Founded in 1996

August 2 marked the thirtieth anniversary of my quitting a steady, secure job to become the sole proprietor of a risky business in the educational services sector. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics shows that 19% of such businesses fail within their first year, 46% fail within five years, and 61% after ten years. I'm not a big-time gambler, so I sometimes shake my head in bewilderment that I decided to go solo. Why would I take such a big risk at age 42 with a mortgage and two daughters, ages 14 and 11, meaning a quarter million dollars in college bills ahead of me, to walk away from a job with a reasonable salary, pension, health benefits, a company car, and good friends?  

I had a long time to answer this question. For seven years, I prepared myself to walk away from a role that I ultimately spend 19 years doing by calculating my potential income across the expanse of industry changes, learning whatever I could about the operational side of the business I wanted to enter, and honing my skills to succeed at it. I would have been happy with an equivalent income since I was fortunate to have a wife who had healthcare benefits from her work as a public-school teacher. Throughout those seven years, I continually weighed the pluses and minuses of going into business for myself.

It turns out that my predicted disadvantages and advantages, as well as my ultimate decision, were spot on. 

Starting with the downside, I would never again get a paid vacation, holiday, or sick day. I would work for billable time. I would lose the company car and the healthcare benefit. I would sit on a frozen abysmally low pension from my job, not payable for another 23 years, and I would no longer be able to contribute to a 403B plan reserved for nonprofit employees. I would have to surrender the company car, so I would now have to buy one of my own. Although I did not belong to a union, I enjoyed job security in an autonomous, specialized role. I would also miss the camaraderie of several friends.  

On the upside was the possibility of earning more income, but that was not a guarantee. I would have greater control of my time, even though I never shied from 75- to 90-hour workweeks. Important to me was the constant challenge of finding creative solutions to my clients' problems. I love learning, and surviving in this business depended on obtaining a great deal of self-education to stay at the top of my game. Without a boss, I would feel independent to make choices that mattered to me. I would never again argue with management. I would have only myself to blame for making poor decisions, holding on to bad clients, and partnering with ineffective collaborators.

It all has worked out. Despite formidable challenges, including recessions, natural disasters, an epidemic, and clients' strategic changes, I have earned far more than I expected, so my daughters went to colleges I would not have otherwise been able to afford, and my financial future is more secure. I traveled for work to China, India, and throughout the United States. I worked for some of the largest companies and municipalities in the world, and I have worked with brilliant, diligent people who have made me smarter. I remain close to my friends from my old job 30 years later.

Yes, risks arise in leaving a dependable job for an unknown future in a private business. I would not recommend it for everyone, but the ride continues to be worth it for me.

A Thank-You Letter to Benjamin Bass

Strand Bookstore, New York City. Photo by Ajay Suresh

Dear Benjamin Bass, 

When as a struggling Lithuanian immigrant you founded the Strand Bookstore nearly a century ago in 1927, I'm sure you wanted to see the day when it would flourish. And you did, long before you died 51 years later. Your store continues to be a must-visit spot for travelers around the world who come to New York City, whether to buy a reasonably priced, hard-to-find book or to satisfy their curiosity about the store's mammoth size (18 miles of books, as your tagline says).  

You were alive when I first frequented your store in 1971 as a City University of New York student living 12 miles away in the Bronx, and although I now live 32 miles away, I still stop by whenever I can. I look at the hundreds of used books on my shelf that I've bought in excellent condition and at affordable prices from Strand, realizing that I owe much of my education to you. In truth, your legacy is one of the reasons I hesitate to move much farther away. 

So thank you for offering the perfect deal to the millions of people who have wanted to be educated or entertained through the endless, transformative power of books. I have always felt that when it comes to the book business, the customer always gets the better end of the bargain. We can reread the same book at different ages in our life and discover how much we have changed. This might be a good time for me to acknowledge your business model as a labor of love, too. Finally, thank you for believing in the magic of books and for being such an important part of my life. Here's to the next hundred years.

