Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

by Michael A Smerconish

  The boys’ grandmother had been generous in emptying her own cupboard. A blender I recognized from my childhood had an asking price of $5. I heard a man offer $2. One son countered at $3, but another shouted out $2.50, exposing frailties within the partnership.

  The asking price on the go-kart was $50. There was an offer of $40 and a counter of $45, which closed the deal.

  Dollar books were popular. So were CDs, flowerpots, and framed wall hangings.

  But not the lamps or the jackets. Ditto for the old radio. Electronics—the phone, TV, and printer—were slow movers as well.

  Interestingly, everyone asked for jewelry. The boys had none in stock.

  And while the brownie idea had given way to hot coffee and cold water, neither moved on such a mild day.

  The gross was $713 (split three equal ways). But they seemed to learn several business lessons aside from calculating their take.

  How every Smerconish yard sale ends.

  Besides the product procurement, marketing, and pricing, they also learned about shifts. One brother could take a break only if the two others were on the job.

  They also paid attention to their client base. I let political correctness be damned as they observed that the nerdy Asian guy bought the video games, the gay guys acquired the empty Tiffany boxes, and the Hispanic family purchased some used clothes.

  What’s clear to me now is that garage sales are a slice of entrepreneurial Americana unspoiled by the masters of the universe on Wall Street.

  In fact, here’s hoping those operating in the world’s financial capital take a lesson from the kids. Namely, that they made money selling tangible items—bikes, flowerpots, lacrosse sticks, and wrapping paper. Their products could be understood and purchasers knew exactly what they were getting—whether it was a used copy of Walter Isaacson’s American Sketches or a slightly scratched Andreas Vollenweider CD.

  For one morning at least, they were engaged in real work, facilitating a real exchange of goods.

  I’m reminded of the words of Jack Bogle, founder of the Vanguard Group, the largest mutual-fund manager in the world. In his book Enough, which is about to be re-released because of its timeless message, he laments that this country produces fewer tangible products and depends more on pushing paper than ever.

  Over the past two centuries, our nation has moved from being an agricultural economy, to a manufacturing economy, to a service economy, and now to a predominantly financial economy. But our financial economy, by definition, deducts from the value created by our productive businesses.

  Bogle, a true captain of industry who seeks real measures of value and simplicity in financial markets and in life, probably loves a good yard sale.

  AFTERWORD

  The boys’ yard sales were a summer ritual for a few years running. And while the annual event has ended, my sons still swap stories about lessons learned and some of the personalities who were repeat customers. Their goal was to make money; my wife and I were simply eager to have them get rid of stuff we’d accumulated that no longer had value to us. This cycle led to a new family vernacular—“yard sale material”—appropriately used when one member of my family sees another making an imprudent, impulsive purchase. I’d like to think the regular use of that admonition has curbed our profligacy. That, and the fact that each sale was inevitably followed by the embarrassing placement on our curb of whatever didn’t sell, alongside a spray-painted sign on plywood that simply said: “Free.” We’d debate how many days had to tick off the clock before the unsold item disappeared and wonder about those who had attended the sale and were disturbed by the gratuitous offering.

  THE POWER OF PIN MONEY

  Philadelphia Daily News, Thursday, September 9, 2010

  HOW COULD ANYBODY hate Steven Singer, given the generosity he’s exhibited toward the construction of the Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, Pennsylvania?

  Over the past year, the man whose unique marketing campaign is ubiquitous on Philadelphia radio and billboards has become a fund-raising superstar for this worthy national project.

  His role began last September, when I published Instinct: The Man Who Stopped the 20th Hijacker. The book tells the story of Jose Melendez-Perez, the immigration inspector who on August 4, 2001, refused to allow Mohamed al Kahtani—the intended fifth hijacker on Flight 93—into the United States. (Neither Melendez-Perez nor I earned a penny from the sale of the book. All author proceeds were donated to the Flight 93 National Memorial.)

  Singer, the prominent jeweler here in Philly and a sponsor of my radio program, told me he was inspired to do something.

