Author’s program note. Are you one of the billion or so people worldwide who’s
been blaming the recession for all your woes, including that pimple on your
back you popped… but should have left alone? Then this article is for YOU…
and not a moment too soon either. In it, we’re going to examine just what you did
yesterday to make money and whether you were focused on what you should have
been focused on… or whether you had succumbed to one of the greatest of
business maladies of all time: the pernicious Color Green Syndrome.

To put you in the mood to deal with this problem and to root it out of your business
and life, I’m calling up Stevie Wonder, particularly his 1982 song "Do I Do". (Go
find it in any search engine; use the long — 10 1/2 minute — version that features
Dizzy Gillespie.) It’s guaranteed to get you up, breathing deep, gliding across your
floor with a practised dexterity you didn’t know was in you. Good! For this article
and the resurrection of your business you need all the right moves… and Stevie
is going to help you get them… as I am.

Are you suffering from The Color Green Syndrome? I bet you are… and it’s killing
you.

What is this condition that’s worse than any plague, that’ll knock you for a loop
faster than any flu… yea verily, that will cripple your enterprises more assuredly
than the IRS or any other government intervention? Listen, my children, and you
shall learn it here, find out how to perceive it, deal with it, eradicate it forever and so
soar….

The heart and soul of your business is two things, just two things you must know
and do EVERY single day without fail, every day that is when you want to use your
business for what your business is for: making money, making money, oh yes,
making money. Ou la la!

Okay, let’s dig in, in the spirit of medical research and solution. The two things you
must do EVERY day in your business are to 1) generate prospects and 2) close those
prospects. Nothing — absolutely NOTHING — is as fundamental to your success as
this. So, let’s take a sustained gander at what you did yesterday to grow your business
and reap rewards from it… and whether The Color Green Syndrome laid you low.

How the Syndrome got its name.

According to my trusty and much used dictionary, syndrome is defined as an aggregate
or set of concurrent symptoms together indicating the presence and nature of a disease.
One of the most destructive and insidious of these syndromes is the subject of this
article. Here’s how it was discovered and named.

A person not unlike you came to visit me one day, asserting with vehemence and
vigor that he wanted to make money online. To do so he knew he needed
tools, training, traffic and ongoing help, and he paid me to provide them. I got down
to business with a will; I am a man who believes in action, action now… and so in
due course I presented him with a website that was 100% focused on stopping
prospects in their tracks, motivating them to take notice, leave complete follow-up
details (the better to have and develop those essential prospect lists) … and move like
greased lightning to get the stupendous offer I had persuaded him to make.

But things, begun so auspiciously, slowed to a snail’s pace — or slower — at this
moment. Why? "Because the green you selected for the background color isn’t the
green I want. Show me some others."

And so began the descent into madness and the unraveling of a great enterprise
with a killer website standing at the ready to make lucre, and a lot of it.

The client didn’t like the green… but wanted to show his partner… who definitely
didn’t like the green…

One requested one green; the other requested another. And while they reviewed,
considered and discussed the virtues and winning attributes of greens ranging from
apple green… chartreuse… hunter green… Islamic green…. fern green… Paris
green… Shamrock green and several dozen other greens, far more greens than either
you, me, or the customer even knew existed… their business stopped. So important
was getting just the precise shade that all other matters, including the prosaic little
matter of generating prospects, closing prospects, making money fell by the wayside…
prospects ungenerated, offers unmade, sales non existent… until just the right green
surfaced, was seen, discussed, selected, and shown off.

"So sad, but what has this to do with me?", you ask.

You will recall that a syndrome is an aggregate of symptoms… and so it is here. The
Color Green Syndrome can easily morph into any of the following conditions:

"I cannot generate prospects, call prospects, close prospects, until…"

* I have 2 cups of coffee, not a drop more or less;

* I have watched my favorite television program, never missing a minute or an
episode:

* My dog is walked, my newspaper read, my toast prepared just so (and oh if
my favorite jam is gone).