With appreciation and admiration,

Phil Vassallo

On Forgetting Words

In a dream last night, a friend pointed to the vertical groove between his nose and lip and asked me for the word identifying it. I couldn't recall no matter how hard I tried. I learned the word in the third grade, when I was eight years old, but I just couldn't name it. I woke up at 3:30 a.m. in a Porto, Portugal hotel room, realizing I couldn't recall the word in my waking life either. So I looked it up on my phone as my wife slept peacefully beside me. Philtrum. A word I have not used, or probably seen, since I learned it more than six decades ago. How could I forget? My name, Phil, starts the word!

In a sweat, I started going through other visible body parts: eye, iris, pupil, lens, cornea, eyebrow, eyelash, then down to my foot, heel, Achilles tendon, ankle, ball or plantar fascia, toes, instep—what's the formal word for instep? Another one that sent me to my Google assistant: dorsum. Darn, another forgotten word! I was experiencing a waking nightmare. Was I at the doorstep of dementia? I kept naming body parts, like a child counting sheep, until I fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later pleased that I recalled philtrum and dorsum, but doubting I'd remember them for long. My minor difficulty made me think of the poem "Forgetfulness" by Billy Collins. When I first read it more than thirty years ago, I found it amusing, but it reflected my reality more and more as time passed. 

When a more focused temperament grounded me, a familiar adage came to mind: If you don't use it, you lose it. Philtrum, philtrum, philtrum, philtrum. Dorsum, dorsum, dorsum, dorsum.

Toilet Humor: Watch What You Say!

East side, West side, it makes no difference when it comes to communicating clearly. People know not what they say, at least some of the time. Take the three photos on the left as evidence. I snapped shots of these signs, from top to bottom of a wall above a urinal in a men's restroom in a New Haven, Connecticut restaurant; a toilet door in a men's restroom in a Maui, Hawaii restaurant; and a bathroom wall in a hotel room in Kennebunkport, Maine. 

The top one is intentionally funny, but the bottom two are unintentionally so. Most English-reading people who understand metaphorical language would laugh at the top sign if they were standing at that urinal. But the middle, unwittingly a double entendre, conjures an image of David spying on Bathsheba as she bathed, and the bottom one is more like a solecism, evoking a scene too revolting to explain in this blog.

How do we guard against creating such unintended meanings and logical errors? The wicked side of me would answer, "Why guard against them? They're funny. The more, the merrier." But my professional side must say that in serious writing, from business messages dramatic scripts to novels, we should avoid them, and we can do so by carefully examining syntax (word order) and diction (word choice). Errors in semantics are most  common when we are rushed or careless. All the current writing tools notwithstanding, including AI, we need to make a final careful read before pressing send. 

I Know the Way

Apple Maps says it's this way, Google Maps says it's that way. Either way will take a long time. I know another way anyway, and it's not that bad a way, so I'll go my way. 

AllRecipes.com says cook it this way, Food.com says cook it that way; either way is complicated. I know my way is simpler, and it's tasty but I'll never know if it's tastier than the AllRecipe or Food ways unless I try them. But I don't care because I like my way, so I'll cook it my way.

Instagram says wear it this way, TikTok says wear it that way; either way seems ostentatious. I know my way is inconspicuous, but I like it that way, so I'll wear it my way.

The Pattern app says this will happen to me, the Sanctuary app says that will happen to me. Either happening is distasteful and uncomfortable to me. I plan to do something reckless, maybe dangerous, but far more tasteful and comfortable, so I'll do it my way.

The battery of my phone died, and I'm still here. That doesn't matter anymore. I know the way.

There Are Two Ways

There are two ways to do some things, but it's not as simple as saying it's the right way or the wrong way.

There are two ways of driving to my house, the direct route and the scenic route. I would not call the scenic route the indirect route, because both drives seem direct enough. It's just that the direct route has two fewer traffic lights and one less turn through the town center but does not offer a view of the river, as the scenic route does. When alone, I choose the route based not on time but on my state of mind. When I think of myself I take the direct route, and when I think of you I take the scenic route. 

