Today’s Second Half

Celebrating Failure

Like all of you, I've experienced my share of failure. I've had cakes fall in the oven, I've written a few columns that were duds, and I once got a D on a social studies test.

None of my failures has been as spectacular at the one we celebrate today. April 18 is the anniversary of the Titan 34D Rocket Failure. On this fateful day in 1986, the Titan was launched from Vandenburg Air Force Base. Only a few hundred feet into its flight, the $65 million rocket exploded. There was no one aboard, but the rocket did have a rather significant payload: a $500 million reconnaissance satellite that was turned into a bucket of blackened bolts by the explosion. So much for spying on our global neighbors, huh?

By the way, the explosion also produced a toxic cloud that endangered nearby California communities before it blew out to sea, presumably endangering only marine life, which is always getting the short end of the stick vis-à-vis the by-products of human inventiveness.

This gigantic "oops"--only the latest in a series of '80s aeronautical disasters-caused more than a few red faces at the Defense Department and prompted a suspension of the Titan program until such time as they knew what the heck they were doing.

More than 20 years later, the Failure-with-a-capital-F is listed in Chase's Calendar of Events ("The Ultimate Go-to Guide for Special Days, Weeks and Months").

I don't know how you plan to celebrate this special day, but I'm going to spend it contemplating my own failures. One in particular comes to mind: the Day I Bombed at the Rotary Club.

I'm gotten good reviews as a speaker. So when I was booked by a nearby service club as a lunchtime speaker, I was fairly confident I could at least get them to chuckle. A business meeting preceded my talk, and a heated discussion about the meeting venue ended up in a food fight among three factions: those who wanted to stay in the current venue, those who wanted to change, and those who were pissed off that they were being asked to decide on the spot. At the height of the shouting match, the president looked at her watch and stopped the discussion cold with this announcement: "Let's move on to our presentation. Please welcome Mary Hanna."

I stepped up to the launching pad and did my 20 minutes. The only response was the clattering of silverware as the servers cleared the tables. It was the toughest crowd I had ever encountered, but I soldiered on. As I always do, I asked the audience if they had any questions. You bet they did. They wanted to know why the change of venue had not been on the agenda.

OK, so it wasn't a disaster on the scale of the Titan Failure, but it did cause a suspension of my speaking career for a bit of re-tooling. I scrutinized my joke-writing process for flaws, I worked on my timing, and I consulted with an expert. He reassured me that my machinery was in working order and it was safe to resume the program. Sometimes, it seems, it's the launching pad that's the problem.

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