Take the Money and Run

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“Show me the money!” I’ll say if I’m ever in the fortunate position of someone offering me substantial amounts of money. I’ll steal that line from one of Cameron Crowe’s screenplays, called Jerry Maguire. If I’m ever in a position of taking money now, versus the prospect, or potential, of making more on the backend, I’ll tell my high-priced negotiator to “Take the money and run!” Don’t ask questions, don’t try to be clever, get out of there with as much upfront money as you can possibly get me.”

There are other stories, and we’ve all heard them when “Big-Time” players play “Big-Time” games with the money and won. Jack Nicholson agreed to play the role of The Joker for $6 million dollars, but he had a clause in his contract that stated he would receive a percentage of the Batman’s receipts and merchandise. Some estimates suggest he ended up making $90 million off the movie. “Yeah, that, I want to be that guy,” we say when we finish reading those sentences. “He knows who he is, and how indispensable he is, and he used it to make some major bank. I want that all over me.” Of course you do, I do, and we do, but we’re not Jack Nicholson. I don’t write that to suggest Nicholson is more important than us, as I can’t stand it when people say, “You’re no Jack Nicholson!” about an actor or athlete who in many cases is simply more fortunate, as opposed to more talented than most. I write that because while we’re basking in the glow of the moment, we need to remember who we are to them and how relatively indispensable we are to them. Nicholson’s image was so important to Warner Brothers that they considered it essential to selling that movie to the public. Moral of that story, know your bargaining position, and ask your side to try to be objective when characterizing it for you.  

On the flip side, is one of Nicholson’s favorite NBA stars of all-time, Magic Johnson. Magic had a deal all set for him from an upstart shoe company called Nike. Nike couldn’t offer Magic the big money that Converse could. Converse offered Magic $100,000 to sign a shoe deal, so Nike countered with $100,000 in stock options. The Nike stock was worth $.18 a share at that point. Estimates now have it that if Magic took the Nike deal, and he never sold a single share, his stock options would now be worth $5.2 billion. 

It’s a provocative tale, but if Magic signed with Nike, Michael Jordan probably wouldn’t have, and with all respect to the great Magic Johnson, I doubt his image and persona would’ve sold as well as Air Jordan.  

I don’t care what happened to Jack, Magic, or Michael, if someone offers us a boatload of money, take it. There might be some room for haggling, and we should probably, probably, consider it, as it might be the only time we spend any time in the Sun, but be careful. Spend too much time in the Sun, or getting too close to the Sun, and we’re toast, literally, figuratively, actually, and all those -ly words. The “theys” on the other side of negotiating table don’t always respect a crafty businessman or woman. Sometimes they get ticked off, and they remove once-in-lifetime opportunities. Don’t overthink their positions at the table or overestimate yours. Don’t think about backend percentages, equity stakes, or anything other than upfront money. Hire some guy who has a wall full of diplomas, and a track record that’s going to cost you if you want to hire his representation services and instruct him to get, “as much upfront money as you can possibly get.”

For those who think they might not never be in a position like this again, and you tends to be a person who thinks you can outthink the system, I give you Winston Groom v. Paramount. Author Winston Groom was offered a boatload of money for the movie rights to his book Forrest Gump. Forrest Gump? We’re talking about Forrest Gump, one of the highest grossing movies of its era? Yes, the movie that ended up making $683 million. Winston Groom sensed that he was in an excellent bargaining situation, and he probably had all kinds of advisors telling him that with this book, he was going to soon be living in the land of sunshine. Groom obviously loved that notion, and as an author of numerous books prior to Forrest Gump, he knew there wasn’t a lot of money in writing. He knew enough to know that a movie studio approaching a relatively obscure author money could be a once-in-a-lifetime moment.

Groom, probably influenced by his advisors, lawyers, and friends and family suggested that he should take the roundabout route. Why would you want a lump sum when the potential for this story on screen could make hundreds of millions. No one knew it would make over a half a billion at the time, of course, but we have to think Groom had such visions dancing in his head. That’s the idea of potential, potential earnings messing with our head. Potential can be an evil temptress, whispering sweet secrets to us. Forget potential, I say, get it out of your head, and “Take the money and run!”