"I cannot generate prospects, call prospects, close prospects until I’ve…."

* called my children;

* fluffed my pillows;

* considered lunch and dinner menus.

And several million other situations, conditions, "really important things" that
(by definition and sanctified usage) are important, way more important than
doing what’s necessary to generate prospects… contact prospects… close and
make deals with prospects.

Don’t say you aren’t subject to this malady. This is Dr. Lant you’re talking to, your
friend, ultimate realist…. and we both know better, don’t we? You’ve got a bad case…
and blaming it on the recession just passed — or anything else — just isn’t good enough….

So, unless you’re prepared to let The Color Green Syndrome (in any of its many
manifestations) continue to undermine your business, you’ve got to change your
ways… today… and I’ve asked Stevie Wonder to assist.

START with the two essential money-making activities — generating leads,calling
leads — BEFORE you do ANYTHING else. Treat the prospects you’ll generate
like this:

"When I see you on the street
My whole body gets weak."

In short treat that all -important prospect like the lover you cannot wait a single
minute to contact… and make this kind of offer:

"Yes I got some honey suckle chocolate dripping kisses full of love for you."

Author’s program note. It was the work of an instant to select the music
to accompany this article. It had to be Rocky Balboa’s theme song, "Gonna
Fly Now" (released 1977). It’s perfect for people who must work, really work,
to grab victory. Rocky Balboa, Sylvester Stallone’s alter ego, was that
kind of person. His life was a mess… and what he knew about winning
wouldn’t even fill a thimble. He had to learn it, commit to it, do it… through
every body-stretching, painful movement. But he wanted victory, he needed
victory, he had to know what being a champion was all about… and so he
did what he had to do, the more so on the many days he felt like throwing in the
towel, giving up, because giving up was so easy to do.

And, therefore, completely unacceptable.

He ran and he ran, up the famous steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art…
he ran…. he stumbled… he sweated like a horse… and he fell. And that’s when a
remarkable thing happened…

First one person jumped to his feet in the cinema and pounded the air with his
clenched first… Rocky was running for this boy now… and the boy knew it… and
shouted…

And then there was growing pandemonium in the theatre, as whole rows of people,
men and women, old age pensioners now and even hitherto demur women of a
certain age… graduate students, physicians, kids from the neighborhood and retired
has-beens with no lifetime victories at all… we were all on our feet, screaming for
Rocky…. because we knew what he was going through… and we wanted to help
him… and re-ignite our own lives.

It was primal…. it was cathartic… it was magnificent.

Go now then to any search engine and find this music. Play it loud, proud, often…
it is the theme song for people who have known only too well what being an
underdog is all about… and what sweet victory demands of them… and their
willingness to do whatever is necessary to get it… because this kind of victory
demands the best of you, everything of you and will never accept less.

Have you ever given all of yourself in this way, to show the world — and yourself —
just what you’re made of? Because you will never understand the pure exhilaration
that life can be until you have put yourself, every particle of yourself on the line,
victory or death, torpedoes be damned, full speed ahead.

Well, meet one woman who has… a grandmother from California. Her name is
Linda Elze, and she is a champ of champs.

And it is my great privilege to introduce her to you, her and the mindset and the
unrelenting determination that has turned her into a role model, an inspiration, a
champion.

Champs know only one direction: up; know only one position: first!

I have known many champions in my almost 65 years… and one thing they all share
is an adamant commitment to reaching the top. They know that that is where their
true fulfillment is to be found… and that fulfillment is worth every obstacle, every
impediment, every challenge and every crushing set-back… for make no mistake about
it: there has never been, nor will there ever be, a champion who has not been mangled,
crushed, cast down…. Overcoming such situations is not only necessary to becoming
a champion… but it is because such situations have been overcome that gives victory
its unique savor and bliss.

Champions commit, without any guarantees.

