrong. Send something when you have something meaningful to share. That’s what they actually opted-in to, anyway.)

The same math runs through hiring, partnerships, fundraising, and every hallway of a career. The person who laid a thread six months ago pulls gently on it. The person who didn’t starts from zero, in front of someone whose inbox is a landfill of zeros.

The tactical takeaway is small and repeatable: end things with the door ajar.

Ask before you need. Remind lightly, so the cure takes.

But under the tactic there’s something softer, and I’d rather say it than let it go unsaid.

When I ask a CMO if I can reach out someday, what I’m really saying is that I’d like this to not be the last time we talk. That’s all. Professional doors mostly close quietly and forever, and it costs one sentence to prop one open. Some of those doors never get walked through. A few do. And the book, I’m told, is coming along.

Stay Positive & This Is One Of Those Cases That Permission Is Better Than Forgiveness

An application came in for a beertender opening recently, and the name rang a bell. Over a year ago we connected with a couple who host Star Trek trivia and brought them in to run some nights at the bar. It would have been easy to pass on that. A themed trivia night is coordination, promotion, and a bet on a Wednesday that’s typically slow to begin with. We made the bet, the nights have came and went with varying degrees of “success.”

Then, more than a year later, one of the hosts decided she wanted to pour beer with us.

Here’s an older one. Four years ago I put together a pop-up for a guy who was just getting his insurance and financial advisory practice off the ground. It took real work to coordinate and the turnout was a disappointment. If I were keeping strict books, that event goes in the loss column. Except we still talk. And I carry a quiet certainty that our worlds will collide again somewhere down the road, in a way neither of us could put on a calendar.

I’ve come to believe people and work come back around more than they don’t. It just never feels that way, and I think I know why.

Waste keeps receipts.

The moment something flops, you get an itemized bill: the hours, the emails, the folding tables, the Wednesday you’ll never get back. It’s vivid, it’s immediate, and it files itself.

Returns don’t do that.

Returns saunter in years later, out of uniform. A job application. A referral you can’t trace. A warm reply from someone you’d half forgotten. Nothing about the return says which seed it grew from, so your brain never credits the original line item.

The loss gets booked instantly and the gain arrives anonymous, which means your internal ledger reads “waste” even in a life where things come back around constantly.

Marketing runs on the same crooked accounting.

The customer conversations that don’t turn into anything. The positioning work that gets politely shelved. It all feels like a time suck right up until someone walks in two years later already trusting you, and the dashboard hands the credit to whatever they clicked last. Last click gets the receipt. The trivia night never does.

The discipline isn’t optimism, exactly… It’s refusing to let the itemized losses vote against the anonymous gains.

Best to say yes to the odd connection. Do the pop-up. Have the conversation that goes nowhere. Your books will tell you you’re wasting your time. But we both know your books are missing half the entries.

Stay Positive & Call Them “Future Investments” If You Need The Reminder

I have started grading protein bars the way some people grade wine. This week’s winner is a Built bar, and it won for a reason that has nothing to do with protein: the cookie dough sits on top in rounded little lumps, laid there like a mason laid them.

Any food scientist will tell you it would be cheaper to mix that flavor straight into the bar. Same ingredients, same macros, one less step on the line. Somebody at Built chose the extra step anyway, and I noticed. That’s the whole story of marketing in nine words.

Somebody chose the extra step, and somebody else noticed.

We made the same choice at Garth’s Brew Bar when we installed the side-pull faucet. If you haven’t seen one, it’s a Czech-style tap with a long lever you swing sideways, and the beer comes through a fine screen so the foam builds wet and dense, like cream settling into a decision. It is objectively the harder option. It costs more. It takes longer to train a new beertender on that one faucet than on every other tap combined, and for the first week they approach it the way you’d approach a horse you’ve been told to parallel park.

But guests see it. They watch the lever swing and the foam stack, and they ask about it, and now we’re talking about Czech beer culture and the three classic pours and why foam is not the enemy, and a beer has become a story they’ll retell at somebody else’s table. The faucet earns its keep because it performs in public.

Now walk a few steps to our reach-in cooler. Everyone sees the cooler. Nobody sees what it cost to make the cooler quiet. There are cheaper commercial units that come self-contained and hum politely. Ours needed its condensers exiled to the backroom, where they rattle away like a garage band nobody booked. No guest has ever complimented the condensers. No guest ever will.

I keep mentally sipping on that pairing, because the lesson is not “make every effort visible.” Some effort belongs backstage. That’s why backstage exists.

The real work is editorial. You are always deciding which of your effort performs and which of it hums in the dark, and your customer only reads the visible ledger. They will pay you for the cookie dough on top. They cannot pay you for the mixing they never saw.

