Can You Smell What the Sean is Cooking?

For years, I've lived with a secret; something that I've tried to hide from my colleagues, business associates and to some degree, even from myself. Yet, after years in the closet, I've decided to come out and face the truth.  That's right! I am a wrestling fan. 

And no, I'm not referring to that pseudo-gay Greco-Roman wrestling where two men in spandex roll around the floor for hours.  I'm referring to the full-on gay professional wrestling where oiled men enter the ring wearing tights and shouting nonsensical catchphrases like, "Can you smell what the Rock is cooking?"  And for the record, I know that they aren't really hitting each other with chairs or gouging one another's eyes out.  I also know that the outcome of each match is just as scripted as an ABC "reality" show.  Yet, I'm continually drawn into the world of "sports entertainment" because the WWE knows how to present its product.  In particular, I'm referring to the wrestler's introductions.

Very often, the entire arena will go dark and then the wrestler's entrance music will start.  At this point, the audience erupts into a chorus of cheers (or boos).  Next, there is a series of explosions around the ring entrance.  As the smoke clears, the wrestler can be seen standing on the platform, ready for battle.  Eventually, the wrestler enters the ring (often to even more pyrotechnics) and climbs up on the ring posts, flexing his muscles for the screaming fans.

Now, compare this to the way CLE speakers are introduced.  The program chair stands at the front of the room and clumsily reads the speaker's bio, badly mispronouncing the name of the speaker's firm and very often, the name of the speaker herself.  Interestingly, this faux pas is usually overlooked by everyone in attendance (including the speaker) because, in truth, no one is listening to the introduction (including the speaker).  However, at the end of the introduction, the attendees seem to instinctively know that they are supposed to clap timidly while wondering to themselves, "Who the heck am I clapping for?"

Not surprisingly, these introductions are about as worthless as most of the stocks in my 401(k) account (and yours too).  They serve neither of the primary purposes of an introduction, which are: (1) to tell lies about the speaker that she can't tell about herself; and (2) to get the audience excited about the presentation.  That's why it's important for us to put a little WWE into our introductions.

Now, I know what you're thinking.  "I should have put my 401(k) money in those GIC thingees."  You're probably also thinking that pyrotechnics are way beyond the abilities of the local hotel staff, which often has its hands full just trying to produce audible sound through the lavalier mic.  It's pretty safe to assume that any fireworks display more intricate than lighting a birthday candle is bound to end in disaster.  Perhaps, the only thing more disastrous is the thought of, say, the local constitutional law professor coming to the lectern wearing a sequined robe and draped in a feather boa.

That's why when I suggested that we put a little "WWE" into our introductions, I meant it as an acronym for Wait, Wow and Exhort.

Wait them (out).  If you start into your intro and a few attendees are still talking, wait for silence.  You'll be amazed at how silent the room will grow as you stand at the lectern shooting visual daggers at the offending blabbermouth.  Unless this person is as clueless as automotive executive, they will get the hint and you will actually have the audience's full attention (and the everlasting hatred of the blabbermouth).

Wow them.  As I get older and wider, I become increasingly convinced that life is largely a matter of expectation.  Most often, you get what you expect out of situations.  If, for example, you expect to have a good time at an outing with family, you do.  If, on the other hand, you expect to have a bad time (i.e., it's your spouse's family), then you do.  The same is true for your audience.  If they expect to enjoy a presentation by a witty, knowledgeable and downright sexy speaker, then you probably shouldn't ever hire me.  In any event, I think you get my point.  You want to get them excited about the speaker and remember, you aren't under oath here.  You don't have to treat a speaker's introduction like a sworn affidavit or your bar application.  Instead, feel free to treat it like your mortgage application.  After all, what harm could it do, right?

Exhort them on.  Most audiences are remarkably timid.  This even applies to audiences filled with intelligent, accomplished professionals, so it certainly applies to an audience of your lawyers.  They often don't know what is expected of them, so you should tell them.  If you have a funny speaker, tell the audience to "get ready to laugh."  If you have a speaker who tells powerful and moving stories, tell the audience to "have your hankies handy."  And if you have a speaker who feeds off audience interaction, tell the audience to "get your questions ready."  In short, let the attendees know what role they are to play in making the presentation live up to their high expectations.

Can you smell what the Sean is cooking?

What I Learned in Traffic School

Recently, my wife called me at the office.  From the sound of her voice, I knew that I was in trouble.  However, I hadn't imagined how much, not until she coldly announced, "I just received a picture of you in the mail.  It appears to have been taken January 31st.  Now, Sean, I have warned you about this type of thing.  I'm so mad at you I could scream!"

My mind immediately raced back to January 31st.  What the heck was I doing on the 31st?  What was I ...   Uh oh!  I was in big trouble!

On January 31st, I awoke early to drive from my home just outside of Phoenix to Albuquerque, New Mexico -- the site of the Association of Continuing Legal Education (ACLEA) Winter Meeting.  That evening, we kicked off the conference with a raucous cocktail party.  I should have known better.  Of course, my picture would be taken; but not at the cocktail party.  My picture had been taken hours earlier when I received a photo radar speeding ticket (thus, the very grainy, yet still remarkably sexy, picture below).

While most states are attempting to solve their budget shortfalls through a combination of higher taxes and reduced speeding, my home state of Arizona has instead opted to install a photo radar equipment every 20 feet along our highways.  In fact, if we get any more of these devices, we'll have to change the tagline on our license plates to "The Grand Camera State."  

Now, as a patriotic citizen, I was doing my part for the cause.  In fact, I might have been doing more than my part, as this was not my first ticket (or even second).

Of course, as you know, the biggest penalty for receiving a speeding ticket isn't the cost of the violation itself.  The real penalty would be imposed by my auto insurance carrier when they learned that I had a penchant for driving as if I was a motorist in Los Angeles with a video camera mounted on my dashboard.  To avoid paying insurance rates higher than the national debt (and almost as incomprehensible), I was willing to take drastic measures.  That's right.  I signed up for traffic school.

As you can imagine, I wasn't looking forward to spending an entire Saturday in traffic school.  In fact, I would have gladly dipped my ears in steak sauce and climbed into a boxing ring with Mike Tyson had it been a lawful alternative to traffic school.   After all, in my view, traffic school is perhaps the only thing worse than CLE, except in the case of traffic school, you've actually done something wrong to deserve your punishment.

However, as it turned out, I couldn't have been more wrong if I was Bobby Jindal recounting the events following Hurricane Katrina.  Traffic school was actually far superior to CLE.

For one, my traffic school instructor had the "wacky" idea that we should actually learn something out of the experience.  This is a far cry from CLE, which should actually be renamed "CLA" -- continuing legal attendance.  In that vain, my traffic school instructor had the temerity to insist that we ... you're not going to believe this ... pay attention.  We were strictly prohibited from using laptops, cell phones and PDAs (and from some of the questions asked by my classmates, our brains).

Second, to facilitate our learning, the instructor had the even more radical idea that he would make the presentation interesting.  Rather than reading from his prepared text in a monotone, he told jokes and stories.  And get this ... his visual aids were actually visual.  Rather than simply clicking through bullet points of text, he showed live video and animations to illustrate his points.  As a result, the four hours flew by as if it was only 3 hours and 55 minutes.

Of course, let me be fair.  There are many lively, witty and informative lawyers on the CLE circuit (and some of them are quite handsome in their photo radar speeding ticket pictures as well).  Yet, I've sat through my fair share of CLE seminars where I've brought my own steak sauce, just in case Mike Tyson happened to find his way into the seminar.  On the whole, it's a close call as to which is the greater punishment -- CLE or traffic school.

What do you think?