Groom listened to those sweet secrets and took less upfront money $350,000 with the promise of receiving 3% of the backend profits. The movie made $683 million, but Paramount’s accountants, using “Hollywood accounting,” found out that Forrest Gump actually lost $80 million when all was said and done. A movie that made $683 million lost $80 million? How is that possible? Hollywood accounting. Groom never heard of Hollywood accounting, so he asked to see it, firsthand. Groom was so incensed, after seeing what they did with the numbers that he sued. We don’t know how much Groom spent on lawyers and accountants, or how long he spent threatening his lawsuit, but when Groom finally saw his day in court, the judge asked Winston Groom to confirm that he signed the contract she had before her. “Yes,” he said. She threw the case out in 15 minutes.

Years later, Groom wrote a sequel to Gump, called Gump & Co. (company). Paramount decided to purchase the rights to that sequel, and they offered a seven-figure sum for it, upfront money. Groom took that upfront money and ran away as fast as he could. Moral of the story: If someone offers you money take it!  

Some of us have philosophical problems with “Show me the money” and “Take the money and run!” They think that we should consider a “Too much money” pause before signing. So, if you’re in a position to make massive amounts of money, you’re going to pause and say, “That’s too much money for the ability to do something with a ball.” There are people starving in the streets, teachers who teach the next generation how to survive in the world don’t make 1/100th of that money, and doctors, who save lives, don’t make 1/50th of that money. Why should I make that much, we might think, mired in guilt. To assuage your guilt, ask yourself a question, where’s that money going to go. It’s there, and it’s there for you. What are you worth? You’re worth what someone is willing to pay, and if you don’t take your slice of the pie, where is it going to go?  

“It’s not all about the money for me,” earners often say. Then we hear cliches like, “Money isn’t everything, and money is the root of all evil.” These are things people who make a boatload of money say to those who don’t. It makes everyone feel better about ourselves.  

Some of the best advice I’ve ever heard is, “Money isn’t evil, people are, or they aren’t, and making more money will help us further define whether they are or aren’t, which one could say, means that is the root from which evil blooms, but it isn’t the seed.” Money is the reward for our efforts, but if we’re doing it solely for the money, we’re doing it wrong. If we’re only doing it for the money, we’ll probably end up unfulfilled and miserable. That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t do everything we can to take every dime we can from those on the other side of the negotiation table. If you’re ever in a position where something you’ve created leads you to be lucky enough to sit on the other side of a negotiation table, wipe all of the nonsense you’ve heard about money, your whole life, from your mind. This might be the only chance you have to make some real money.

If we hire someone to negotiate for us, and most people should, send them in with the instructions that you want them to bleed every last dime out of the other party. Once your team determines the other team of negotiators is not going to pay another cent, take it, take as much front-end money as possible, and run away as fast and as far as you can. Don’t think about the back end, the asides they offer in lieu of money, the otherwise symbolic, prestigious titles they offer, or anything but the money. The job of the other team’s negotiators is to pay you the least amount of upfront money possible, and they will use several creative measures to accomplish that. Ignore all of that and the voices in your head screaming about the prospect of making more money on another end, and remove those cartoon dollar signs from your eyes. As the negotiations between Winston Groom and Paramount suggest, “Show me the money,” should be the first and last things you say in any negotiations.