What does life offer each of us? Some wag said, "just death and taxes"; but champions
can add pain to that, with absolutely no assurance of victory. Thus they face the
certainty of work… of pain… of obstacles… without the smallest guarantee that they’ll
achieve their objective.

100% work…. 0% guarantee of victory. This is the formula every champion lives by…
and from this they must draw everything they’ll need for victory… and they must do this
most of all on days when every sinew of their bodies is asking for, no demanding,
rest… comfort… release; the very thing champions, of all people, must use spariingly,
for these are the impediments to victory.

Champions face — then grapple with and overcome — their imperfections.

One thing you can bet on with champions is this: each and every one of them was born
imperfect. Each champion had, at one time or several, to face this reality with
complete honesty and candor. Integrity begins with a knowledge of just who you are,
and most particularly what imperfections you have. Then having perceived and
enumerated them… you must work to overcome them. For perfection can only be
achieved through the stark recognition and assiduous overcoming of imperfection.

Champions maintain an acute realization of time… and learn how to use this
perishable commodity to maximum effect.

Benjamin Franklin told us that time is money… but even more than that, time is
the process that defines and limits us. No know knows better than an aspiring
champion just how finite and intractable time really it… and therefore approaches
each and every day with humility, respect, and total commitment, no excuses, no
hesitations, and no regrets… because regrets imply that you didn’t do enough or
in the right way. However, champions retire each day comforted by the knowledge,
the certainty that they did what was necessary — everything that was necessary —
to make this day the best it could be.

Out of surfeit, generosity.

And one more thing. Champions give. Because they have, because they can, because
they must. All champions are defined by their generosity… they have so much by
virtue of their victories… and each desires to share it.

…. and of such givers Linda Elze is the queen, as people worldwide can attest; good
people becoming even better from the infusions of this single woman; often tired,
sometimes ill, yet never without a smile, a kind word, a tip, a helping hand.

And so today, we do not just salute and acknowledge the champion… but the woman who
became the champion, and who has given so much to launch and assist others so they
become champions, too.

This is her hour, her day, not an end, but a new beginning. For she has so many
victories to come, so many to help, and each gives her what champions need most
of all, and grateful, love. It is our privilege to give… her privilege to take. God speed,
Linda Elze, on your triumphant way. We are all so very proud of you, not just for your
victories, but for your heart and the love that defines you.

About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses.

Services include home business training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today. http://www.worldprofit.com

Author’s program note. What you would have noticed first of all was that the
pews were filled with young faces… the kinds of faces you don’t usually see
amongst the congregation at funeral services in Greensboro, North
Carolina. And you knew right away that this was a service for someone who
died young, died whilst knowing hardly a thing about life… except that he knew
and embodied the most important realization in life… that to give to others is the
essence of our humanity… whilst to die for others is sublime.

As David Emanuel Hickman had done…

"Zeus".

What you would also have noticed about David Hickman was that he was as near
physical perfection as a human can be, so much so that he called himself "Zeus" after
the king of the Olympic gods. He didn’t just look good… he looked awesome… toned,
sculpted, working as the physical fitness fanatic he was to perfect perfection. He was
avid in pursuit of the body to die for, organized, dedicated, committed.

Such people, of course, with eye-popping muscles and the kind of beefcake you
see on the covers of magazines in the check-out lane at grocery stores, can easily
irk and irritate the rest of the population, too lazy to exercise and yet proud… but David
Hickman knew the secret to making even the most jealous like him, for he was the
class cut-up… a man whose smile was more killing than his six pack. David loved to
laugh… and he loved to make everyone around him laugh, too. We could forgive this
kid anything… because he made us laugh at everything… it was his real claim to
fame, even when he was masterminding the complicated plays that brought sweet
victory to Northeast Guilford High School. For he was, in time-honored American
fashion, a grid iron hero…

Complicated plans.