There are two ways to walk to the park, the shorter route about four hundred meters past the homeless men sifting through trash cans and urinating in the gutter when they aren't lying in a death trance against a graffiti-riddled abandoned tenement, or the longer route about five hundred meters along a cobbled path beneath a canopy of trees upon which black-capped chickadees, goldfinches, and scrub jays sing while hopping from branch, fluttering their wings, and defacating on the path below. The choice seems just about equal to me, and I take them both whether I am alone (the shorter route) or with you (the longer route).

There are two places we can go out for a drink, the local bar or the high-end bar. The local bar is not a low-end bar. In fact, it is greater than a high-end bar if you don't mind drinking by the landlocked town square and if you prefer drinking alongside the locals, the people who know the news of the community, the history of the bar, the quirks and penchants of the patrons, and the mixology of the bartenders. All night either a juke box plays the Great American Songbook or the player piano spins Tin Pan Alley tunes. The high-end bar is so called only because it overlooks the bay, which allows the proprietor to charge more for the drinks. But it's a throwback too. Dark wood planks cover the floor, wall, and ceilings. A candlelit chandelier flickers over the center of the room, four gas lights glow on the walls of each corner, sawdust is littered across the floor, and a black woodburning cast iron pot belly stove covers the center of the room. Warm Guinness is on tap. A neighborhood quartet commands a round table in a far corner plays Irish folk songs between sips of whisky on fiddle, banjo, tin whistle, and bodhrán. Both locals and out-of-towners go there. We go to the local bar when we have more time on our hands and to the high-end bar when we have less.

And you tell me there are two ways of loving you, the way I want to love you and the way you want me to love you. You say neither is the bad way, but they are different. As you put it, one is the sensory way and the other the soulful way, one way that fuses you into everyone and everything around you so that  you are in harmony with my world and one that masks everyone and everything around you so that only you come into focus and the world disappears. You have not told me which is the way I want to love you, and which is the way you want me to love you. And I have not asked, nor will I. But you tell me I love you both ways. 

Why I Came

I came to your wedding uninvited. You have known the groom for three years, I have known you three hours. With him you have traveled the world. With him you have seen hundred-year-old sea turtles circle your anchored schooner along the Great Barrier Reef, fed Atlantic puffins upon the rocky fields at the Cliffs of Moher, tasted freshly picked lechosa near Angel Falls, heard the thunder of bighorn sheep head-butting in the Grand Canyon, lost your breath at the radiance of the aurora borealis in Akureyri. With him an Indian Chief in Acoma explained the oneness of the earth and humanity, a Buddhist Lama in a Tibetan gompa described the sanctity of the balep he fed you, a Wiradjuri elder by the Wambuul River told of the secrets the sun and the moon keep, a Yanomami Pata Thëpë in an Amazon rain forest summoned the spirit of the macaw. 

But in only three hours, I, no longer a stranger to you, foreshadowed all these moments. I laid at your feet the mysteries of life, and you received them as if you had been waiting for me long before you knew my name. Yes, just for the unbearable delight of looking into your eyes, touching your cheek, holding your hand. I remember the warmth of your fingers closing around mine, then loosening, as if even then some merciful part of you was practicing leaving me. You would not have gone with him to these places and listened to those wise leaders if it were not for my urging. I beheld you, beheld you, beheld you, penniless, rich with passion and desire, not of the flesh but of the spirit. Is that not what you wanted? We met years ago, but I have never forgotten those three hours with you; they have outlived meals, cities, illnesses, prayers, every sensible attempt to call them small. I have always been with you—in the silence before sleep, in the instant before laughter, in every distance you crossed with him. Your union with him may endure, but your bond with me is of stone. We get one chance in this world. You were mine for less than an evening.

You know I am here, don't you? Without looking at me, you see me. I saw it when the music began: the smallest break in your smile, the breath you swallowed before anyone else could notice. I know you won’t approach me, though your husband will eject me from your wedding without ever knowing who I am. You won’t approach me because if you come near enough to hear me breathe, if you look at me once, you know my answer will be the same as when I came to you at the start of our three hours together years ago, when you were standing alone in Greenwich Village, or was it on the Croisette, or was it on the Grand Canal, or was it near the Chillon Castle, when you asked me, in a language you were learning, “Why did you come here?”