  “Since September 11, 2001, I, like most Americans, felt helpless and very much wanted to help make a difference in some small way,” he said.

  So he designed the 9/11 “Never Forget” lapel pin pictured herein, and began to sell them to my radio audience for $10. He donated every cent to the Flight 93 memorial, covering the production costs and the manpower needed to sell and distribute them—even the shipping fees.

  Last year, our effort raised more than $30,000. Three weeks ago, he told me he had a goal for this year. I did, too.

  Mine was $50,000.

  Singer scoffed—and said his was $100,000.

  Well, with two days to go before the ninth anniversary of 9/11, I’m thrilled to say that he was right, and I was wrong. We just surpassed $100,000, with orders shipping to all 50 states.

  The response has been staggering. One individual wrote to Singer:

  I love the pin. Being a firefighter who was on standby for the 9/11 tragedy, it holds a place in my heart that I will never forget that day and everything about it and am a full supporter of the Flight 93 Memorial.

  Another wrote:

  As a survivor from the 105th floor of 2 WTC, I must tell you that your pins are an incredibly fitting tribute to those lost that day and an outstanding way to help us all “never forget.” . . . I now have a small but significant tattoo on my right wrist, the hand I cross my heart with, that is a replica of the pin. It is my way of “marking” my experience and always remembering.

  Alice Hoglan, the mother of the Flight 93 hero Mark Bingham, called the effort “thrilling” and “absolutely special.” Which is the highest praise.

  Hoglan is a woman of remarkable strength, and her son was a shining example of the rugged individualism that defined Flight 93 and its legacy. Bingham was a 6-foot-5 rugby player who was gay. He and his fellow passengers stopped Flight 93 just 20 minutes shy of a strike on Washington, D.C.

  In the weeks and months after that day, a makeshift memorial overlooking the crash site was created as thousands of people streamed to Shanksville to pay their respects. They have never stopped.

  According to Jeff Reinbold, the memorial project’s site manager, almost 1.5 million people have visited the temporary memorial since 9/11.

  And although construction of the permanent memorial is now under way (the first phase will be completed by next year’s 10th anniversary), the fund-raising efforts for a second phase are continuing, Reinbold told me.

  Plans for that expansion include a visitor center and 40 groves of trees representing Flight 93’s 40 heroes. Those purchasing Singer’s pins will be directly contributing to the completion of this phase by the planners’ goal of 2014.

  That will mean a permanent record of the bravery displayed by people like Hilda Marcin, another passenger on Flight 93.

  For more than a year, Marcin had been planning to move to California to live with her daughter, Carole O’Hare, and Carole’s husband, Tom. They were to begin that new chapter of their lives on September 11, 2001.

  Steven Singer presenting a check for the Garden of Reflection to Ellen Saracini, widow of Victor Saracini (captain of United Flight 175), on the 15th anniversary of 9/11.

  “These people were not soldiers, yet they fought a war—at 35,000 feet. That has to mean something,” Carole told me when I asked what the national memorial will mean to her.

  I think hi
story many years from now will treat it as a defining event in our nation’s history.

  But for now, for the families, the purpose of the memorial is to remember, reflect, and honor people they loved in a very personal way, realizing it’s much bigger than all of us.

  To purchase your pin and make your $10 donation to the Flight 93 National Memorial, visit IHateStevenSinger.com, or call 1-800-350-1104.

  You can also visit Steven Singer Jewelers at the (other) corner of 8th and Walnut in Center City and buy them in person.

  AFTERWORD

  Steven Singer is not only a longtime radio advertiser of mine but also a friend. Over the many years he has sponsored my program, I have come to admire his work ethic, mastery of advertising, and—as this column details—his generosity. I’ll get back to that last attribute later. First, let me tell you that Steven started in the business at age 17 while still in high school, when his job was selling jewelry wholesale on Philadelphia’s Jewelers’ Row. Steven then completed courses at the Gemological Institute of America, making him an expert in the disciplines of diamond residency, color stones, gem identification, and cultured pearls. In 1980, he opened his first eponymous jewelry shop. By his early 20s, he had already distinguished himself in the nation’s oldest and second-largest jewelry district—despite having the smallest store on the block. He outgrew that space and several that followed. And that was before he realized his brand’s great potential through radio advertising.