David relished his time playing football… not least because it gave him the opportunity
to create… the most complicated plays, plays which he would sit at home inventing,
doodling, making notes on a page that would in due course become the moves that
would bring the excited crowd to its feet shouting for David, anxious for more of
the same, sure it would come… for David loved the game and relished the fact that
it gave him the opportunity to dazzle… even though his ultra complicated game plans had
to be put aside after he graduated… mere teen-agers were unable to understand, much
less execute them. How David must have smiled when he learned that, "Don’t that
just beat all… Don’t that just beat all?"

What now?

But as all grid iron heroes learn, football and its perquisites stop.. but life goes on.
Thus each such hero must answer one insistent question: what now? For David
Hickman this meant the service of America, this meant the army… and so he enlisted.
And remember this: he did this of his own choice, his own volition. He was not compelled
to do so, neither forced nor drafted. He selected the service of his nation because
he believed in this nation, its great mission, and its essential goodness and purpose .
David Hickman, American boy, volunteered and volunteered in time of war. This single
decision, this action was the determining factor in the remaining time of his short life.

Boy into man.

In the army Hickman learned what every service man learns… the crucial importance of
the unit, the team, his buddies. Being a team player for football gave him a head start;
he already knew how to turn a commitment to his team mates into victory. These crucial
skills, on which more lives depended than just his, were honed in the army, in his unit, the
2nd Battalion, 325th Airborne Infantry. Hickman, more man than boy with every passing
day, grew up in his regiment, as so many before him had grown up. It was all about the
men and women he served with, men and women who selected the army, the service of
the Great Republic… and their fate as warriors in the current of America’s lengthy and
growing chain of wars. For be clear on this: in the year Hickman enlisted, in 2009,
the great fact of America was America’s current wars, in Iraq, in Afghanistan. And David
Hickman knew that service to America would very likely, quite probably mean active duty
in one or more of these turbulent, always dangerous war zones.

Whether he enlisted because of this great fact, or in spite of it is not known… but
this fact is: he signed his name on the required paperwork… and so declared himself
ready for whatever should come. Thus, in due course, David Hickman took his godlike
physique, his mega-watt smile, his rollicking humor, and his complete commitment
to his country to Iraq and to kismet.

Getting into war — easy. Getting out — hard.

Every nation or political entity always learns one certain, irrevocable fact: that it
is easy, ridiculously easy, to get a war, any war, started. The paraphernalia of war
is readily at hand, the stirring rhetoric, the certainty that war, always war, must be
the solution to any problem, the seemingly irrefutable argument that this war is just,
honest, timely, necessary…

Oh, yes, each war, all the wars, have been easily convoked… and so Johnny goes
marching from home, all the necessary assurances and certainties in his kit. And
the rest of us wish him well and say that this war, like all the previous wars, is
necessary and proper; that our cause is always just, and our wars are all needed,
each and every one.

Then we discover that war isn’t always the best solution… that war is always muddled,
confusing, inept… and expensive. And so painful to see and experience, that the very
people we have gone to save are not grateful… are in fact outraged by our presence
and wish us to the devil… or at the least to go home soonest. All this invariably
surprises, baffles and confuses the likes of David Hickman and all the buddies… for
their certainties melt when confronted by the forge of politics, self-seeking, and its
multiplicity of shades of gray, instead of the black and white they expected and which
had been so clear the day they departed.

And so the team, their buddies and colleagues grows in importance… as does the vital
necessity to stay alive, to go home. And a kind of game develops… once the feeling
is general that this once certain and necessary war will be over soon, politicians
prating of the victory they didn’t get… once this happens, the emphasis is on getting
out alive; nothing, absolutely nothing is more important than that.

And so the war that no one now believes in must be kept going, while every thought
and every effort is on staying alive… going home.

Killed at 23, November 14, 2011.

David Hickman, so expert at so many games, knew the drill… and took his chances.
And died in the process.

