Table of Contents
For the one who guides me, nurtures me,
loves me unconditionally, and brings me joy
Acknowledgments
There is always a great team of people behind great books. If this book is not great, I alone hold the blame, because I most certainly had a great team to assist me.
My long-time assistant, Lornette Browne, serves as my anchor, keeping me on target, on schedule, and on purpose. She is a blessing.
Vicki McCown did the initial editing with discernment, intelligence, and care, protecting the integrity of the message, keeping my true voice, but ensuring that you the reader can discover the personal meaning here for you.
Matthew Holt and the team from John Wiley & Sons, Inc., are responsible for what you hold in your hands. Matt had a vision for the kind of book the world needed and felt I was the guy to write it.
When it came time to discuss purpose, philosophy, and principles, I had the extraordinary benefit of critical thinkers Bob Burg, Ian Percy, Larry Winget, and Eric Worre.
I am grateful to you all!
This book contains mature themes and adult language which may be offensive to some. Parental discretion is advised.
CHAPTER 1
Memes and Manipulation: The Battle for Control of Your Mind
The Forces Aligned to Keep You Dumb, Sick, and Broke
It was that thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning. I had just returned from an evening at a club. As I parked on the street and got out of my car, a tall stranger bounded up to me. I figured he probably wanted to bum a cigarette or ask directions.
I didnt notice the gun until it was too late.
Turns out the guy was a crackhead desperate for his next fix. This was the eighties, the wild west days of Miami and the advent of the crack epidemic, when we were overrun by petty criminals from the Mariel boatlift and the infamous Cocaine Cowboys. South Beach, where I lived, sat at the epicenter of drug activity.
And I was about to become the next statistic....
The guy held the gun to my temple, and his eyes glassed over as though looking right through me. A white Pontiac Fiero pulled up behind us, apparently waiting for my assailant.
Although I practiced martial arts, this situation didnt call for physical defense. The gun remained pointed at my brain, and I knew that if you get shot there, youre done. Even if youre not dead, youre dead. I had no idea whether the accomplice in the car had another gun. (I found out later he did.) And, of course, he could just run me over if he wanted to.
So I elected to try and calm down my attacker, give him my money, and steer the incident to a peaceful resolution. Which works a lot better if you have more than $7 in your pocket! Since a rock of crack cocaine cost five bucks in those days, I kept telling him to take the money, get himself a rock, and wed just forget about the whole thing. But he wasnt buying that, insisting I had more money and Id better hand it over.
I kept trying to rationally explain that the seven bucks was all the money I had on me, and he should just take it and get to the crack house. I pointed out why he didnt want the situation to escalate, with probable repercussions being arrest, felony charges, and prison. Of course, crackheads are not known for their rational thinking...
Finally, he told me to get back in my car. I dont know how or why, but I knew that if I did get in the car, I wouldnt come out alive. So I refused.
You have my money, and here are the car keys. You can have the car, but Im not getting in it. Just take the money, get a rock, Ill walk away, and well forget this ever happened.
We were standing under the periphery of a streetlights glow. I kept slowly edging back toward the bright light in the event someone might drive by or look out from an apartment window. I could see him getting jumpier by the second. The driver of the Fiero revved his engine.
Suddenly he moved the gun away from my head and pressed it against my abdomen. Then he said something very ominous. I remember wondering whether what he said was directed at me, at the world in general, or to himself. It was one of those mysterious statements that could mean many things. I remember discussing it with people soon afterwards, debating who he was talking to and what he meant.
The fascinating thing is, when I try and recall those words now, I cant. I believe my mind has shut out that entire experience, to protect me from reliving too vividly what happened next....
He pulled the trigger.
It wasnt like TV. The noise was deafening, especially at that time, reverberating off my apartment building and echoing out across the neighborhood. I clutched my stomach as I fell backwards onto the street. Then time slowed down to Matrix speed...
I calmly watched the shooter get into the car, which drove off towards Miami. I remember thinking for a second that Id been had, that the gun must have been a starter pistol or shooting blanks, because I didnt feel anything. But when I looked down to where I was holding my abdomen, I saw blood streaming through my fingers.
Then I felt the pain. A lot.
As a writer and professional speaker, I pride myself on my ability to communicate ideas, concepts, and stories. But I simply dont have the words to adequately describe to you what a bullet tearing through vital organs feels like. Were talking white-hot, searing, thermonuclear hurt.
Because the shot was so loud, I expected lights would flash on, people would lean out windows, open doors, and then someone would come out and take care of me.
None of the above. Complete stillness.
I sat in the street, my legs splayed out under the streetlight. I remained there for who knows how long, suffering from shock, locked in a surreal, detached state, as I watched the pool of blood surrounding me grow larger. Suddenly I realized that if I didnt get up, go to my apartment, and call for help, I would die in the street.
I ripped off my shirt and tied it around me to stop the bleeding as best I could. I struggled up, crossed the street, climbed a flight of stairs, and entered my apartment. I managed to dial 911, then collapsed into a chair. I felt my life slowly ebbing away from me, as more and more of my blood flowed down onto the carpet.
By the time the paramedics arrived, I was so weak they picked up the chair with me in it and carried me down to the ambulance. When they lifted me onto the gurney, I writhed in pain as blood gushed from my gut. On the way to the hospital my blood pressure dropped so low they had to put me in a pressurized space suit to keep my heart pumping.
Once we arrived, emergency nurses greeted me with four IVs and a catheter. The doctors rushed me into surgery and sewed up my large intestine. My life had been saved, but I had yet to go through the worst agony I would ever experience...
For the next few days I could neither eat nor drink. They gave me a cotton swab to moisten my lips. A tube running through my nose, down my throat and into my stomach kept gagging me. Even through the fog of drugs, the pain was excruciating. When I choked on my own mucus and vomit, I ripped the tube out, only to have them reinstall it and threaten to strap my arms to the bedrails if I tried to remove it again.
