{"product_id":"i-love-capitalism-isbn-9780735216242","title":"I Love Capitalism!","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eBestseller\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIconoclastic entrepreneur and New York legend Ken Langone tells the compelling story of how a poor boy from Long Island became one of America's most successful businessmen.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKen Langone has seen it all on his way to a net worth beyond his wildest dreams. A pillar of corporate America for decades, he's a co-founder of Home Depot, a former director of the New York Stock Exchange, and a world-class philanthropist (including $200 million for NYU's Langone Health). In this memoir he finally tells the story of his unlikely rise and controversial career. It's also a passionate defense of the American Dream -- of preserving a country in which any hungry kid can reach the maximum potential of his or her talents and work ethic. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a series of fascinating stories, Langone shows how he struggled to get an education, break into Wall Street, and scramble for an MBA at night while competing with privileged competitors by day. He shares how he learned how to evaluate what a business is worth and apply his street smarts to 8-figure and 9-figure deals . And he's not shy about discussing, for the first time, his epic legal and PR battle with former NY Governor Eliot Spitzer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis ultimate theme is that free enterprise is the key to giving everyone a leg up. As he writes:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThis book is my love song to capitalism. Capitalism works! And I'm living proof -- it works for everybody. Absolutely anybody is entitled to dream big, and absolutely everybody \u003c\/i\u003eshould \u003ci\u003edream big. I did. Show me where the silver spoon was in my mouth. I've got to argue profoundly and passionately: I'm the American Dream.\u003c\/i\u003e“A joyful, authentic, and entertaining must-read by a patriot and hero who defines what it means to give back. I loved this great American story, and so will everyone who wants to understand true business success.” —Jack Welch, Executive Chairman, Jack Welch Management Institute\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Insightful and inspirational. Ken reminds us of a very important lesson—that capitalism does work. An authentic, up-by-the-bootstraps story by a shining example of the American dream.” —Jamie Dimon, Chairman and CEO, JPMorgan Chase \u0026amp; Co.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “There is no better role model for entrepreneurs. Ken’s sense of loyalty, integrity, and perseverance is clear. I recommend it highly and I love him!” —Robert Kraft, Chairman and CEO, The Kraft Group\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “While my own love for capitalism might be conditional, my love for Ken Langone is not! His energy, enthusiasm, grit, and generosity are legendary.” —Cardinal Timothy Dolan, Archbishop of New York\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I have known Ken Langone for forty years and simply put, he is a force of nature. \u003ci\u003eI Love Capitalism\u003c\/i\u003e fully captures the magnitude of that force, and the story of one of the most recognizable figures in business and an American treasure.” —Stanley Druckenmiller, Founder, Duquesne Capital\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It is one of the great honors of my life to be friends with Ken, who as chairman of the Promise Academy fought for those who have been less fortunate. His story will inspire every American. A must read for all who love this country and endeavor to make it better.” —Geoffrey Canada, President, Harlem Children’s Zone\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Ken gives new meaning to capitalism for those who have equated it with greed. Recommended reading for young people who underestimate themselves and have lost hope.” —Bonnie Hill, Cofounder, Icon Blue, Inc.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I love Langone—I love him as a great philanthropist, a great businessman, a great citizen, a great friend; and now he has written a fascinating must-read book.” —Martin Lipton, Founding Partner, Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen \u0026amp; Katz\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “An honest, interesting, and spectacular journey that confirms that anything is possible in America. Ken’s book inspires all those continuing to search for success.” —Larry Bossidy, former CEO and Chair, HoneywellKen Langone is a co-founder of Home Depot and the founder and chairman of Invemed Associates LLC. He received a B.A. from Bucknell University and an M.B.A. from New York University's Stern School of Business. He serves on the Board of Overseers of the Stern School and on the Board of Trustees of New York University, as well as serving as chairman of the Board of Trustees of New York University Medical Center. In addition, he serves on the boards of St. Patrick's Cathedral, the Ronald McDonald House of NY, the Center for Strategic and International Studies, the Horatio Alger Society Foundation, and the Harlem Children's Zone and its charter school, the Promise Academy. He is also a Knight of Malta and a Knight of St. Gregory.1.