Monthly Archives: August 2007

Saturday, August 4

I’m writing this on the 9 p.m. ferry and will post it using the WiFi capability on board. This ferry, late on a Saturday, has no trucks on it, so the loading master allowed me to drive the car to the front, middle. We should be first off, use the GPS in the dark of Hyannis, and get home by about 1 a.m.

We spent the day on the lawn at the Wauwinet, since you have access to all the facilities and changing areas even after you check out. I couldn’t resist still another Kobe burger. Late afternoon took us into town for some shopping and a rare, non-memorable dinner, at The Boardinghouse. As I gassed up the car I remarked to Maria that I was getting superb mileage, and she contended that I could not count the five hours round-trip of ocean travel in the mileage totals. I find this a technicality.

This is our third week of vacation this summer, and we’ve enjoyed incredibly good weather. Cape Cod is charming and Cape May is nostalgic for us, but Nantucket is simply a brief sojourn from reality. I feel no guilt. As long as we cope with reality most of the time, brief escapes are legal.

I also made quite a bit of money this week, shepherded by a few cell phone conversations and morning and evening email checks. This is a part of the wonderful world in which we live.

Consulting and coaching must be scalable. That is, the profession should not be based on time, materials, and numbers of people. I began writing about this in 1992 with “Million Dollar Consulting” and have never stopped. (Wiley just asked me to revise “Value Based Fees” because it’s selling so well.)

I remember beginning my career, post-undergrad school, at Prudential Insurance, and realizing that I couldn’t leave the building in mid-morning without taking a sick day or vacation day. I decided there and then that I would never commit to any career involving such indentured work.

And, guess what….

The Wauwinet

© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.

Friday, August 3

Our anniversary, 39 years, wonderful to celebrate it here after being high school sweethearts. I mentioned to my wife that this has been a particularly good time here, and she pointed out that EVERY time is a particularly good time here. Nantucket is God’s country.

We changed rooms today, to one of the bungalows. (It’s easy to find rooms to extend a stay here, but the ferry is nearly impossible, sold out for months. I had made and paid for two separate ferry reservations.) Two rooms, huge fireplace, gardens all around. Quite nice.

The beach had a total of about a dozen people, another great day. Bobbing in the waves, I felt as if I had wandered into nirvana.

This evening, a martini at the bar here, then into town. We visited Cold Noses, a dog treat store, where we’ve gone every year. Bought Koufax and Buddy special treats and toys. Then bought a new beach book, The Black Swan, which I’ll start tomorrow.

Dinner at Oran Mor (a Gaelic victory song). Only three parking spaces and for the second year in a row, I snagged one. A drink at the bar, where a Nantucket regular shared part of his appetizer and I bought him a drink, then dinner with tomato and mozzarella, flounder with lobster, accompanied by an incredible 1984 decanted Gaja.

A drive back under the stars (the Ferraris had the speedometer canted so that only the driver could see it, but the Bentley speedometer can be seen by the vigilant Maria, a design flaw) and a final trip to the Wauwinet bar, saying goodbye to the Friday bartender until next year. He supplied a $175 glass of Hennessey—you sign a book which entitles you to visit the distillery in France, and there were a dozen names before mine—to go with my Graycliff Crystal cigar (which was disappointing). I smoked and drank with Maria on the porch of the bungalow, with cookies from the restaurant and chocolates from the inn.

Tomorrow is our last day, but we’ve extended it to the 9:15 p.m. ferry. I’m glad I read Sartre. He was on to something….

© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.

Thursday, August 2

The gulls here have a habit of consistently catching clams and dropping them onto bricks and pavement to open them and dine. I remember years ago hearing a “thunk” while I was at my pool, and saw something bouncing off our pond’s rowboat. It turned out to be a small, groggy turtle, and a shadow over us turned out to be a gull upset that I was interfering with lunch. I released the turtle into the pond where he quickly dove, and the gull fortunately missed me with the next thing he dropped from the sky.

Another fabulous beach day, all of 12 of us on the beach, returned to the suite and the porch to read the Times and Wall Street Journal. I’m truly glad I don’t speculate in the market, but simply buy excellent stocks and hang on like a leech. The roller coaster continues, but flirting with 14,000 is fine with me.

Breakfast this morning featured the catbird which lives in the trees that abut the restaurant patio. Everyone knows him, and he bounces from chair to chair, occasionally strolling among all the feet, to dine on crumbs and tables not instantly cleared. Yesterday, he hit a “home run” and grabbed an entire, small scone and absconded. He’s black, sleek, and shiny, like a Toyota Supra I used to drive back in the early 80s. The car was six-speed, but the bird seems to have a few more gears. You’re not supposed to feed him, but I think even the staff “accidentally” drops food when he’s around.

