Who's Jason?
My brother and I used to record made-up adventures on a Panasonic Slimline tape recorder our mom got us for Christmas. We even added sound effects from a Radio Shack record. One time our adventures took us to Russia, where we knocked on the Iron Curtain. Imagine how that must've sounded.
Another time my brother decided to do a magic show for the neighborhood kids. I was out canvassing the block, inviting kids to come. We served refreshments and even had a ticket booth made from a refrigerator box our mom got us.
That was probably around the third or fourth grade.
By fifth grade I was writing stories good enough to win a district contest.
In 6th grade I learned clarinet in band, then got serious and upgraded to a saxophone and discovered that music could say things words couldn't, especially through improvisation. It helped me get comfortable putting my technical skills in front of strangers. More importantly, it helped me think on my feet.
I thought music was my future, but then when life happened — wife, baby, rent, car payment — I had to get practical. My friends became music teachers, but that wasn't for me.
The creative side never disappeared, though. It just found different outlets. Some ideas became stories. Some became business ideas. One became a character named Buzz Marketeer, who somehow survived long after the contest that inspired him.
Out of desperation, I jumped into sales, because the income potential was good. But I never stopped dreaming.
Over the years I found myself working alongside business owners, manufacturers, service companies, and customers from all walks of life. The problems were different, but certain patterns kept showing up.
I wasn't very good at selling at first.
When I stopped trying to sell the way I was "supposed to" and started paying closer attention to people, things started looking up.
The salespeople I admired worked the same way. When they showed up, they treated people like human beings, not their next paycheck.
Did you know that Sales was once considered a noble profession. I bought a book about it, written in 1935.
That reinforced everything I believed.
Along the way, I studied direct-response marketing and spent time inside a couple of agencies. I learned a lot. Some of it was brilliant. Some of it left a bad taste in my mouth.
But it became harder to work in a field where caring became optional, people became "targets" and my bosses overpromised and underdelivered, leaving me holding the bag. It was all chalked up to “it’s just how business is done.” But I didn’t buy it.
As a salesman with a boss, I often felt helpless. And quietly furious.
I couldn't change the way the industry worked, but I could change how I showed up.
That meant going back to the beginning. Back to looking for ways to make something land for another person.
Like my best friend laughing about the Iron Curtain gag.
Or the audience reacting to my solo on Herbie Hancock's Dolphin Dance.
And later, the customer smiling when our products matched our promises.
For me, the creative work and the business work were never really separate. They were always pulling toward the same thing.
Creating human connection.
Someone on the other end feeling seen and uplifted. Because somebody actually paid attention and cared enough to lend a hand.
We must uphold and protect that in everything we pursue.
That's what the work has always been.