 Blame it on Ernest Hemingway - or maybe Jed Sunden.
I'm talking about this thing we call The Ukrainian Observer, a collection of ideas that fall during the month like Lego blocks from the sky and are somehow stuck together in a collection of history, politics, cartoons, fiction and more.
I serve as publisher, which doesn't require heavy lifting. Someone has to be the final arbiter, the fellow with the "oh, my gosh, we can't say that" barometer. At least once during the month it goes off with the anxious whir of an air raid klaxon.
For the most part, though, I am laissez-faire with a big L. Since the beginning, I have concepted obscure cartoons and contributed a column or two. Both assignments I generally dispatch early in the month. My day job is head of an ad and PR agency.
Once each year about this time I generally write about the inner-workings of the Observer, as if events were planned and the machine well oiled. To tell the truth, each issue represents a Rube Goldberg contraption come to life.
This isn't bad. It adds to the overall quirky personality of The Ukrainian Observer, which obtained its genesis from the sometimes petulant nature of its founder. The story has oft been told that I simply thought Sunden's Kyiv Post was too expensive for ads.
"We can publish our own publication for what it cost to place an ad," I fumed, both dreamily and boastfully. Hence, what we call Sunden inspiration.
I was wrong. Common sense rarely catches the same train as that of hubris, and we are left standing on the platform shoeless and sock less. That's an exaggeration, of course, for eventually, if we search hard enough, we find a business rationale for untamed lunacy.
In this enterprise, I had the encouragement seven years ago of my brother Glen, who has served as chief editor in various years and, in my view, as unofficial ombudsman. Also helpful was partner David Payne, who, after discussions, offered a measure of tolerance that yes, that vision thing perhaps should triumph over quick profits.
I thank them both.
In the early years, we were blind men hoping to see beyond our cane. We even called The Ukrainian Observer a community service, while at the same time sacrificing various ad salespeople to a gaggle of marketers who merely wanted bribes. We didn't play the game, thereby coming up with zero ad revenue.
We were about to give up on the thought of a profitable Observer when this rather large Irishman named Gerald Harty ambled through the door. He walks through a client door at the executive suite level - and generally stays for tea. He sold The Observer on its merits.
The Observer still wouldn't impress a green eyeshade type. Still, we keep investing in it. This year we brought on a full-time editor; Jim Davis bulked up our freelance effort, and went to an all-color presentation.
My thoughts on Hemingway represent a more positive influence. We all seem to have an errant pinball gene, and mine was apparent from age 18. It rarely lit up the board, but on occasion there was moon-glow illumination.
The Hemingway books are a blur now, about an ambulance driver, a journalist, a would-be guerrillero in the Spanish Civil War, and an expatriate charter boat captain. They sent the imagination into overdrive, spurring me to land my first newspaper job, age 19.
The thread of life continues. That was 42 years ago. In the interim, I worked for three newspapers and a wire service, United Press International.
One never forgets a first newspaper job - or a last - and so it was probably inevitable that there would be a Ukrainian Observer. We offer it up to you each month with the possibility you will become part of our community of informal advisors.
To say that The Ukrainian Observer comes together by happenstance would be to prescribe even more order than deserved. It is part kerfuffle. Part the events of our times. Part energy and availability.
The glue these days is editor Davis and designer Nina Savchuk.
It all begins with what we call the Saturday Club, breakfast at O'Briens, where possible topics for The Ukrainian Observer cover are tossed into the pot and stirred. Generally, because we are fairly busy people, we have a cover the first week of the month.
The characters around the table are Glen, generally in black hat; Scott Lewis, managing director of PR for our company in Ukraine; Robert Reed, who looks suspiciously like our Observer cartoon, editor Davis and yours truly.
A few months ago I wrote about this, and invited anyone interested to attend. My usual colleagues at the square table became very nervous, thinking there would be a cast of thousands. The company finance lady was shocked, imagining the bill.
Over the months, however, only one person showed up. He was a long-time expat whom none of us had previously met. After a few awkward moments, we had a delightful conversation, and learned a thing or two.
It was worth the price of his breakfast.
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