This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

You don’t have to be better, but you must be observably different.

That’s it.

If you’re not somehow different, then you’re just another one. No winner is ever just another one. It’s best to be the first one. But if not, then find a way to narrow the field so that you’re the first one in the subdivision.

For example, be the first vacuum-cleaner manufacturer. If you can’t be the first vacuum-cleaner manufacturer, then be the first vacuum-cleaner manufacturer with modern designer colors.

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

San Francisco, 1982: The staff at Network Answering Service were clamoring for raises. But we had no more funds. We had as many clients as we could handle, and our signups just replaced clients who left through natural causes. What to do?

My wife Lori booked a CPA consultant. After examining our books, he suggested the obvious. “You need to raise your rates,” he said. “They’re just too low.”

Well, of course they were, but I was terrified.

I could see it so clearly …

In 1976, when we started, I’d figured that, because we’d built our answering service on Call-Forwarding, we had no switchboard expense. Because of our operator-team method, each pair of operators could handle almost 300 clients. Very efficient. Other companies charged $30-$40 monthly. Our price was $14.76 to $17.76.

With these rates and good service, we grew quickly, but now we’d come to an impasse.

Now, looky back, it’s hard to imagine my fear. But then I saw it clear as clockwork. We would raise the rates, and immediately all the clients would leave. As simple as that. We’d be ruined. The clients were never going to pay more! It would never work!

Under unrelenting pressure from Lori, and implaccable assurance from the CPA, I yielded, with poor grace. Announced 30 days in advance, we raised the rates to $21.77. There was no exodus. A tiny twinkling of grumbles, and mostly a gaping yawn of indifference. $17, $21, what’s the difference?

I learned three things: First, you can raise the rates, and life goes on. Secondly, that clients will make any adjustments within three months. That is, if you offer some alternative, then within three months, everyone who is going to change will have done so. Third, just because I thought $21.77 sounded expensive didn’t mean the world felt the same. Just because I was a cheapskate didn’t make everybody else one! In short, we raised the rates, and no problem.

Some years later, my friend Oz called me up. He was agonizing over changing his rates. They’d been the same for years and years. If he changed these rates, he knew for certain, all his customers would leave. But all his costs had gone up; he was at an impasse. He was in agony. I laughed. I told him this story. Worrying at 90 miles per hour, he went off to try it, and called back later, wondering what all the fuss was.

What fools we are! How amazing it is that the deepest ignorance is so totally full of theories and beliefs!

There is just nothing quite so amusing as the pain of another. Even if the other is yourself, years ago.

Denton, Texas, Spring 1965. It is perhaps 2 a.m. at my job at the Holiday Inn. I have been given a tiny book by Annelie W., an attractive and somewhat zoftig girl from my statistics class. My work complete, the lobby empty, I am reading this book now, a book of Haiku poetry.

Annelie. If I had been smarter- But let that pass. Any college girl who wears leopard-spot pants, and gets away with it … any college girl who, learning I’d never had a bagle and had never heard of lox, brought an entire picnic to my apartment … Well. So many missed opportunities in a life. A pity they are so clear, later.

This Haiku.

Now this was a revelation. A poem … that didn’t have to rhyme! A form far simpler than iambic pentameter. Shelly and Keats in my thick English books had nothing on these japanese guys. Both simple and elusive, all at once.

I thought I’d try it.

But what? I needed a subject! I saw nothing in the lobby. Aha! Nature! I decided to go outside.

It was cold. I looked around. Cars parked between white-painted lines, the double row of Holiday Inn rooms. Everything quiet. Then I looked up.

Now, as I gaze up,
the silver-tipped moon-crescent,
spikes the sky into place.

There. Who could forget such a moment?

San Anselmo, 2001. Larry is a retired doctor, now about 90. Given that his name is Larry, perhaps it’s to be expected that he named his dogs Moe and Curley.

But, sad to say, Moe and Curley had passed on, and when Larry got another dog, he named the new dog Huey Lewis. I don’t think Larry is a big rock fan, so I’m guessing he just liked the sound of the name.

Now, the dog, Huey Lewis, is crazy about Larry, and at the dog park, if Larry goes to the bath room, Huey Lewis jitters at the gate on tiptoes, whining, till Larry returns. “Ah, be quiet!” grouses Larry, “Ya big baby!” Because, frankly, Larry’s sometimes kind of grouchy.

Larry is sitting on the bench, chatting with the dogwalker. Huey Lewis, idolizing Larry, flops his big head on Larry’s knee. “Aw, gimme a break!” growls Larry. Huey Lewis loves it. Larry’s not picking on Huey Lewis; Larry’s grouchy with the humans, too, some days. I’m not sure they like it as much as Huey Lewis does.

Now, here’s the wierd part. Huey Lewis — the rock singer — also lives in this neighborhood. He has a small dog with a big name — Maximillian? Balthazar? — and, when he’s in town, sometimes he brings Max to the same dog park.

And so it happened that, one day in the Spring, Huey Lewis, the singer, is playing with his dog at the same time that Larry decides it’s time to leave. Huey Lewis, the dog, is gamboling with a Bernese out in the field. Larry gets up.

“Huey Lewis!”

Huey Lewis, the singer, looks up. Larry’s looking in a different direction, now waving.

“Huey Lewis, dammit!” he yells. “Come ON!”

Huey Lewis, the singer, makes a gesture of puzzlement. Larry sees it, scowls. Larry gives an irritated ‘go-away’ wave.

“Not you!” he growls at the singer, and turns to go. “Huey Lewis!“