The Swagger News

Life without the emergency brake.

"What would life be like if we didn't step on the brakes all the time?" she asks, her voice curious but weak. 

She's been doing a lot of thinking. About life and her place in it. About what she wants. What she dreams of. What makes her truly happy. 

Her question inspires me. I decide to do an experiment. Today, I'm going to live without the emergency brake. Full speed ahead without holding back. What have we got to lose? 

To me, the brakes represent fear. Holding back when we might otherwise take action. Hesitation. Doubt. Second guessing ourselves. I'm going to boycott it for 24 hours and share the results with you. 

This is not a reckless bout of manic irresponsibility. I don't aim to disrespect other people. I will live within our codes and rules, but without my self-imposed brakes. 

Wish me luck. 

07:09 a.m. "GOOD MORNING!" It's coming from the neighbor's backyard. A construction worker is about to get a very early start for a Saturday morning. I was told they'd start at 08:30. I hear the first hammering around 07:30. This was not the deal. I fly out of bed and bound downstairs, the blood racing through my veins. 

Here's when I'd normally pull the emergency brake to avoid confrontation. But not today.  

I ring her doorbell and speak my mind. Apparently I'm giving off a bit of an angry vibe because she says, "you're angry". I ask her to please keep her promises and walk back to my house. To her credit, the builders shut the fuck up until exactly 08:30 at which time they promptly start banging away (which is their right, for sure). 

When I get home I feel...proud. I spoke my mind. Stood up for my principles, however minor. Life without the emergency brake. 

07:28 I send the following Swagger text to my client Patrick: "today we live without putting on the brakes. Full speed ahead without holding back. What have we got to lose?" Normally, I'd send something a little more 'sensible'. More 'teachery'.  But that's not how I'm rolling today. He texts back 2 minutes later, "very good one Dave. I like this one very much. What have we got to lose!?" Life without the emergency brake.

08:00 I'm writing my new book. It's about my drug addiction and recovery. It's no easy task, I promise you. Normally, I might downplay a certain story in an attempt to make it more decent. More palatable for a reader. But not today. I end up writing about the day we made our own fake ID's and got shitfaced in a biker bar. Life without the emergency brake. 

08:58. We're in a hurry. Swimming lessons. Gotta buy a birthday present for the party later. Gotta comb the boys hair for lice (again!). Normally, I'd blow my top and scream at the boys. I often get angry when I'm afraid. But not today. Today I'm not afraid. The worst that can happen is we're late. So I try this one instead, "Mickey and Timo, have I told you boys how much I love you today? Bigger than the whole world." It might sound corny now, but it was a genuine moment. They heard me. You should try it with the ones you love. 

11.04 Timo's in the pool having his lesson. I'm with Mickey at the club's restaurant. I order a coffee. When you order a coffee in Holland, you get a cookie. One cookie. Mickey asks me to ask for two cookies. Instinctively, I say, "no Mick. One cookie". But I stop myself. Why not, two cookies? I ask the guy for two. "Sure" he answers, handing them over. Life without the emergency brakes. 

14.15 A few months ago we started a new band called Burning Flames of Fire. We've had three proper rehearsals. I love this band. I couldn't be happier with these musicians. I'm so excited about it. Normally, this excitement would make me fearful. What if I freak them out by coming on too strong? What if somebody's not into it? What if I'm not good enough? What if we don't get any gigs? The questions of a counterproductive mind. Today, though, I decide to reach out. I wanna tell them how happy I am about our little thing. The safe play would be a Facebook message or a Twitter DM. Can't do that, right? So I call. I get Sanne the drummer on the phone. I tell him how I feel. He feels the same way. Sweet. I leave a message for Aafke, telling her that I love working with her. I can't get Pascal on the phone because he's in Portugal but I'll tell him the same when he gets back to NL. Life without the emergency brake. 