He was killed by an improvised bomb, a device characteristic of the Iraq war, a cheap,
nasty, made-up weapon that mangled and killed the military professionals of our nation.
And on an ordinary day in mid-November cut down David Hickman, too… the beauty
of his youth, every possibility of a life graced with goodness, empathy, and a willingness
to work to make things better… all this gone because of a random destructive device
detonated on a day when all David Hickman wanted was to stay alive and go home.

And he did go home, as nearly 4,500 of our countrymen and women came home…
to flags flying, guns firing, salutes smartly given… in a box; the last casualty in a war
hardly anyone understood… a war that brought us the obloquy of the world… and a
church full of his buddies and comrades, every one young, every one without a line,
without a single wrinkle… all thinking of God, of David, of themselves, and most of all
about America, our Great Republic… and why Taps is played for so many, so
often, so much expected, so little achieved.

Author’s program note. Have you ever felt that the problems of our muddled
planet are too much for you… that you’d like your brief span on our bit of
terra firma to matter… but can’t imagine how to get started? In short, have
you despaired… about your power, your abilities, your significance… about the
future of our 3rd rock from the Sun… about making a difference that will last and
make you proud?

Let me tell you this, fellow pilgrim, every single good person on Spaceship Earth
has these thoughts; you wouldn’t be the sentient soul you are if you didn’t burn
the midnight oil pondering these great questions of our species and its impact.

If you truly want to make that vital difference, then you will read this timely article
and read it again… because it makes clear and in necessary detail just what
awe-inspiring power you have at your immediate disposal… and how to use it,
over and over again, with ever growing experience and impact; a power that
no Caesar ever had… no grave thinker… no nimble statesman… no dedicated man
or woman of any kind (no matter how bold and innovative)… until the Internet came
along and gave you — you — the power to change… to motivate… to chide… to encourage
… to uplift… to censure… to rethink and to re-examine… to educate… to cherish…
to bring kindred spirits together… and lighten their labors whilst singing their
praises.

You — you — wherever you are on this fast-spinning sphere, can alter the course of
events, scrutinize and reshape the present, transform the future, enhance anything,
enrich everything, place nefarious and heinous deeds under the most stark and
unremitting light… whilst bringing to widespread public notice good thoughts, good
deeds, good actions of every kind from every quarter and source.

All this and more is inherent in what we call a blog…and you have trod this
world at just the right time… a time every reformer, redeemer, and revolutionary
of the past envies you — you — for you possess what they could never even dream of
whatever their station, intellect, or influence.

Commit.

First, commit and re-commit yourself to making a difference…not merely thinking
of doing so, but actually pledging yourself to do so. When I was a young man thinking
often about and baffled by my future, my mother offered me a salient piece of advice
I have not only recalled from time to time… but crafted my life by: commit yourself,
she said, to a cause that’s bigger than you are, a cause that will need every skill
you may master and all your imagination, energy, and the full measure of your heart,
above all your heart.

This is a worthy objective for a life… though it never ceases to challenge and make
demands which can sometimes seem too great, too exhausting, too strenuous.
However, you will never know who you are unless you set such a rigorous pace and
objective; for the grand goal and how you handle it make clear beyond question and
cavil who you are…

Just one little candle.

Every great deed, every worthy thought, every beneficial action of every kind has
begun with one step. Instead of being oppressed by all there is to do, instead be
glad and comforted by the fact that you have the power now to begin… for as we
say in New England, "well begun is half done."

Begin by saying, writing down and carrying with you at all times, the first four
lines from the song "One Little Candle". You can find it in any search engine.

"It is better to light just one little candle
Than to stumble in the dark
Better far that you light just one little candle,
All you need is a tiny spark."

(Music George Mysels, Lyrics Joseph Maloy Roach. Published 1952.)

Bully pulpit, not cliche, dross, drivel.