  As Steven explains in a profile in the Wall Street Journal published in the late 1980s, he noticed the buzz that Howard Stern was getting on radio. According to the Journal:

  [Mr. Singer] mortgaged his house and opened more than 20 new credit-card accounts. The ads cost about $1,000 a minute, he says. Some weeks, he could afford only two or three spots. His wife—and his accountant—thought he “was nuts,” Mr. Singer says, but both went along grudgingly. “I made it my business to get in good with that show,” he says.

  The rest is history.

  I know firsthand his brilliance from my perspective as a broadcaster. So many times over the course of my radio career, I’ve been asked by advertisers, through radio salespeople, to make sure that, in the span of a fleeting 60 seconds, I say certain words and phrases before repeated reference to the telephone number and “the ask.” If the spot ran 57 seconds, some advertisers would want a three-second credit. And if all the parameters in the written copy were not met, they would also complain, even when their ad had been given an effective read. Then there were those who would insist, “We really want your personality in this one,” only to script so much of the 60 seconds that there was no place left for me to leave my imprint.

  Enter Steven Singer. The guy who built a jewelry empire with the worse-than-self-deprecating line, “I hate Steven Singer.” Steven was unlike any advertiser I’d ever met. “Just say my name,” he told me early in our relationship. “Huh?” I replied.

  “Do whatever you want to do for 60 seconds, just say my name.” That was his only request.

  As I said, a genius. By giving me the freedom and flexibility to say what I wanted to say, he was guaranteeing that his ads would be different, that I wouldn’t sleep through a one-minute read, and that by giving me the flexibility to do less, he was actually ensuring he would get more. I’m not saying I’ve hit a home run with every one of his spots, but on the whole, I think I’ve given him more than his money’s worth.

  Most important, I know Steven to be a very generous guy, as illustrated in this column. As of this writing, Steven Singer has contributed $538,221.43 to 9/11 charities over the span of just seven years. For the first three years, his donations went to the Flight 93 National Memorial in Shanksville, and for the past four, to the Garden of Reflection in Bucks County. How could anyone hate a guy like that?

  FAREWELL, MY DN FRIENDS

  Philadelphia Daily News, Thursday, February 3, 2011

  EDITOR’S NOTE: Michael Smerconish made history here at 400 N. Broad when, six years after starting a column for the Daily News, he also began a weekly column in the Inquirer. To our knowledge, no one has ever contributed to both papers in quite the same way. In this and so many ways, Smerconish is one of a kind.

  But starting next week, having taken on more work for the Inquirer, he’ll be found exclusively in that paper. While this is his last column for the Daily News, we will always consider him a People Paper person.

  To see why, check out Philly.com/topsmerconish for a selection of our favorite Smerconish columns.

  MORE THAN NINE YEARS AGO, at the invitation of then-editor Zack Stalberg, I penned my first column for the Daily News. And today is my last, since I’ll be increasing my work at the Inquirer.

  I was proud of my first column byline on November 13, 2001, when I made the case for Rudy Giuliani to run the Department of Homeland Security, and have remained pleased with my association here ever since.

  I’ve written hundreds of columns since then. Many stand the test of time; others don’t. I’ve taken positions on countless controversies. Most but not all of my views still hold.

  For profiling. Against Mumia. For Katz. Against Street. For Ted Nugent. Against Pete Rose.

  I recently perused those many columns. Some are forgettable. Others I wish I could dial back. I’m disappointed that I got carried away with a conspiracy theory linking the Oklahoma City bombing to Middle Eastern terrorists.

  But I’m proud that on January 2, 2003, I wrote: “I am terribly disappointed in the Bush administration’s public case for the war against Iraq.”

  I called the Duke lacrosse case from the start. (“It’s the revenge of the nerds. Most journalists would never be chosen for a pickup game of hoops, let alone a varsity sport. So they take perverse pleasure in bringing down the BMOC, however undeserved.”)