Which is also the trap. If Built quietly folds the dough in next month, I will notice before the wrapper hits my cart. It would probably taste identical. It wouldn’t matter. The bar would suddenly read as processed, as a company cheaping out, the way you feel it when a friend starts signing texts with just their initial.

Visible effort is easy to add and nearly impossible to withdraw. The moment you put the deviation where people can see it, it stops being a flourish and becomes a promise.

So the standing audit for anything you make… what’s on top, what’s mixed in, what’s in the backroom?

Put your best deviation where it can be seen. Hide the machinery that’s only noise. And once you’ve shown someone the extra step, keep taking it.

Stay Positive & What’s Humming In Your Backroom?

The executive you’re courting has already had the steak. Grass-fed, dry-aged, tableside, comped. He could review the béarnaise in his sleep. Somewhere around the fortieth one, a steak stops being a gesture and becomes a meeting with sides.

Meanwhile, one floor down, there’s a director who has never once been taken to lunch. Or at least a lunch of the caliber of an executive.

That’s the tier that builds the shortlist, runs the evaluation, and lives with whatever gets bought. By the time a decision reaches the corner office, it’s mostly already been made. The executive signs what the next tier concluded. We aim our budgets at the signature and ignore the sentence.

Attention isn’t priced by what it costs you to give. It’s priced by how rare it is to the person receiving it. A ribeye at the top is the fortieth ribeye. A stead sandwich one tier down is the first sandwich anyone’s ever bought them, and it gets remembered for a decade.

Courting the top while ignoring the tier that does the work is the same broken instinct as investing in customers before your team. Both spend where the decision appears to happen instead of where it actually forms. Decisions form in the middle. So does loyalty.

I watch it at my own bar. Reps court the owner. My bartenders decide what gets recommended two hundred times a night.

Nobody with a budget wants to hear that the highest-leverage spend might be lunch with someone whose title doesn’t impress anyone. But scarcity is scarcity. Go where your attention is … medium-rare.

Stay Positive & Then There’s The Tip…

The drag car at Madison’s raceway wore a full rack of antlers on the hood and a double tail piece off the back, like a whitetail that had renegotiated its contract with nature and come out with horsepower. It staged. It launched. The tree went green and the antlers went with it, doing whatever the opposite of aerodynamics is, and the crowd loved that car more than anything else that touched the strip. (It won the heat, too.)

That was one of three exaggerations I witnessed in about a month. Before the raceway there was an outdoor theater in Door County, where a musical took the New Jersey stereotype and instead of winking at it, floored it. And before that, a high school dance performance, where one dancer wasn’t just moving her arms and legs. Her face was doing choreography too. Eyebrows, jaw, the whole front of her head committed to the routine.

I clapped hardest for all three. So did everyone around me. Which is worth sitting with, because every piece of respectable creative advice runs the other direction. Dial it back. Be subtle. Show restraint. And the trouble with restraint is that from ten rows away it looks identical to indifference. Nobody in the cheap seats can tell your tasteful minimalism from your not trying. Care is invisible at normal volume. You have to overshoot for it to register.

Exaggeration registers because it costs something. It risks dignity, and it cannot be done halfway. One antler on a hood is an accident, something you hit on the drive in. Two antlers and a double tail piece is a decision a person made in a garage, sober (maybe…), probably with zip ties, knowing full well the other racers would have opinions. That’s what the crowd was cheering. Not the spectacle. The decision. Proof that somebody committed all the way, in public, at the personal expense of looking ridiculous.

And here’s what the dancer taught me: the faces didn’t just make her more watchable. They made her better. Once your face commits, the rest of you has to follow or admit the whole thing is a bluff. Exaggeration works on the exaggerator. It burns the boats behind your own effort.

At the bar, our version of antlers is the beertender recommendation card. The job could be done by a Post-it. A name, a beer, done. Instead we designed an actual card, and each one carries an AI art portrait of the beertender’s face, because a recommendation should come from a person, not a wall. A reasonable person would look at those cards and say it’s a bit much. Correct. That’s the entire mechanism. And notice what the card overdoes. Not the beer. The beertender. It announces that the person pouring your beer has an opinion worth framing, and customers pick up the card and then go looking for the face behind the bar. Overdo it on behalf of your people and your customers will find their way to them.

One more thing exaggeration does, and this is the part that takes nerve: it sorts. Somebody at that raceway rolled their eyes at the antlers, guaranteed. They weren’t the audience. The antlers weren’t for everyone, which is exactly how you know they were for someone. Half-exaggeration is the only truly bad setting on the dial, because half is where the flinch lives, and an audience can smell flinch through concrete.

A month later I couldn’t tell you a single time slip from that night at the raceway. But of everything that launched down that strip, the thing that followed me home had antlers.

Stay Positive & Overdo Something Small This Week

“This is why we don’t eat snacks in the car.”