The term bully pulpit was coined by President Theodore Roosevelt, who referred
to the White House as a powerful platform for advocating a progressive agenda.
In his day only presidents and other holders of high offices had this power…
but that is true no longer. You — you — have at your immediate disposal powers
and the potential for change, influence, and impact greater even than the man
who coined the phrase and used it to effect the broadest possible results.

Unfortunately, some blog publishers are unclear on their mission and thus
regularly publish material that is second-rate, old-hat, badly written, verbiage
that would be better trashed than recycled through endless editions. Instead be
clear on this: the material you publish must be worthy of a blog’s potential
and your ability to live up to it. That is every word, every sentence, every paragraph,
every page must adhere to the highest possible standards, or else the whole
enterprise is pointless, derisory, infra dig. And that result will never do… nor will
it help you reach your goal of influencing the maximum number of people on this
planet and so effecting meaningful change.

Celebrate, sustain, advance the underdog.

People of power, means, access, influence and position have absolutely no
need for your services. They already occupy every significant place on Earth
and the benefits and emoluments pertaining thereunto. Your task, to be worth the
doing, must be to be clear on what you should be doing… who you should be
supporting… and who scrutinizing and holding accountable. In other words, the
best use of your blog is to support the underdog in any and every way at your
empowered disposal. The world is full of the dispossessed, the disenfranchised,
the desperate, the down trodden, the disappeared, the destitute. They are legion
as are their stories of alienation, injustice, abuse; all too often thrust aside,
deferred, buried, belittled, unregarded, distorted, dismissed.

Which is where you, your commitment, your blog, that bully pulpit, come in. In a
world of such unending outrages, your task is clear and crucial, for all there will be
days when it seems overwhelming.

Remember this, to have the power to effect good and to fail to use it regularly,
pointedly, thoroughly is not merely an error, but dereliction, sacrilege, incomprehensible,
immoral.

Author’s program note. This is a story of my Cambridge, Massachusetts
neighborhood and of the clever administrators who, when the forces of
revolution, in the persons of Occupy Harvard, through a simple, if unparalleled
expedient, showed the unwashed elite intent on mayhem, just why they weren’t
going to get it.

This is the story of the young and self-dubbed "idealistic"… who "captured" the
undefended citadel of a great institution, pitching their pathetic pup tents at the very
foot of John Harvard himself… expecting surrender, kudos, and the front page and
editorial favor of the New York Times; then watched themselves become, day by day,
a foolish anachronism, rightly snickered at and derided; and at the last embarrassing,
uncool.

It is the story of the original alma mater of this Continent who, whilst no doubt
exasperated by these her erring children, used a smidgeon of its abundant parental
wisdom so that the misbehaving youngsters in her charge were gently taken in hand,
chagrined and frustrated of course, but not humiliated. For Harvard, corporate giant that
it is, still remembers that it is an institution where young people — so intelligent, each and
every one of them — must be allowed the foibles of their slender years; admonition and
rebuke being the order of the day, not censure and the spanking they truly deserve and
which would do them a world of good.

This is the story of how Occupy Harvard, ignored, derided, ridiculed, threw in the
unwashed towel, always claiming victory of course, and went home to mom and
dad, just in time for Santa Claus, little knowing they had already encountered him
in the persons of the wise solons of the university; that their biggest present this
season was the respectful treatment, care, even courtesy they received while acting
out their petulance and selfishness in the Yard that is the beating heart of Harvard.

To get yourself in the mood for this true tale of our times, start by going to any search
engine and find the Harvard Fight Song, "10,000 men of Harvard" and let its bold
assurance set the pace for your day and my story. It has absolutely the right brass
and total assurance that we ancient grads are feeling today as the immemorial gates
of Harvard swing open again after the outrage of locking them in the first place and
keeping them locked for 39 long, dreary days.

The tale begins.