17:28 We've got a couple of hours while the kids are at parties. We go to town. Instead of the normal cafes, we try two new ones. The second one is actually a restaurant, so I'm not sure if they do afternoon cappuccinos. Normally, I wouldn't try. Today, I bound right in. The owner, a true professional if ever there was one, sits us at a cozy table by the window. We're perfectly positioned to peacefully watch the city glide by on a Saturday afternoon. It's sublime. Life without the brakes. 

19:24 I'm here at my Mac, typing this post. So far it's 866 words. Pretty long. Normally, I'd worry about how it's too long and nobody will want to read it. Normally I might doubt whether I should post again so soon. Am I overdoing it by writing too much? Not today. By now you know what I'm gonna do. I type on, knowing I'm writing this because it makes me happy to write this. If you read it, I'm thrilled. If you don't I'm still thrilled. 

Life without the emergency brakes.

And it's not even dark out yet. Tonight, I'll take off the brakes by telling my beautiful wife how gorgeous she is, and how I'm the luckiest man alive to be with her. Who knows where that may lead...

My friends, unless you're about to slam into a wall, take off the brakes. It's worth it. 

 

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Wanna boost your confidence? Watch how Jacques does it.

I dedicate this post to my friend Tim. He and his family are enduring a tragedy of the unthinkable kind. He wrote me yesterday. He's still got his sense of humor, despite the circumstances. He even told me he likes my little movies. So this one's for you Tim. I hope you like it. 

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Most of my clients don't know the word Swagger because English is not their native language. To me, this is a bonus. I get to be the first person to teach them the word. What an honor! 

For some English speakers the word swagger has a negative connotation. It's seen as cocky, arrogant, or just plain cheesy. Which is fine. Despite its reputation I love the word and have given it my own little twist. Here's my definition: 

Swagger is having the confidence to take action. It's the freedom to make mistakes. It's powerful and positive body language. It's accepting the never ending challenge of the day. It's passion, vulnerability, fun, love, sense of humor, and imperfection. 

Check out this little movie to get Michelin star chef Jacques's take on Swagger: 

 

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Top 5 mistakes Dutch people make in English.

 1. "Congratulations with your birthday." 

Birthdays are a big deal in Holland. In some ways the true measurement of a friendship here is whether you go to someone's birthday party. So there's lots of Birthday wishing going on. If you want to wish someone a Happy Birthday in English, just say "Happy Birthday". That's it.

We don't normally follow the "Happy Birthday" with the three Dutch kisses. In fact, we don't do the three Dutch kisses at all because, obviously, we're not Dutch. If you do surprise us with the kisses, be prepared for a bit of awkwardness and a nice nose bonk. 

2. "But we had an appointment."

Ah yes, the good ole appointment. What you really mean is, "we made an agreement". In English, you make an appointment with your doctor. Or your dentist. If you want to express that you've agreed on terms, or closed a deal with someone, you say "We've come to an agreement" or "we have a deal". Dutch people mess this one up because the Dutch language only has one word for this: een afspraak. 

3. "I am living in Amsterdam." 

The Dutch are in love with 'ing'. It goes a little something like this, "I am working for the KLM and we are flying all around the world and I am staying at nice hotels and I am eating in good restaurants..." Technically, this sentence isn't wrong. The 'ing' form, a.k.a the present continuous, is indeed English. But we only use it when the action is happening right now, or when it's temporary. Your profession, your place of residence, these things are more permanent so you'll want to use the present simple tense: I work for KLM and we fly all over the world and I stay at nice hotels and I eat in good restaurants." 

4. "How do you do" 

If I ever meet a Dutchman that gets this one right, I'll give them the Congressional Medal of Honor right there on the spot. "How do you do" is a sentence used for a formal introduction. It's not a question.

Imagine you're on a business trip and you get introduced to Jim, the VP of Marketing. He says, "Hello Mr. Vanderwal, My name is Jim Jollyface. How do you do". You think Jim Jollyface is asking you how you're doing. He's not. He's just introducing himself. The only way to respond to this statement is to ping-pong it back by saying "Hello. I'm Joost van der Wal. How do you do." Most Dutch people respond to this statement by saying, "I'm fine. How are you?" Differentiate yourself from all the other Dutchies by not falling into this trap. 

