Sidney

"“Because Winston wants to create Churchill cigars, and he wants Sidney to be his partner." The Haitians would have to wait, again. I was on the next flight to Nassau, and then on to New York. Winston wanted to pimp out his grandfather's image and family name by developing Winston Churchill brand cigars. He was seeking Sidney's sage wisdom and marketing advice, and a little venture capital between new chums never hurt. After all, Sidney’s Midas touch could turn shit into gold, and he had the sterling to float a risky venture with a fancy British socialite. Winston was nobody’s fool, and he knew the most important business lesson. Never use your own money if you don’t have to. I walked into SFIC boardroom and scanned the occupants. Sidney had assembled his executive dream team, primed and ready to heap praise and adoration on whatever plan he concocted. They looked unanimously agitated when I walked into the meeting and sat down at the table. I was intruding on their sacred sales domain. I was feeding from their trough and diluting their pie. They had no clue that I was responsible for getting Winston and Sidney in bed in the first place, but I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. The executives enlisted the expertise of an eager Davidoff sales representative who was ready to pounce on what must have sounded like a dream come true. The Churchill name was almost synonymous with the image of a cigar, and the Churchill family had never considered licensing their name or Sir Winston’s distinctive image to something as vulgar and mundane as a tobacco venture. Winston waltzed in looking the dapper English gent, draped in a bespoke suite and handmade loafers. He worked the room, pressing the flesh and sharing a chuckle with most of the executives. Sidney was wheeled in last and rolled to the head of the table, cigar in his mouth and his eyes barely open. The London trip had taken a toll on him, and he was still recovering his energy. He was sitting fairly still, and I was not entirely sure he was awake. We sat through Mr. Davidoff’s tediously well-heeled pitch. We feigned interest in his colorful charts and graphs, market research, metrics and forecasts. They would source tobacco from the finest plantations in Nicaragua, and the marketing campaign would be exponential. Churchill cigars would be the biggest thing to come out of England in years. Bigger than the Beatles. Davidoff had gone all out on this sucker. They even prepared branded cigar boxes and mock-up labels with tiny pictures of Sir Winston on the cigar rings. First class. Top shelf. The Davidoff show finally ended, and it was the rep's finest hour. He was prepared to accept Winston’s and Sidney’s undying gratitude and signatures on the exclusive licensing agreement conveniently stashed in his expensive leather attaché. He primed his Monte Blanc fountain pen out and prepared to bask in mega deal afterglow."

"Lil Jon and his posse were returning to their limo after a successful business meeting with Sidney, and they'd decided to spark a spleef to seal the deal. And it was a sweet deal for Jon. He was offered the opportunity to be the face of Crunk!, Sidney's new energy drink. Sidney would pay him one dollar for every case sold. That was the deal, and it didn’t get much better. Jon didn’t have to contribute a penny to the venture, just his distinctive name and face. Sidney assumed all the costs and risks. At the time, Jon was a relative newcomer to hip-hop, but he was a savvy marketer. He’d coined the term Crunk! (a blend of ‘crazy’ and ‘drunk’) to describe his music and lifestyle, and his personal brand was busting out virally and exponentially.[ 11]"

"“Because Winston wants to create Churchill cigars, and he wants Sidney to be his partner." The Haitians would have to wait, again. I was on the next flight to Nassau, and then on to New York. Winston wanted to pimp out his grandfather's image and family name by developing Winston Churchill brand cigars. He was seeking Sidney's sage wisdom and marketing advice, and a little venture capital between new chums never hurt. After all, Sidney’s Midas touch could turn shit into gold, and he had the sterling to float a risky venture with a fancy British socialite. Winston was nobody’s fool, and he knew the most important business lesson. Never use your own money if you don’t have to. I walked into SFIC boardroom and scanned the occupants. Sidney had assembled his executive dream team, primed and ready to heap praise and adoration on whatever plan he concocted. They looked unanimously agitated when I walked into the meeting and sat down at the table. I was intruding on their sacred sales domain. I was feeding from their trough and diluting their pie. They had no clue that I was responsible for getting Winston and Sidney in bed in the first place, but I wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. The executives enlisted the expertise of an eager Davidoff sales representative who was ready to pounce on what must have sounded like a dream come true. The Churchill name was almost synonymous with the image of a cigar, and the Churchill family had never considered licensing their name or Sir Winston’s distinctive image to something as vulgar and mundane as a tobacco venture. Winston waltzed in looking the dapper English gent, draped in a bespoke suite and handmade loafers. He worked the room, pressing the flesh and sharing a chuckle with most of the executives. Sidney was wheeled in last and rolled to the head of the table, cigar in his mouth and his eyes barely open. The London trip had taken a toll on him, and he was still recovering his energy. He was sitting fairly still, and I was not entirely sure he was awake. We sat through Mr. Davidoff’s tediously well-heeled pitch. We feigned interest in his colorful charts and graphs, market research, metrics and forecasts. They would source tobacco from the finest plantations in Nicaragua, and the marketing campaign would be exponential. Churchill cigars would be the biggest thing to come out of England in years. Bigger than the Beatles. Davidoff had gone all out on this sucker. They even prepared branded cigar boxes and mock-up labels with tiny pictures of Sir Winston on the cigar rings. First class. Top shelf. The Davidoff show finally ended, and it was the rep's finest hour. He was prepared to accept Winston’s and Sidney’s undying gratitude and signatures on the exclusive licensing agreement conveniently stashed in his expensive leather attaché. He primed his Monte Blanc fountain pen out and prepared to bask in mega deal afterglow."

"“As far as money, I made fortunes and lost fortunes, but money comes and money goes. Money is magnificent, but it’s not everything. Sooner or later, you realize that some things are much more important. And you think about all the time you wasted chasing bullshit and illusions, and you get regrets. I realized it too late, but you got your whole life. You’re a smart kid, and I like you, so I’m going to give you a piece of advice that I wish someone had given me." Sidney now had my full attention, although I almost drove the car into a ravine. Fortunately he didn't notice. "Get out of this business and do something you care about. Something that makes a difference. Give people opportunities to help themselves. Find unknown heroes and get them known. You like to surf, right? So teach kids to surf. Even better, teach retarded kids to surf. Help abused animals. Do something to help, something you care about. You won’t regret it. Trust me on that. You will still be happy and satisfied, even if you don’t make any money. You can hold your head up and know that you made the world better. And if you make a little money along the way, and there’s no harm in that, then enjoy the shit out of it. But don’t let it control you. It will ruin you if you are weak. It will make you doubt everything and mistrust everyone. Even the people you love most of all.""

"Lil Jon and his posse were returning to their limo after a successful business meeting with Sidney, and they'd decided to spark a spleef to seal the deal. And it was a sweet deal for Jon. He was offered the opportunity to be the face of Crunk!, Sidney's new energy drink. Sidney would pay him one dollar for every case sold. That was the deal, and it didn’t get much better. Jon didn’t have to contribute a penny to the venture, just his distinctive name and face. Sidney assumed all the costs and risks. At the time, Jon was a relative newcomer to hip-hop, but he was a savvy marketer. He’d coined the term Crunk! (a blend of ‘crazy’ and ‘drunk’) to describe his music and lifestyle, and his personal brand was busting out virally and exponentially.[11]"