Dinner at the Brant Point Grill in the White Elephant Hotel. We’re on the bay/marina, front row seats, multi-million dollar boats in the harbor. The place is packed. Extraordinary Kobe beef meatball appetizer followed by a New York Strip with onion rings and a Turley 2003 Zinfandel. I’m not a big Zin fan, but Turley Family wines are quite superb, and this one is no exception.

I pass the bar and a blonde in a mini dress smiles. She’s the anchovy woman from last night! There are a dozen top restaurants here and you’ll eventually see everyone in every one. Her hair is perfectly in place….

I raise the car through the cobblestones, lower it again for the roads and we cruise back on dark, lonely asphalt, top down, in 75° temperature. No moon, the stars shine above. Pitch black. This is living.

© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, August 1

Grazing this morning for coffee and the papers, I met Jill Schlesinger, the president of Strategic Point, the investment and money management company. They advertise quite heavily and she does a radio show. She’s here for the first time, is a New Yorker and sarcastic, and also wanted to know who switched the cream and skim, so we had instant karma. (We both feel like we’re crashing a great party here and no one has noticed, yet.) Check them out at strategicpoint.com. We are going to “do lunch” in the near future.

After breakfast, over the dunes to the beach and an absolutely cloudless sky. Fabulous water, mild breakers, but water temperature warmer than Cape Cod or Cape May. After doing the heavy lifting (literally) and reading Glory (Europe from 1648 to 1815), I’m now into The Judas Strain, which allows my brain to go into complete shut down. Midway through the third chapter I suddenly looked up to find a bird perched on my hat. Asleep. He must have been reading over my shoulder.

A martini with sidecar and stuffed olives with Mitch at the bar, and I’m prepared for dinner.

Dinner at The Galley. The Galley is built on the beach directly facing the sunset, and every table has a great view, avoiding ugly scenes among people who really know how to make ugly scenes. The woman to my left, very well put together, early 20s, was using her left hand to push her Caesar salad onto her fork, then immediately used that hand to push her hair behind her ear. This was the first case of using anchovy gel that I’ve yet encountered. You can dress them up, but…..

The sun descends around 8 p.m. this time of year like a tire with a slow leak—deceptively fast. It turns from yellow, to orange-yellow, to orange-red, to red. Finally, it’s extinguished on the horizon, and you expect steam to rise. It was the first great sunset in two weeks, and the mostly season-long crowd at this restaurant gave it a round of applause.

Grilled octopus, Caesar salad with white anchovies (kept off of my head), and a marvelous sole Muniere. This was finished later on our porch under the stars with a Davidoff Aniversario #3 and a 1929 Madeira.

I have the best tan of my life, and I think I have two book deals in the works, one of which I can reveal: Wiley has asked me to revise Value-Based Fees, which is “selling like hotcakes” I’m told. (It’s number 55,000 or so out of over a million titles on Amazon, so you can’t trust solely those volume figures. Million Dolllar Consulting generally hovers at about 7,000.) I’ll also release the long-awaited second Process Visuals book later this year (I’m finishing the writing and charts this week in the early morning) and have another tentative book project I’ll find out about in the next couple of weeks on strategy.

Tomorrow: Back to the beach!

Tuesday, July 31

No papers this morning, fog has rolled in and swallowed the island, the planes can’t get in quite yet. Breakfast is al fresco on the restaurant patio.

We drove around parts of the island during the early day mist and found ourselves at the site of a New York Times article from a couple of weeks ago. Because of erosion, a group of homeowners has petitioned to restore the beaches in front of their houses with $25 million of private funds they are raising. In the meantime, several of the homes are being elevated, dug out, and moved about 20 yards closer to the road—all the space that’s left. The lighthouse at that point is going to have to be moved by the government.

Even if successful, the new beach might last five years or one or two more Nor’easters, and then the entire effort would have to be repeated.

The day cleared, we picked up the papers in town (I’ve tried the switch which raises the car by a few inches to contend with the cobblestones) and spent the afternoon in the sun. Dinner at The Pearl, Asian fusion, sirloin steak and spiced, hand-cut French fries to die for. One tequila mojito was sufficient.

Temperature dropped from 75° to 68° just during the drive back, as we wended our way around the curves and through the tall brush. When we first came here years ago, it was easy to get lost on dark, poorly marked island roads. Now, GPS maps show me exactly where I am amid the dunes and vegetation. Is that progress?

Looking from our porch to the lawn and bay beyond.

© Alan Weiss 2007. All rights reserved.