5. "OK." 

Besides 'shit', I think 'OK' is the most popular English word in Holland. There's nothing wrong with that. Except that many Dutch people say 'OK' when they really mean 'thank you'. Given the Anglo obsession with politeness, this is a sticky wicket.

Example: your co-worker, Susan, compliments you on your funky shoes. She says, "hey Wouter, cool shoes." And you say, "OK." Not OK to say OK. You gotta say, "thank you". Or "thanks" at the very least. If you receive a compliment, no matter how small, say "thank you" not "OK".  

 Having said all this, remember that making mistakes is a positive thing. It might not feel good, but it's a sign of progress. Remember my Swagger English motto: Speak. Make mistakes. Learn. Speak more. 

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Hey Tiger, are you sure you really wanna play golf?

13 August 2011

Utrecht, the Netherlands 

 

Dear Tiger, 

I hope you're enjoying your weekend off. Is it really humid in Orlando this time of year? To be honest, the weather is not the reason I'm writing. I'm writing to ask you a question:

Are you sure you really wanna play golf? 

After three holes at the PGA Championship, I was sure you did. You made three birdies, went straight to the top of the board and we thought, "hot damn!" Then you hit a couple of squirrely ones. After that it got ugly. But I don't have to tell you that, you were the one hitting the shots. 

So what's the problem man? 

It can't be the knee. Or the tendon. The doctors say you're healthy. You say you're healthy. You're not even afraid to walk up hills. Which is great. I'm happy for you. 

It can't be the scandal. That's done and dusted, right? Most of us forgave you a long time ago. I'm not saying you didn't fuck up, but who am I to judge? I'd like to think I'd make different choices than you, but I don't have porn stars throwing themselves at me in every city. 

It can't be your golf swing. You and Sean both say it's in good shape. Your putting in Atlanta wasn't too bad either. Made a few nice ones. It's obvious you're rusty but all you gotta do is go out and play. 

Which brings me back to my question: why aren't you playing? 

I wouldn't blame you for not playing. You've already won everything. You got the cash. The fame. The respect. A man's gotta have a reason to get out of bed, right?

You could easily say, "the hell with y'all. I'm hangin' 'em up." You could just hang out with the kids, take them to school and soccer practice. Watch them grow up. Not many golf pros get to do that. They spend their lives running from airport to hotel to golf course and back. That's gotta get old after a while. If you quit, you could be the family man your father never was. Watch those little shavers shine their lights each and everyday. It's a noble life, raising the wee ones. 

One bit of advice, if I may. If you do retire, please, for the love of God, do not take a job as a TV commentator. We already have one Johnny Miller and that's more than enough. Please try to resist the Michael Jordan syndrome too. If you're done, you're done. Like the Beatles said, "Let it be." 

But maybe, just maybe Tiger, you still got some fire in your belly. I really hope so because watching you play golf these past 15 years has been nothing short of phenomenal. Like when you chipped that ball in on 16 at the Masters in 2005. Or the putt at the 35th hole of the US Amateur at Pumpkin Ridge in '96. How 'bout when you kicked everybody's ass at Hoylake in 2006 without even hitting a driver? I didn't get to watch Picasso paint or Jim Morrison sing but I've watched you singlehandedly transform the game I've loved since I was a kid. You've made us believe that the impossible is possible by actually coming close to Jack's record of 18 majors. Nobody else has a chance to do that. Not Phil. Not Padraig or Darren. Rory maybe, but he's gonna have to hurry. 

Lemme tell you a little story about a golfer I once coached. He got his Card for the European Tour by winning three Challenge Tour events in one year. Nobody had ever done that before. He made history. When he went out to the 'big tour', he was surprised to find that it wasn't much fun. Turned out the journey was better than the arrival. Funny, that. During our sessions we talked a lot about the love of the game. The passion. The burning desire to just play. He wasn't sure if it was still there. Are you? 