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I Owe Bucknell $300\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This book is my love song to capitalism. Capitalism works. Let me      say it again: It works! And-I'm living proof-it can work for      anybody and everybody. Blacks and whites and browns and everyone      in between. Absolutely anybody is entitled to dream big, and      absolutely everybody should dream big. I did. Show me where the      silver spoon was in my mouth. I've got to argue profoundly and      passionately: I'm the American Dream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I grew up in Roslyn Heights, Long Island, during World War II and      just after. There was never much money. My father was an excellent      plumber, though not a financially successful one; we lived from      paycheck to paycheck. Because he couldn't make enough to provide      for the family, my mother had to go to work: she got a job at the      school cafeteria, and the little bit she brought in helped make      ends meet. But I didn't realize that I was poor, and I had a      wonderful childhood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just over the hill from Roslyn was a vast tract of hills where      sand and gravel were mined. The area was called Cow Bay, and Cow      Bay sand was much sought after for all kinds of construction in      New York City: roads, sidewalks, building infrastructure-anyplace      concrete was used. Both my grandfathers came over from Italy when      they were young, and both of them worked in the sand pits. It was      dangerous work; there were avalanches all the time. My father's      father, who had a good business head, also had a store in the      pits-the company store, where he sold the miners and families      vegetables and canned goods and you-name-it. And he bought real      estate; owning property was the name of the game for immigrants,      the road to riches. My grandfather bought a lot of properties that      eventually became very valuable, but then in 1932 he was killed by      a car; nobody ever found out who hit him. After he died, his sons      fought over who was going to pay the tax bills on the properties,      and none of them did, so the real estate was sold to cover tax      liens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My father's father died three years before I was born, and my      father's mother had died in 1919, in the flu epidemic, so I never      met her either. My mother's parents, I knew. My maternal      grandparents were working people. My grandmother stayed home. My      grandfather had left school when he was six years old and never      went again. When he died in 1952, at seventy-two, he couldn't read      or write, English or Italian.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandfather was a peasant. He was a lovely man, and from the      time he was six years old until the day he died, he had a shovel      in his hand. His right hand was totally deformed; the thumb had      lost the ability to bend from sixty years of holding a shovel. His      only entertainment was the opera on Saturday afternoons. He would      work all week at the sand pits, then work odd jobs on Saturday      morning. When he came home, my grandmother would have the bath      ready for him, and he'd clean himself up. He always wore a vest,      suit pants, and high-top black shoes, the kind with the hooks and      eyelets. When the shoes got too old, they became his work shoes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He would take his bath, get dressed, and eat lunch. He was a      vegetarian; his favorite meal was fried peppers and potatoes and a      piece of bread and a little bit of homemade wine. Saturday      afternoon he'd eat his lunch, then he'd go under the arbor-he      never owned a house; he always rented-and listen to the      Metropolitan Opera, sponsored by Texaco, on the radio station WJZ.      Last year, I was invited to the Metropolitan Opera's performance      of La bohme, and I had dinner beforehand with the chairwoman of      the Met, Ann Ziff. All through the meal and the performance I was      thinking to myself, \"Holy smokes, if my grandpa could see me now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a man who lived in Beacon Hill, a nice neighborhood, his      name was Mr. Davis. He was some sort of official for the State of      New York, in the Transportation Department. My grandfather used to      work on weekends at Mr. Davis's house; he would cut the lawn, do      pruning and stuff. And Mr. Davis got him a job working on the      roads. In those days, in the wintertime, they didn't have      mechanical sanders; they had two guys in the back of a truck      throwing sand over the side onto the snowy roads. That was one of      my grandfather's jobs. It was steady work. And he had better      benefits, such as they were; they weren't much, but at least it      was better than the sand pits, and it wasn't as dangerous, though      there was always a chance (especially at night) that one guy might      hit the other with his shovel by accident.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My grandfather was working at Mr. Davis's house on a Saturday in      August of 1952 when he reached for a branch to cut it and he had a      stroke. He died four days later. Clearly, he had AFib-atrial      fibrillation. But they didn't have Coumadin then; they didn't have      beta-blockers. I have AFib, and I take a blood thinner. History.      Genetics.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents, Angelina Teresa and John Francis Langone-Angie and      John-were also very simple people. Neither of them ever got close      to graduating from high school. My mother dropped out in the      seventh grade. My father didn't want to work in the sand pits, so      he went to trade school and learned to be a plumber. But for four      years during the Depression, 1930 to 1934 (this was before I was      born), my father didn't work at all, not only because of economic      conditions, but also because of his health: he had colitis, and he      was also manic-depressive. For four years, my parents effectively      relied on the help of lots of relatives and friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e By the time I was born, in September 1935, my father was working      again, but my parents were still struggling financially. During      World War II, my father worked in the Jakobson shipyard in Oyster      Bay, putting plumbing in ships to be used in the war effort; my      mother volunteered at the elementary school