By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Ian B. Tippet
The luckiest decision of my life was in 1981, when, as a vice president of human resources for what was then called the Greyhound Corporation, I left town when it was announced that John Teets would be ascending to the chairmanship of the company. Relocating to New Jersey, I went to work for an extremely ethical company that cared about employees, had unpretentious leaders, did not lavish executives with perquisites and phony pay-for-performance plans, and produced products and profits that would put Dial's to shame.
No matter how much money Joan Potter and others who stayed at the Dial Corp may have "earned," they have had to work in a company that apparently has lost its heart and soul, like so many American companies in this era of downsizing and contingent workers. Potter is the third in a series of human-resources vice presidents who have met their demise in the Dial Tower, which evidently takes its name from the Tower of London, where executions of another kind frequently took place.
There are many other Dial stories in the quiet corridors of the Valley's outplacement firms, where capable, decent ex-Dial people go to heal the tortures of termination that were inflicted on them behind the shiny facade of the Tower.
Craig J. Cantoni
Oh, if that soap opera written by Paul Rubin had involved a homicide instead of a suicide, the headline could have read: "Dial M for Murder."
I can't believe anyone would write an article about the closing of a Circle K (Screed, Peter Gilstrap, December 14). In the first paragraph, Gilstrap states it's about "as relevant and as fascinating as a bald tire in a vacant lot." Then why, pray tell, did he bore us with such an article? There are thousands of things more interesting to write about. Doesn't his editor ever look at his stuff? What's next, an article about paper plates?
I am one of the faceless people that Rick Ross has labeled a "cult member" ("Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlatans," Tony Ortega, November 30). I belong to the Church of Immortal Consciousness. It is not a cult. It is a church. I live in a collective of people. I share a vision with my fellow church members, a vision that I have had from childhood--before I met any of the members or leaders of this church.
We are people who work together shoulder to shoulder, whether it's building a school, raising animals or engaging in cooperative planning and business ventures. We put our children first in importance. We are safe in the knowledge that they will not turn to drugs or join gangs to ease their pain: They have none. We talk freely about God and we are sure to make our everyday actions our worship. We practice kindness at every turn, knowing that love perseveres and encourages, and that the spirit of God guides and protects.
Yes, back East, my family is in the Social Register. I attended a private school for ten years, then went on to graduate from an Ivy League university. I was trained to think boldly and to believe in myself. The world was at my finger tips. I traveled extensively in this country, in Canada and abroad. I was fortunate enough not just to visit, but to live where I traveled. I've met people of many nationalities and faiths. I've seen sights that I will never forget, beauty so extraordinary in nature, art, architecture and tradition that I was moved to tears. I've walked among homeless people and the destitute in many countries, and clinked champagne glasses with the wealthy at elite gatherings. But never have I seen more beauty, felt the glory of God's love more continually, nor have I ever felt so fulfilled when working hard, as I do raising my family with my beloved husband as a member of the Church of Immortal Consciousness.
How am I endangering the civilization of the United States? How am I dangerous to the town of Payson, Arizona? How could my influence hurt Rick Ross? How could Ross' summation of us not include the fruits of our efforts (namely, our children)? If he were to walk in my husband's shoes, he would bust at the seams with gratitude. I wish that Ross could know such happiness. Please stop speaking falsely about our family. Rick Ross is no expert on my life. My husband and I wish him peace and goodwill.