If it is, I've got a little idea. Why don't you start over again. Play the game just like back in '96? Forget the FedEx playoffs and come over here to the Dutch Open in September. Rory will be here. And Darren. Martin Kaymer is the defending champion. It's a beautiful course, recently re-designed. And I'm sure you'd love Holland. The Red Light District might be a no-go area for you, given your past. But there's lots of other stuff to do here. Great museums. Wonderful history and culture. Beautiful architecture. Have I mentioned the gambling? I know you love a wager, and there's plenty of casinos here. John Daly lost his shirt in Amsterdam when he came over in '95. Granted, the Dutch weather sucks but with the 300,000 euros appearance fee you'll be getting, you can afford to get a nice umbrella. 

Whaddya think? 

Whatever happens, I wish you all the best Tiger. You've given us more thrills than all the other guys combined. For that we're grateful. 

Take care of yourself and hope to see you on the course soon. If you need a mental coach, gimme a ring. I could probably fit you in. 

David Mangene

Swagger Golf Mental Coaching

  

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Captivate your audience by making them laugh.

I often ask clients what they like about speakers they've seen. Was it the speaker's know-how? Their preparation? Body language? Yes. But it's something else that really hooked them:

"He was really funny!" 

Exactly. 

Humor is your secret weapon. When you make your audience laugh, they'll listen. They'll enjoy themselves. Most importantly, they'll remember you and your message. 

Here's a few tips on how to be funny. 

1. Forget about jokes.

Unless you want to be a performing comedian, leave the jokes for another time. Humor in a business setting is not about punchlines, it's about spontaneity. So don't start your presentation by saying, "lemme tell you a little joke about human resources." 

2. Make fun of yourself. 

In essence, humor is honesty. We laugh because something is true. So tell your own personal truth. Share your vulnerabilities. Your fears. Generations of comedians have made a living at self-deprecation. If you suck at computers, admit it in a lighthearted way. "I would have made slides" you say at the beginning of your presentation, "but I can't figure out how to turn my computer on." That kind of thing.

3. Do voices and accents.

Last week I was teaching English to a group. One of the participants is Marielle. She works at reception. She is friendly. Professional. Smart. A good wife and mother, you might say. But when she transforms herself into a pimp from the Dutch Antilles by whipping out her imitation of the accent, we howl. She kills us. "Ik ga je sweeeepe jonggge..." Hysterical. Best of all, we don't expect it coming from this prim and proper soccer mom. She kills us with one of humor's strongest elements: surprise. 

So find an accent you can do. An accent from your region is a good place to start. People will always ask where you're from. If you come from Boston, and you can thrown down a killer Boston accent, you'll get laughs. 

4. Laugh at stuff you find funny. 

This is a great lesson I learned from the amazing Lolu Ajayi at Amsterdam's Boom Chicago Improv Theater. To be funny, you gotta love funniness. You gotta relax, enjoy yourself, smile. Lolu taught me one of the cornerstones of improv: no blocking. If somebody suggests something to you, you agree with it. You don't block it by saying "no". So loosen up a little. Be flexible. Your laughter will be contagious. (that's a picture of lolu. Go see him at Boom. You WILL laugh.)

5. Don't be too hard on yourself. If you get laughs, you're funny.

 
Perfectionism is deadly for humor. You gotta give yourself the freedom to make mistakes. Learn from them. How do you know if you're funny? If they laugh, you're funny. It's that simple. Trust their laughter. If they don't laugh, you're not funny and it's back to the drawing board.

 

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Flirt your way to success.

I admit it: I'm a flirt. But it has nothing to do with sex. It's about attention. Connection. Energy. I flirt because I like you. And I want you to like me too. If we like each other, we'll do business. Think about it - don't you usually buy from someone you like?

Here's five ways to improve your flirting. 

1. Make natural eye contact. 

Look people in the eye. It's that simple. But don't be a psycho about it. You're not a Siberian huskie trying to exert control. Let your eyes move away naturally, and then back. 