Winston Groom was a writer, and though he probably experienced some level of negotiations selling Forrest Gump and his other books to book publishers, he probably knew negotiating the rights of his book with a Hollywood production studio was a different league. This was probably the most advantageous position Groom had ever been in his life, and he didn’t know anything about such negotiations. He probably hired a team of lawyers and other specialists to handle the negotiations for him. We can guess that negotiators on Paramount’s side were so eager for the project that they showed their hand at various points. Groom’s negotiators probably knew, at some point, how much Paramount wanted his book. We can guess that numerous advisors probably guesstimated how much money this story could make for both sides, especially if they knew actor Tom Hanks and director Robert Zemeckis would sign onto the project at the time of negotiations, and Groom’s team probably walked away from that table with several proposals from Paramount. Groom ended up selecting the proposal that gave him $350,000 on the front end, and while this is a sizable amount, sources report that it was less than the top proposal of front-end money. Groom chose the proposal with less on the front end because his negotiators worked out a clause that would give Groom 3% percent on the backend, movie’s net profits. Who wouldn’t take less on the front-end if they knew they could make 3% of $683 the million on the backend that, by my math, equals over $19 million? Groom and his team couldn’t know how much the movie would make, but we can only imagine that Groom had dollar signs in his eyes when he signed the bottom line.  

We can also guess that Winston Groom was more than patient with Paramount after Forrest Gump raked in $683 million, and we can imagine that Groom followed the box office numbers with great interest, and excitement, and probably did so with some old, rare scotch bottles and celebratory cigars. At some point, further down the line, Groom informed Paramount that he hadn’t received a single dollar of those royalties. At some point beyond those initial letters, calls, and emails, Paramount sent Groom a “We regret to inform you …” letter. They regretted to inform Groom that Forrest Gump, the fourth highest grossing film of all time (at that time), that grossed $683 million, “didn’t make a net profit.” Paramount’s accountants found that not only did Forrest Gump not make a profit. After expenses, the movie actually ended up $80 million in the red. They probably concluded the letter with a “and gosh darn it, they found that it didn’t make a net profit.” 

Winston Groom is Winston Groom, an author who wrote eight novels and fifteen non-fiction books. As with most authors, he was relatively unknown, until one of his novels ended up selling 30,000 copies, a relatively high number of copies sold for Groom. A producer for Paramount, Wendy Finerman, “discovered” Forrest Gump for Paramount, and she pushed it into production. Hollywood, slash Paramount, thought Winston Groom was Winston Groom, a writer of a book, among the hundreds of thousands of people who write books. He wasn’t a limited commodity in other words, and they didn’t care if they offended him. 

If a Tom Hanks or a Robert Zemekis were ticked off about their compensation, if they signed a deal similar to Groom’s, we can rest assure that Paramount would’ve scrambled to do whatever they had to make them happy. Winston Groom was Winston Groom, a writer, see ya never again, Winston Groom!

 We have to imagine that the star and director of Forrest Gump didn’t have to sue to receive their royalty checks, because Paramount didn’t want to upset them. They didn’t extend the same courtesy to Winston Groom, however, because they probably figured they wouldn’t have any future dealings with him. Groom declared that the other parts of his lawsuit against Paramount left him as “happy as a pig in sunshine,” but these deals don’t always end up this way. Thus, if you’re ever lucky enough to be seated at a negotiations table, pitted against someone who wants something you have, set aside your qualms about the evils of money and greed, and get the most front-end money you can while they’re all good and eager. They will dance the prospect of future funds in your fertile brain, “Because no one thinks short-term, right?” Wipe those words away, like Tom Cruise did in Minority Report and replace it with the name Winston Groom. That name should be highlighted and underlined in your brain, when they begin to offer creative substitutes. Don’t kill the deal with greed, and depending on your feel in the negotiation, don’t wait them out for a better deal. Walk in screaming “show me the money” and leave mumbling it with pride.

Let’s Make Football Violent Again

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“Make football violent again,” was a hat the safety for the Minnesota Vikings, Andrew Sendejo, wore in an NFL training camp. The instinctive reaction we might have to such a call is that Sendejo is trying to be provocative, for no one who knows anything about violence would condone it in anyway. We might also say that, as a professional football player, Sendejo is setting a poor example for the youth who look up to him. Our society should be moving in the exact opposite direction, others might say, especially when it comes to young men. 

