The Monk and the Riddle: The Art of Creating a Life While Making a Living Read Online Free Page A

— 100 million.” Lenny paused for effect. “Exciting, right? It's big. ” He waited for my response, then leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Most people don't like to talk about this. Death, dying. Loved ones passing on. But that's part of the opportunity. You understand that, right? It's a competitive barrier, a hurdle to entry. Most people won't want to do this. Would you?” He looked at me but didn't wait for an honest response. “I wouldn't, if I weren't so damn excited about it.”
    Until this last line, Lenny's pitch sounded like dozens of others I've heard. Everyone's going to be the Amazon, or the Yahoo!, or the eBay of the you-fill-in-the-blank business. Manifest destiny. Millions — billions even—of dollars overnight. Then sell out, or do an IPO and cash out.
    “You know what makes this business so exciting?” he asked.
    I waited. The warm spring air wafted through the open doors of the Konditorei.
    “People are dying, that's what. It's inevitable. Death and taxes, right? Doesn't matter, rich or poor, what you believe, where you live, how you live, what you think. In the end, everybody has to die sometime, and we're going to be there, ready to provide the goods that people have to buy. They must buy! That's the point. You understand? This isn't about eyeballs visiting your site. These aren't eyeballs. These are people who need what Funerals.com has, because everybody dies. And when somebody dies, there has to be one final shopping day to assuage a life of guilt. To buy all these things, expensive things, high-margin things”—he thumped the table and stressed “things” every time he said it—“all these things , expensive things. And there's no getting around it. These are necessities aimed at the biggest aggregate market in the world—biggest because it includes everyone. Everyone. ” He paused again for effect. “That's the business, and it's a dream business, because you don't have to convince anybody they need what you have. They know it, brother, they know it. We sell the solution everyone ultimately wants. No demand creation, just redirect it, to us. ”
    I looked around the coffee shop sheepishly. Lenny should have asked everyone in the Konditorei to sign nondisclosure agreements. Sure, he might never see these people again, but these are my homies. Connie rolled her eyes. Having overheard so many pitches herself, she knew the drill cold.
    Next page: A shaded graph probably sold ready-made in any office superstore in the country. The shameless “Projected Growth” chart inevitably traces the outline of a hockey stick and assumes that a short period of investment will be obliterated by years of exponential increases in whatever— revenues, net income, profits, customers, corpses. Lenny's chart was all about revenues, certainly not profits, because this was, after all, an Internet business.
    “Hundred million, three years, easy.” Lenny poked his pointer at the highest end of the graph. “Who knows how far it can go. The potential is unlimited, and in three years the exit strategy kicks in. May be an IPO. Depends on the stock market. Probably a buyout.”
    “Getting to $100 million annual sales in three short years is no small task,” I cautioned.
    I went on to explain that in the late ‘80s I'd been one of the founders of a software company, Claris Corporation, that grew to nearly a $90 million annual run rate in three years, and we were profitable to boot. That was when $90 million was $90 million, not like today when $90 million in stock options alone is chump change. I remember all too well how much hard work and good fortune must come together to make that happen.
    “Selling software? No offense, but what was that? Hundred dollars a pop? Two hundred? This is thousands of dollars a sale. Thousands. I'm talking about an order of magnitude difference. No comparison. Besides, the numbers here only include the U.S. You understand that? The U.S. alone. But, people