2. Use your hands. 

It starts with the handshake. You know the drill: make it firm. Too firm and you're compensating for a weakness. Too weak and nobody can take you seriously. 

A slap on the back. A squeeze of the arm. A tap on the knee. It's all good. You gotta touch people. Note: I didn't say grope. Or harass. What I'm saying is, express your human warmth. We're social animals, we want to be touched. Having said that, make sure you know your audience. If you're dealing with Italians, touch away. They can't get enough of it. Scandanavians, on the other hand, proceed with caution. 

3. Give and receive compliments. 

A new haircut. A nice suit. A great waitress. Cool shoes. If the person does something you like, compliment them. Note: I didn't say bullshit them. Kissing ass doesn't work. You have to mean it. 

If someone compliments you, say 'thank you'. Remember, it's the big little things that make the difference. 

4. Ask questions. 

It's not about you. It's about them. Stop talking about yourself. Ask a question. Ask another question. Keep asking questions. There can never be too many questions. 

5. Listen. 

You can't fake listening. Forget those techniques about nodding your head, and strategically saying "um-hum". Poppycock. You gotta really listen. How? By actually giving a shit. Find a way to care about what you're being told. It might take some imagination, but EVERYBODY has a story worth hearing. Your job is to figure out what it is, and listen when told. 

Remember, flirting is very rarely about sex. If you cross the line, they'll run kicking and screaming and you won't see them again. Never forget it. 

Now go find somebody to flirt with and let me know how it goes. 

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I'm American, baby. My greatest strength is my greatest weakness.

I'm watching a talk show on Dutch television. The first guest is a mother talking about her son Jelte. The boy incurred brain damage when he was pummeled by two other boys in broad daylight. She tells of how the Dutch medical system threw in the towel on his recovery. "Put him in a facility" the doctors advised. "He's a vegetable and he won't get any better".

She ignored the 'experts' and took the boy to America.

In the States, the doctors and physical therapists combined a therapy involving excessive doses of oxygen to the brain as well as intense physical therapy. Progress is being made. Last night, Jelte ate solid food for dinner. Potatoes. There's a long way to go, but Jelte and his family are up for the journey. They believe he can get a lot better. 

The show's second quest, an economist, is talking about money. More specifically, he's talking about American debt and the stock markets in New York. He's trying hard not to be too gloomy, but the gist is clear: America is hurting for cash. With our credit rating recently lowered, it's not a pretty picture. Our greed, it seems, has gotten the better of us.

As I listen to Jelte's mother Cindy, I recognize myself. The story of Jelte has me so furious, so fucking livid with rage that not a single doctor in Holland could find a way to help him. Nobody?! It sickens me. Truly. How could they give up? There's always a way. Just gotta dig deeper. Work harder. Believe the impossible. Forever and ever. There is no other option. It's the American way. 

As I listen to the economist, it's the other side of the same coin. I know I'm guilty of the same financial irresponsibility as many Americans. I borrowed too much. I spent too much. And why not? You don't have to actually be a millionaire to live like one. It's the American way too. 

It's the Yankee in me that would never give up on Jelte. It's also my American side that would live beyond my means. The wild optimism necessary to cure Jelte, is the same wild optimism needed to cripple the financial markets.

It seems we can't have one without the other. 

PS - if you want free tips on how to speak better English, regular updates of my writing, and other Swagger Vibes, click here.

How to stop and smell the roses.

Holland is a small country. And it's crowded too. Roughly 17 million people cram into a space the size of Connecticut, a state on America's East Coast. In terms of population density, Holland ranks right up there with Singapore, Hong Kong, and Bangladesh. As my hero Bob Marley would sing, it's a "concrete jungle". 

Given this level of claustrophobia it's no surprise we sometimes refer to our country as "one big city" and run from it every summer. I sure used to. 

But not this year. This morning, I find myself cycling through Dutch dunes that could just as easily be Tuscany or Cape Cod. Twisting and turning through the landscape, we get the surprise of a lifetime:

WILD DEER!