An argument that condones violence in any way will never make its way to a broadcasting booth of any kind, unless to condemn it, but that doesn’t mean it’s without merit, when it comes to football at least. If the argument did make it on air, in some form, we have to imagine that the broadcasters would say, “I don’t condone violence, but …” to distance themselves from Sendejo’s argument, but there is a but argument that is worthy of some consideration. The but argument focuses on the unpleasant fact that some young men have violent impulses, and they need an outlet, or a ‘somewhat’ controlled and monitored environment, to indulge that primal impulse for violence. Most audiences don’t want to hear anything about that. They prefer a more rational discussion that focuses on ways to make would young men less violent in a way that might help make our world less violent. No rational discussion by a professional in any field would focus on the need for an outlet for violent activity.

The well-intentioned opponents of the game now know that football is too entrenched for them to make any strides with regard to banning football from the high school level on up. Yet, they are making strides at banning tackle football in youth groups, and they are using the banner of ‘player safety’ to lessen the impact of some of the more violent hits in the game from the high school level on up. Proponents of the traditional game know that some measures are required to make the game safer, as athletes become stronger and faster, but as these measures to remove violence from the game progress, proponents warn, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

We’ve all heard horrific tales of the wide array of what can happen on a football field, and we’re all sympathetic to the players and their families affected by it. Among these stories, are those that involve brain injuries, including concussions and repeated severe concussions that could lead to CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy). We’ve heard that various forms of CTE have ruined lives. We’ve heard neurologists state that scientific studies of the harm football causes young people is now irrefutable. We’ve had neighbors tell us that these studies scare them so much, they won’t let their children play the game. The NFL has heard all of this too, and they’ve made substantial rule changes to try to lessen the violent impact of the game, in the hopes of influencing college football, and high school football officials to follow suit.

The ‘be careful what you wish for’ crowd has heard all of these arguments too, and they’re sensitive to them. No one wants to see a young life affected to the degree we’ve witnessed in far too many instances, but when esteemed neurologists list sports’ alternatives for concerned parents, proponents suggest that they fail to recognize the need young boys have to hit one another in a violent manner. Those other sports might satisfy the need young people have for competitive athletic activity, team play, and various other character-building exercises that build self-esteem, but they don’t satisfy the primal impulses young men have to commit violent acts on one another.

Those of us, who played an inordinate amount of unnecessarily violent, pickup games of tackle football, know that football was our favorite way to satiate that primal need for violence. We didn’t know anything about these beneficial qualities, and we didn’t know the possible harm we were doing to ourselves when we played these games, but we saw our non-football playing friends go out for the evening just to “crack some skulls.” We thought they were joking, or engaging in some false bravado, but they had all this pent-up rage, and this general sense of animosity and anger that they couldn’t explain. They needed to unleash in an impulsive, irrational manner. They wanted to hurt someone, and they always got hurt in the process, but they wore their bruises and open cuts as symbols of valor. They failed to adequately explain what a rush it was to the rest of us, because they probably couldn’t understand it well enough to explain it. The only thing they knew was that they gained respect from their peers for their violent tendencies, and it did wonders for their self-esteem. They also enjoyed an element of team spirit in some cases. Those fight nights gained them what the rest of us attained playing football.    

“No one is saying that if we ban football or make it less violent, it will automatically lead to more violent young men, but if you think it will make them less violent, be careful what you wish for,” proponents say to parents who will not allow their children to play football. When our grade school banned football on the playground, we played kill the man with the ball. Our school administrators caught on, and they banned that. Soon after that, we played kill the man with the pine cone. If we dilute football to the point of hopscotch, proponents say, boys will find a way to hit each other, tackle each other, or some way to inflict pain on one another, because we cannot legislate the impulsive, primal nature out of boys and young men. Most parents, who raise their children in safe, happy climates cannot understand why they have violent tendencies, and we might not remember why we did, but football proponents suggest that the sport satisfies something in us that no other non-contact sport can.