Harvard and every single one of its students and grads would like to feel, no, do feel
that here in Cambridge the best and brightest gather and under its antediluvian
timbers and in the midst of every knowledge Past, Present, and Future; yes gather,
for nothing less than to craft the future of this planet and of Mankind. This is the Harvard
Mystique; whether it is true or not is irrelevant; for every man of Harvard and every woman of Harvard too, would suffer painful and fatal dismemberment before admitting otherwise. Thus
the Mystique, and its very practical consequences, abides.

This Mystique was affronted by, irritated by, and irked and inconvenienced by the
pip squeaks who thought they could upend the established order of things hereabouts
by planting their ultra privileged posteriors in the mud, and while proclaiming their
sanctity and superiority go in pursuit of Something to Advocate. For make no mistake
about it, they came to indulge the delights of revolution without a single item of revolutionary
intent. These had to be found, even manufactured. And thus they were truly rebels without a
cause. But all the other kids of their generation were indulging their penchant for community
play time and fatuity; they wanted some of the fun for themselves.

And so they, free to move into the Yard, did so, rapscallions mouthing the flatulent
and facile rodomontades of revolution, whilst continuing to take their hot and delicious
meals in the convenient refectory, bills dispatched to daddy in the usual fashion. Never
before in the annals of human affairs has revolution been so casual, so effortless and
so well served.

In loco parentis. What should be done?

Once ensconced, the rebels proceeded to make a menace of themselves; not because
of the high value and necessity for their demands; for they were scrambling to find
such. No, the real danger was to them… and the university authorities rightly took heed
to the very real likelihood that their presence would prove irresistible to the flotsam
and jetsam of derelict humanity just feet away in Harvard Square where so many
make an uncomfortable home and living, preying on the feckless students of Harvard,
too young to know how exploited they are and how much at risk. To the revolutionaries,
these are the "people", and they must be saved; thus mistaking who is victim and what is
necessary.

And so for the first time in its storied history, since its very foundation in 1636, the great
gates, the celebrated gates, the massive historical gates with the proud insignia of
ages, these gates swung shut, padlocked and guarded. No one but bona fide students
living in the Yard could get in… and this meant graduates like me, a Cambridge dweller,
too, and close by, who all view the 25 acres of the Yard as our personal park and
estate.

So, the responsible authorities of the university gathered to mull over what they should
do, for the good of the institution, the students who came (mirabile dictu) to study and
better themselves, and the revolutionaries who needed the utmost protection of all.
What should be done for the greatest good of the greatest number?

And some inspired soul at this meeting of high consequence said, "Close the gates."
The suggestion, unprecedented, audacious, unexpected, was in fact inspired… for it
gave succor to those who needed it (always, remember, including the sophomoric
revolutionaries themselves) while depriving those revolutionaries of what they most
needed and had to have: an audience.

At once the great leveling revolution and its wet-behind-the-ears practitioners took
on an air of irrelevance, far from the event of cosmic significance Harvard students
always assume whatever they do must be. They dreamed of sweeping consequence
and imperial panoramas, but the best they could come up with was working to
get a pay increase for the custodial staff, happily willing to let the students advocate
for them, and so, from perceived oppression, show their wiles.

The revolutionaries threw the obligatory "teach in" where the absence of rhetoric,
declamation, and logic from the Harvard curriculum was glaringly revealed. They
shouted, too, for a review of Harvard’s massive investment portfolio, sure that profits
were being made by investors without social conscience. But it was much ado about
nothing. And so, day by day, without auditors, fervor waned along with the temperatures
of bone-chilling December. The revolution sputtered to an ignominious conclusion.

With white gloves…

Winston Churchill, so often so apt, once said, "When you hang a man, don’t forget the
white gloves." And perhaps this sentiment was conscious as Harvard, having seen the
diminution of the revolution and grasped the growing desire of both students and
revolutionaries alike for parlay, suggested a face-saving summit conference with all the
honors… therefore offering a way out for the embarrassed and disdained occupiers; gates
to be open, all but a symbolic token of revolution to be dismantled.