Two bucks, their antlers heavy, bound past us while we sit dumbfounded on a bench. The animals pay no attention to us. They're in a hurry to get somewhere, and disappear just as quickly as they came.

Holy Shit.

My sons, Dutch city boys through and through, hop around giddily, wanting to chase after the deer. But the wild animals are gone. Seeing them is like catching lightning in a bottle. We could come back to this very spot every day for the next 20 years and not see that again. Wow. 

Excited by our brush with nature, we end the day by cycling to Zandvoort for a drink. We find a spot at Mangos Beach Club, a Cuban themed joint, and watch the sun set on the North Sea. Che Guevara's iconic face adorns the flags that are whipping in the breeze. Gu-an-ta-na-ME-ra rattles from the speakers. If it weren't for the six foot tall, blond and blue eyed waitress, I'd swear I was in Old Havana itself. 

But I ain't.

Which is exactly the point. 

I haven't sailed the seven seas to get here. I haven't endured any full body searches or airport shoe checks. I'm not suffering from jet lag. Far from it. I'm in North Holland, mofos. One hour from my own home.

I have spent my entire life on the move. As a kid we moved through 6 states in 18 years. As a college student I shuffled endlessly between New Hampshire and Colorado. At 23 I left America for Europe. Since arriving in Holland in 1993 I've moved seven times to four different cities. Yes, all this travel is an opportunity. A privilege. But what good is all the running around if we never actually see anything? If travel is just another scorecard?

The deer have the answer. Seeing them, in the wild, has reminded me that magic is closer than we think. In fact it's right around the corner. In our own backyards. All we gotta do is make sure we're looking.

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Thank you. 

Snoring children and other camping delights.

SUMMER VACATION. BLOEMENDAAL AAN ZEE. HOLLAND.

A fierce midnight cold forces little Timo into 'bed' with us at 3 in the morning. I use the term 'bed' loosely as we're sleeping in a tent. Timo's sudden movements have woken his brother Mickey, and before you can say The Ritz Carlton, the four of us are packed tightly onto the humble mattress. There's enough room if we all lay on our sides. Sardines is a word that comes to mind. 

As we uncomfortably settle into what is sure to be a fitful sleep, Timo begins to snore. It is a god awful noise. An infernal racket resembling a man attempting to either clear his throat or to spit. The vibration deep within his throat is a blood curdling sound. It could ward off demons. Terrify goblins. Stop entire armies in their tracks. We try to gently rouse the boy. 

"Timo. You gotta cough, son" I say. 

Nothing. More snoring.

"Timo, you're snoring" Natascha says. 

Nada. 

At moments like these, when I myself am snoring like a drunken sailor, Natascha takes swift and effective action. She delivers, what I've come to affectionately call, the 'love punch'. 

The love punch has one aim: to wake the offending snorer (me) without causing grievous bodily harm. It is best delivered just above the spleen, its impact greatly increased when the body blow is accompanied by a quick and forceful blurting of the snorers name ("David!"). 

With the punching done, I roll over on my side and stop snoring. I sleep on peacefully, never knowing what hit me. 

But to love punch a five year old? 

I can just hear the woman from Social Services:

"So what you're saying ma'am, is that you punched the child?" 

"Umm. Well, yes. But it was a love punch. To stop him snoring. You see..." 

We don't end up love punching him. He rattles on, while I put on more clothes to get through the night. Before nodding off, I put on Gore Tex raingear over cotton pajamas, a wool sweater, thick socks, and a winter hat. July 31st people. I kid you not.  

But with dawn comes the squawking of the seagulls. The sun is out. The gentle tink, tink of hammers on spikes announces the beginning of another day, "at the camping." The Germans are digging holes in the beach. The kids are frolicking, their parents able to relax. As afternoon slides softly into early evening, and the summer sun glistens on the mighty North Sea, I turn to Natascha, my ultimate partner in crime:

"Same time next year, honey?" 

And you know we will.