Even though this impulsive need for an outlet to indulge violent tendencies has existed throughout human history, we have to imagine that B.C. humans didn’t want to discuss it in polite company either. The games the cavemen and the ancient Romans played were more violent, of course, and modern man might think he stands above that which occurred back then, and we might have a more advanced brain than those who sit below us in the animal kingdom, but the primal need for an outlet still exists in some. This conversation is so unpleasant and uncomfortable that the major broadcasts networks will never cover it on one of their pregame broadcasts, and I don’t think we’ll ever hear this as a topic on one of the all too numerous sports radio programs, because it feeds into the portrayal of young men as primal beasts. Yet, we all know this unpleasant side of young men exists, and if we don’t provide them a monitored, somewhat controlled method of channeling their impulses and needs, it might result in other unintended consequences our society doesn’t want to consider.

My Favorite Band is Better Than Yours

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“You’re favorite bands suck! Trust me, they SUCK.”

Why do I like them then?

“I’m telling you that the band members cannot play their instruments, and their lyrics are stupid. They ripped off just about everything they did from better artists, and they weren’t very good people.”

What’s the difference between my favorite bands and the more technically proficient musicians playing meaningful, important songs? The arguments that critics and other music experts make involve a long, complicated algorithm that involves, in part, the technical proficiency that their well-trained ears hear, meaningful, important lyrics, and insider stories that detail performance inadequacies. These insiders write about moments our favorite guitarist couldn’t complete a complicated riff, and the record company, or the producer, had to call in a studio musician to do it. They know that our favorite music involves drum machines and drum samples that our favorite drummer wasn’t talented enough to complete to anyone’s satisfaction, and they know when technical wizards enhance the vocalist’s voice in parts. They tell us about how our favorite albums, by our favorite musicians, were tweaked in final mixing process, with special effects boxes, overdubs, and everything that the non-musicians accomplished in the high priced studio for the right money.

“Your favorite album, from your favorite artist, is a fraud perpetuated on the public,” they say. “It is an overly produced, computer enhanced contrivance that your favorite artist will never be able to play live without assistance.”

For the rest of us, this long and complicated algorithm ends in a big fat, “No one cares!” box. No one cares if the lyrics in these songs are deep and meaningful. Some do, of course, as they want others to view them in a serious light, so they avoid silly music with silly lyrics. Most people consider lyrics anywhere from silly to irrelevant. They might seek out the lyrics to find out what the vocalist is singing in the song, but most people don’t care one way or another if the lyrics prove sophomoric. Most of us bake that idea into our listening experience. Most meaningful, important music is woefully overrated. Most of us also don’t care if our favorite musicians are good people or bad people either. Cringe worthy headlines might stain the reputation of a musician, but our emotional attachment to most musicians does not extend to their personal life. Experts and critics don’t consider this an adequate defense. They require us to defend our favorite musician based on their criteria.

We know that if we enter into a debate with experts and critics, standing toe-to-toe, to defend our favorite band, they would beat us to pulp. If our debate had an audience, would these critics and experts persuade anyone in that audience? Would they care? Who is their audience? Are they trying to persuade us, or are they writing these critiques to one another? How many sacred cows of rock receive less than four stars? Are critics afraid that no one will invite them to cocktail parties if they violate the standard ratings?

We know most experts and critics can hear technical proficiency better than we can, and we know that all of the reasons we have for enjoying one band over another are tough to explain, except to say our appreciation for creative flair is greater than our appreciation for technical proficiency.

The experts will also tell us everything we want to know, and some that we don’t, about better artists who didn’t achieve one-fourth the acclaim our favorite artists did. They will comb through the historical timeline and lament the cheated artists who were better at the craft, and they’ll tell us how our favorite artists stole the sound of those artists and simplified it for mass appeal. They’ll tell us something about those time and place intangibles that factor into the equation of how one artist achieves more popularity over another. They’ll tell us about some kind of successful, but contrived appeal our favorite artists made to achieve fame. They’ll also tell us that our favorite artist is a well-packaged marketing gimmick for people who know nothing about real music. Some of them will then give us a list of artists we should be listening to instead, and some of us will give those artists a listen.

Most naysayers do not list their favorite groups, because if they say that our favorite bands suck, and they offer an alternative, we might think their favorite bands suck. It diminishes a contrarian’s argument to provide an alternative, but putting themselves in such a position is also admirable in that sense. If we find their argument compelling, on that basis, we might listen to their favorite artists. After a couple listens, we might admit that their band is probably technically superior, but they don’t display the same creative flair our favorite bands did. Something is missing, as their band failed to capture the magic our favorite band did.  