  And every once in a while, I asked a provocative question. Like, if Alfred Kinsey was correct in saying that 10 percent of the population is gay, why did so few same-sex partners emerge seeking compensation from the September 11th Victim Compensation Fund?

  For rebuilding the Twin Towers as they existed. Against the zoo balloon flying so close to the Schuylkill. For keeping the Barnes in Merion. Against the Cuba embargo.

  I once wrote that they could fix the sagging ratings of the Miss America pageant if they’d “bring back the busty baton twirler.”

  That was probably my favorite line. Others have not been so pleased with my work.

  When I was critical of John Street for not firing an aide who reportedly said, “All of these teams are Jews—Jew lawyers and Jew architects—and we need to do something about that,” I found myself on the receiving end of a lawsuit by that speaker. (It was thrown out.)

  Other attention was more favorable. Remember the kidnapping of Erica Pratt, the plucky little Philadelphia girl who eventually escaped? After I wrote that those close to her were as much to blame as those who kidnapped her, Bernard Goldberg called to say he was using the column in a book, which he did (Arrogance).

  For colored Christmas lights. Against white ones. For legal prostitution. Against women with tattoos.

  It’s been interesting to reread my old columns. I was reminded that my disgust with the politicization in the country has been building for a while. After the presidential election in 2004 I wrote:

  In every green room in the country, there was a “liberal” and “conservative” at the ready, who, even if uncomfortable with those labels, were willing to be accepted as such for the sake of getting their mugs on camera.

  Televised politics now caters to the ideologues, the doctrinaire types. Lost in the screaming is any chance for a reasoned discussion. People at home take their marching orders from them, then parrot what they’ve heard. And so it goes.

  For buying fireworks in Pennsylvania. Against banning beer at Wawa.

  Probably the most popular column I ever wrote came during the Terri Schiavo controversy, when I used my column space to publish a sample living will. People still occasionally writ
e and ask for a copy of it.

  Certainly the most significant item I published was on April 12, 2004, when I examined a question former Navy secretary and 9/11 Commission member John Lehman had asked Condoleezza Rice at a 9/11 hearing:

  Were you aware that it was the policy . . . to fine airlines if they have more than two young Arab males in secondary questioning, because that’s discriminatory?

  Little did I know that Lehman’s single question would spur me to write my first book, Flying Blind.

  For a Christmas Village at City Hall. Against a blank check for Pakistan.

  Of all that I’ve written in nearly a decade at the DN, I’m most proud of something published on August 21, 2008, under the headline “Requiem for an Era.”

  In it, I tried to capture how the city had changed in the last few decades based on observations I jotted down while standing in a viewing line as it snaked along a South Philly street.

  I wrote the entire column on my BlackBerry, using my thumbs. I never said whose funeral it was because I thought it would distract from my observations, but I was paying my respects to John Dougherty after the passing of his mother, Mary Theresa, so I’m closing that loop now.

  Speaking of untimely death, I will never forget editor Michael Schefer for allowing me to use a column to eulogize the passing of my first dog, Winston, evidence of his being both a friend and a savvy editor.

  And I’ll always be a proud Daily News alum.

  AFTERWORD

  Something had to give. With four kids (and four dogs) at home, I was getting up at 3 a.m. to deliver a three-hour daily morning-drive radio program, appearing more and more often on cable television news, writing books, and cranking out two columns a week, one for the Daily News and one for the Sunday Inquirer. Even with the able assistance of my colleague John McDonald, it was just too much and I knew I had to choose which newspaper association I’d continue. The wider circulation and prominence of the Sunday Inquirer was certainly a consideration in my choice, but so too was the fact that I was no longer living in Center City, Philadelphia, but had moved back to the suburbs. I thought I was better suited to writing about issues that appealed to my suburban neighbors; hence my decision to discontinue my columns for the Daily News. Still, I remain grateful to Zack Stalberg and the Daily News for giving me a platform at the People Paper. I like how this recap sign-off perfectly encapsulates my good times at the DN and have emulated the style since in several end-of-year columns.