Any time I’m outside of the US, I inevitably worry that I look like an American. Sure, on balance, I love this country. But so do fat, middle-aged men on bus tours, who roam the streets of Florence or Barcelona in sweatpants, white sneakers, and “God Bless Kansas!” t-shirts. And, as a result, nearly everyone in the rest of the world looks down upon my fellow countrymen enough to provide us noticeably worse service in their cabs, hotels, shops and restaurants.

So, it was some small relief that Jess and I, while in Paris, were able to more or less blend. At least until midway into any given conversation, which inevitably went like this:

Clerk: Payerez-vous par l’argent comptant ou la carte de credit?

Me: Oui.

Clerk: [Confused pause] Payerez-vous par l’argent comptant ou la carte de credit?

Me: [Blank smile]

Clerk: Je suis desole?

Me: [More blank smile]

Clerk: Ah. [Raised, disdainful eyebrow] You are not French.

Which, as Jess pointed out, likely meant that through the (often rather lengthy) first, one-sided half of conversations, people were assuming we were French, but simply deaf or retarded.

Interestingly, they still liked us better at that point than when they deduced we spoke English.

On the Metro North right now, headed up to Connecticut to deliver the aforementioned Extreme Entrepreneur Tour keynote. As I pulled the slides together mainly last night, the whole thing admittedly lacks the polish I might have hoped for. But, as readers of this site have doubtless already deduced, if I can do anything, it’s talk out of my ass for long, relatively articulate stretches even when I have pretty much nothing to say. Fingers crossed.

Then, more excitingly, I head back to NYC, retrieve Jess, and subway out to JFK, to hop on a flight to Charles de Gaulle. I haven’t been to Paris for several years, and I hear the croissant calling my name.

And while I’ll (unusually) be leaving the laptop behind, I’ll still be bowing to the demands of Cyan’s current surprisingly ongoing success, and carting along my BlackBerry Pearl. If nothing else, it should give me something to do as I wait outside the dressing rooms in Bon Marche.

Flickr users, keep your eyes peeled; if the technology cooperates, I’ll be photoblogging the (mis)adventures while they’re still underway.

Heading Home

With a touch of Hawaiian sunburn, some significant progress on Cyan’s C round from the prior week, and a bad case of jet lag (to be reinforced tomorrow on my second 3000 mile leg from San Francisco), I’m headed back to New York City to resume the daily pace of my crazy life.

These few days of tropical ‘vacation’ were much needed, though also a good reminder that, at my age, most people only head to Maui’s Wailea coast on honeymoon – attractive women and giant diamonds therefore spotted in precisely equal count.

More exciting, however, is the coming-shortly first set of theatrical returns from our ongoing Oh in Ohio release. Having sunk my personal savings into pushing Cyan ahead, and having similarly deferred salary for months to ensure sufficient dollars in the bank to underwrite the film’s national marketing campaign, I’m thrilled to see the bets and sacrifices paying off, and the accompanying additional few zeroes added to the end of my bank balance.

Money may not, as they say, buy happiness, but the chronic lack of it is a serious pain in the ass.

In San Francisco, wrangling investors for Cyan’s C Round of financing; off Friday to Maui for a much-needed mini-vacation; back in NYC Tuesday evening. As ever, erratic postings along the way.

About a year back, I discovered that a flask of rum makes in-flight coke, and in-flight experiences in general, far more pleasant. Which is why, with six flights on my horizon in the next two weeks, I’m particularly displeased to discover TSA’s newest terrorist-thwarting rule:

NO LIQUIDS OR GELS OF ANY KIND CAN BE CARRIED ON THE AIRCRAFT [Ed. note: capitalization theirs.]

The unfortunate sobriety leaves me doubly exposed to my recent and ever-growing flight anxiety, which I previously described thusly:

Having logged enough miles to know first-hand the odds of safely reaching my destination, I should be a calm, collected flier. Instead, I’m increasingly phobic, knowing too well each expected whirr and beep: altitude markers, well-adjusted ailerons, fully-engaged landing gear. During a flight, at least a quarter of my brain is consumed with monitoring such sounds. Was that clang right? And, if not, have the flight attendants huddled in back for last tearful goodbyes?

And now, with bombs apparently ready to take (commercial) flight, at least another quarter of my brain will be spent rationalizing away this second in-air threat.

Bon voyage, indeed.

Though I set out on this week’s road trip with lofty blogging intentions, two problems quickly became clear: First, none of the people we stayed with had wireless internet access. Second, our time was so thoroughly consumed with driving, eating, driving, drinking, driving, buying gas, driving and driving some more that blogging (and, for that matter, sleep) just didn’t seem to fit.