Even if our favorite artist is guilty of all of the above, we think the people involved in the album(s) created something that the more accomplished, and perhaps more deserving, artists either wouldn’t or couldn’t achieve. At this point in the argument, the experts might ask us why we fell in love with our favorite band. Was it the iconography that surrounded our favorite artist at the time, and did your peers convince you that they were great? Were they a better celebrity? Did our favorite artists have a better voice, were they better looking, or did they have some other superficial appeal that we found more pleasing than the better artist’s appeal? This is difficult to answer for most of us, because most of our attachments to music are emotional, as opposed to rational, and we cannot defend or explain why we prefer our bands to theirs, but we’re also not susceptible to having our minds changed on the subject.

I used to be that guy. I used to engage in the “my music is better than yours” childish game that some critics and music experts do. I don’t think I ever said those words, but I thought you would know the truth the minute you heard it. Even though I had no personal stake in my favorite band’s success, I loved their music so much that it became “my music”. I introduced “my music” to everyone I knew. For all of the reasons inherent in why we identify with our music, I was personally insulted when they didn’t enjoy it, and I considered far too gratifying when they did. I was far too proud to be the one who “discovered” the band among my peers. I think I considered it creativity on my part. I knew the joy I felt was vicarious, but I wasn’t doing anything else creative at that point in my life, so I think it filled that void.

The problem others had with “my music” was that it was silly. My serious music aficionado friends wouldn’t go anywhere near that group, that album, or that track on the album, lest they be hit by the stank of unserious music. They didn’t want anyone to consider them silly. If I attempted to promote a new album, they said, “Didn’t you like that track from that one album?” I did, I responded, I do. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with silly songs. I don’t understand why serious aficionados dismiss a whole chunk of music because it’s unserious. My music doesn’t focus on depression, pain, anger, anti-social behavior, relationships, drug addiction (primarily heroin), war, death, and other emotionally charged topics.  

One particular instance involved an “undiscovered gem” I found from an “undiscovered” artist. That album blew my mind at the time, and I still, thirty years later, consider that album one of the top ten of all time. I wanted to be that guy who introduced that album to everyone I knew. I considered the album the product of creative geniuses. The music on that album spoke to me on a level I felt compelled to share with everyone I knew. Everyone I forced to listen to this album enjoyed it, but no one I knew bought it. Three years later, another band stole their sound. This other band personalized that sound a little here and tweaked it little there to make it fit with the zeitgeist better. I loved that album too, and I introduced it to everyone I knew. Everyone I knew loved it, and everyone I knew bought it. That album sold five million copies. This band went on to national acclaim, and critics still recognize them as one of the greatest, most original artists of all time. Yet, they stole that sound, and I learned later that they publicly admitted it. The band that I declared one of my favorite artists currently carries an asterisk no artist wants of being critically acclaimed, but never well received.

What was the difference between these two bands? The answer, again, involves a complicated, multi-tiered algorithm that takes us through a wide variety of boxes that might explain how one critically acclaimed band succeeds while another one does not, but it, too, ends in another big fat, “No one cares!” box. The artists who do not succeed probably went through a similar, frustrating algorithm that included paying their dues through exhaustive touring, spending mind-numbing hours in studios, doing radio interviews, and various other promotion efforts, until it ended in a big fat, “Thems the breaks” box to explain why they didn’t succeed. To the fans who, like me, vicariously wallowed in the misery of watching their favorite artist do everything required to succeed, only to end up in the bargain bin of record stores, hearing thems-the-breaks and no one cares doesn’t sit well. My advice to all of you is save your breath, and don’t waste your time trying to convince your world of the band’s virtues. It makes no sense to us, the critics, or the experts why some bands succeed where others do not. It can be as simple as time and place, looks, and a well-designed, comprehensive package that hits for whatever reasons. What we consider the greatest music of all time might be relatively boring to others, and music is as relative as comedy.