That was the sermon in the brewery parking lot, delivered by a father into the open sliding door of a minivan, to children who had apparently turned a bag of something crunchy into weather. My wife and I were walking in without our kids for once. We never saw the spill. We didn’t need to. We know that spill personally.

Now compare that to the last brewery trip with the full herd. My wife was closing the tab, the kids needed somewhere to orbit, so I washed up against the merch rack. And there, between the hoodies, the brewery had swag for infants. Tiny onesies. Within seconds I was thinking of a friend who’s expecting and loves that brewery, and just like that I was a gift shopper. I’ve been drinking beer in rooms like that for a couple decades and I could not tell you what most of those merch racks ever held before. The rack didn’t change. I got handed different eyes.

Kidless, the merch went invisible again and the room turned its volume up. Couples deciding things in that low negotiating voice. Families comparing Door County notes. The small audible machinery of other people’s lives, running on the same fuel as mine.

I didn’t choose to notice any of it. That’s the part worth keeping. Attention isn’t a virtue. It’s a side effect of constraint. You can’t will yourself into fresh eyes. You have to borrow a constraint that forces them: a kid on your hip, an empty passenger seat, a stroller where your pint hand used to be.

It’s why my favorite seat at Garth’s Brew Bar isn’t behind the bar. It’s a stool in the middle of the room, no GBB shirt, no tell, listening to strangers talk about the place while the owner sits two feet away eating their reviews like peanuts. Those are my most gratifying moments at my own bar, better than pouring. Behind the bar I only ever see what an owner sees. The apron is a constraint too. It just keeps showing me the same movie.

Whoever walks into your business tonight is carrying something you can’t see from your side of the counter. A due date. A car full of crumbs. A friend they’re already shopping for. The room won’t tell you what they see. The only way in is to borrow what they’re carrying.

Stay Positive & Leave The Logo Shirt At Home

When I launched coffee at Garth’s Brew Bar, I onboarded the new hire the way a man assembles a grill the night before a cookout: fast, sweating, certain the instructions were written for somebody less capable. Here’s the grinder. Here’s the POS. Here’s where the oat milk lives. Go. Then I gave him the story.

A few weeks in, he handed me something I hadn’t ordered. He said the onboarding went straight to process and served the story second…and that hurt. It was painful for him to care about any of the details when there was nothing about why the bar exists, what it believes, who it’s trying to be a living room for. Just buttons and workflows.

It stung. It was also the cheapest consulting I have ever received.

We are lousy at holding mirrors up to ourselves. And on the rare occasions we manage it, we angle them. Everyone has a bathroom tilt, that one degree of rotation where the jawline forgives you. Businesses have it too. We ask questions built to come back kind. We survey the customers we already know are happy. We run the retro where every “what went wrong” lands on a mattress somebody dragged in beforehand.

The fix is a readout. Someone digests across your business and tells you what they saw. Not edits. Not a strategy deck. Observations of friction and flow. Where things snag, where things glide, the walk-in door everyone has learned to hip-check without noticing they learned it.

And the polite version of this idea hides something: even pure observation stings. “The door sticks and everyone hip-checks it” carries a silent “and nobody has fixed it in three years.” The sting is not a malfunction. The sting is the thermometer working.

Consultants sell readouts, and good ones earn their fee. But you already hired one. Every new hire walks in with an unbent view of your business, and the meter is running. Thirty days, maybe forty-five, and their eyes adjust to the dark like everyone else’s. The sticky door becomes a hip-check. The jargon becomes air. You get one mirror per hire, and it starts melting the moment they sign.

I’m the melting mirror right now. New job, readout due in a week. One thing going in it: we talk about our core product and our new product like two arms that happen to share a torso. Separate stories, separate pride. Some people want one platform narrative. Some don’t. And when you double-click on most of the frustration floating around the building, that disagreement is sitting at the bottom of it, holding its breath.

It’s the same flaw the new hire caught at my bar. Process before story. Product before narrative. Different building, same missing sentence.

But the readout itself is not the valuable part. The document gets read once, nodded at, argued with, filed. What lasts is what it took to write it: weeks of sitting with people, listening past their titles, asking questions with no agenda except understanding the place. By the time you deliver a readout, people trust you, and not because your observations were sharp. Because you were the one who asked.

Attention is the rarest currency in any building, and they watched you spend yours on them.

That said… that structure is not reserved for consultants and new hires.

Listening, observing, asking real questions on a schedule benefits anyone in any role. Most job descriptions just forget to mention it. And if you’re past your own thirty days, your eyes have adjusted along with everybody else’s, which makes it more urgent, not less, to find a fresh pair and hand them permission to tell you what they see. Regularly. On purpose. Before the door becomes a hip-check.

Mine is due in a week. The sentence about the two arms is loaded. I don’t know yet whether the room will hear an observation or an accusation. That’s the deal with a mirror you didn’t angle.

Stay Positive & Hip-Check Be Damned