As of this evening, I’m back home safe and in one piece. But I suspect I’ll need a bit more recovery time yet before I can coherently recap any of the trip. Apparently, hitting six states* in five days really wears you out.

* For those following along at home: Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas.

I head out tomorrow night on a road trip with former roommates Colin and James. Though the dysfunctional dynamic between the three of us is long honed, we’ll also be joined by the dynamic Alicia Van Couvering, which should add a whole new layer to the boiling, barely concealed hatred we’ll all doubtless feel for each other by the end of that much time wedged together in a small car.

We fly in to Atlanta on Friday evening, then head down to Athens, Georgia on Saturday. Sunday is Pensacola, Monday is New Orleans, and Tuesday is Austin. I fly back to New York on Wednesday to wrangle the three-ring circus that is Cyan Pictures these days, though the rest of the crew will continue motoring west, all the way to Los Angeles.

Apparently, we’re also making a film as part of the road trip, based on a short story by one of our Yale classmates, though I’ve still yet to wrap my brain around exactly what that’s going to entail.

But, I’m armed with a laptop and digital camera, and will do my best to chronicle the misadventures as they unfold.

Wish us safe driving, and round up the bail money in advance.

Monday again? Where did the week go?
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Actually, I’ll tell you where it went: to eating, eating, and more eating. I’m now five and a half pounds heavier than when I came out West. Given how much I eat on even non-Thanksgiving weeks, that’s a hell of an ‘accomplishment’.
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Where it also went: to driving. Living in New York, I forget how much time the rest of the world spends in cars.

Still, there’s no better place to sing, to really belt something out, then alone in the driver’s seat, hurtling down the highway at 85 miles an hour.

Similarly, I listen to lyrics much more carefully while driving. I hadn’t previously realized, for example, that Sufjan Stevens’ Casimir Pulaski Day is possibly the most wrenchingly heartbreaking song I’ve ever heard.
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And, somehow connected to that but not really, thank you Kate for the ‘Happy breakupversary!’ text message that totally made my week.
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In between the driving and the eating, I was actually fairly productive. Some good investor meetings, and a chance to lock down our next Cyan / Long Tail hire.

Which reminds me of a quote I came across earlier this week, from management guru Tom Peters:

“Never hire a human being who had a 4.0 in college. If they had a perfect GPA, it means they bought the act and never screwed around. Now a 2.0 is probably not so good. But the ones who had 3.0, yeah! Those are the freaks you want!”
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Also, while I didn’t do any Black Friday shopping, I did take advantage of a sale or two earlier in the week. Most important of which being one that led to the discounted purchase of a black velvet blazer with peaked collars and grey pin-stripes.

Hugh Heffner, step aside.

Off to California, again. I’d start telling people I live bi-coastally if it didn’t make me sound like a total douche-bag.
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And, relatedly, here come a series of posts consisting of random notes I jot down during the trip on the index cards I carry everywhere in my right front pocket.

While such in-the-field notation allows me to pretend there’s something vaguely journalistic about the approach, I’m sadly aware that throwing unconnected tidbits together to make longer-looking post is, indeed, the lowest form of blogging.
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Flying out to San Francisco, I tucked a flask full of 8-year barrel-aged rum into my Timbuk2 messenger bag. It did cause the TSA screener to pause the x-ray conveyor belt, but otherwise passed security without a hitch.

Thank you, JetBlue, for providing the other half of each of my in-flight rum and cokes. Thank you also for giving me an exit-row aisle seat. And, in particular, thank you for seating me next to Callie, a highly attractive (though not particularly intelligent) young blonde; for once, I didn’t mind having my seat-mate fall asleep on my shoulder.
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Also, thank you JetBlue for getting me in to San Jose a full hour early. Seriously, a full hour. How does that work, exactly? The captain had someplace to be later that evening, so he just floored it for the whole five hours?
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And, at the same time, lest you think JetBlue is without flaws:

First, wasn’t there a time when flight attendants (perhaps when they were still called ‘stewardesses’) were attractive?

Second, if JetBlue now boasts a 40-channel lineup, why is there absolutely nothing watch-able on my little back-of-the-seat TV?
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My mother does this thing, when we travel, on the first day and the last day of the trip. “Can you believe we’re in Hawaii?” she’ll ask repeatedly, continuing, “we were just in California this morning.” Which my brother and I usually mock mercilessly.

Still, I sort of understand what she means. Early today, I’m deep in winter, walking barren streets just above freezing; this afternoon, everywhere I look the leaves are still green and I’m sitting in the backyard in a t-shirt.

Works for me.