across the street from      our house, Roslyn Heights Elementary School, helping to feed what      were then called undernourished children. The government sent      surplus food to feed these poor kids. After she'd done this for a      few years, they opened a cafeteria in the school, for all the      kids, and they asked my mom if she'd like a job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every morning she would make me breakfast and fix my lunch ahead      of time-always the same thing, my favorite, American cheese on      white bread-and then walk to work in the cafeteria. My mother was      an incredibly sensitive person. She would identify kids who she      knew were having a tough time, whether they had mental problems or      learning problems, whatever it was, and make a special effort to      be good to them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I never wanted to eat in the cafeteria, because my mom worked      there, so I would come home every day for lunch. Sometimes I      brought a friend home with me: Arthur Kimball, a black kid. His      nickname was Bubba. When my mother knew Bubba was going to come      home with me, she would make him a sandwich too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our address was 58 St. Marks Place, Roslyn Heights. My parents      bought the house in 1944 for $4,000; I can remember my father      getting the mortgage. The payment was something like $28 a month.      It was a small house, on a fifty-by-hundred-foot plot of land,      backed up against the hill that led down to the railroad tracks.      The house had an unfinished basement, with a coal furnace; on the      first floor, there was a dining room, a living room, and a      kitchen, with a little pantry. In the pantry was an icebox. The      man who used to bring the ice came every three or four days. He      had a piece of canvas on his shoulder, and he had ice tongs, and      he had a chunk of ice sitting on the canvas. The icebox was      wooden, and it had two compartments, one for the food on the      bottom and one on top for the ice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Upstairs there were three bedrooms. My brother, Mike-he was five      years older-and I stayed in one, my parents stayed in another, and      from time to time my parents would rent out the third bedroom, say      if there was a new schoolteacher who needed a place to stay before      getting settled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My father found work as often as he could. He was a union      plumber-Local 457, the Plumbers Union-so if he was on a job and      the job wound up, he'd be out of work until he found another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dad was very meticulous and neat. Whenever a job ended, he'd go      home and tell my mother, and she'd wash his coveralls. They had an      old-fashioned washing machine, the kind with the agitator that      went back and forth and a hand-cranked wringer on top. The next      morning, his coveralls would be nice and folded, and he'd take his      metal lunch pail with the thermos in it and go out in his car and      look for union work. He'd drive all over, from job to job to job,      and just ask. If he found a job at eleven o'clock in the morning,      he'd say, \"Can I start now?\" And usually the foreman would say,      \"Sure. You want to start now? Start now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Local 457 used to meet in Glen Cove, two towns over. The guys in      the union hall liked my dad, but one day the union delegate came      to the house and said, \"You know, Johnny, it's not fair. We've got      guys down at the hall who are sitting there for days on end, and      you're always getting a job.\" My father said, \"Look, I've got two      children; I need to pay my bills. When I lose a job, I can't sit      at the union hall playing pinochle waiting for a boss to call in      for a plumber. I get in my car and I go look for work.\" That's      what the union plumbers did; they'd sit there waiting for work and      playing pinochle all day, then go home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm in the union,\" my father told the delegate. \"I pay my dues.      The only difference is, I don't wait for somebody to call me. I go      find them. I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing.\" The union      officials didn't like it; that was one measure of control they      wanted to have over the members.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My dad worked as a self-employed plumber for a couple of years,      1948 to 1950. But he had a bad problem. He wouldn't send people      bills. He'd send someone a bill three years after the work was      done. He'd finished the work long ago, and the person would get      the bill and say, \"Hey . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't out of any charitable impulse; he was just a bad      businessman. He'd use his credit to the extent he could at the      supply house, and it was only when he reached the point where he      had no more credit that he'd start sending people bills. I      remember my brother used to type them out for him, on a little      Smith Corona portable typewriter, on these forms he'd had printed      up. My father used to sit next to my brother and say, \"Okay, two      fittings, a half inch by three-quarters inch, fourteen feet of      copper tubing . . .\" And my brother used to send the bills.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My dad had good initiative but poor follow-through. I was      different. I began working at age eleven. I was always on the      lookout for opportunities, and I loved making money. I started out      delivering newspapers. Then one Christmas I took some of my      paper-delivery money and went to a greenhouse where they were      selling Christmas wreaths for seventy-five cents each and bought a      couple dozen. I had a broomstick with me-just the stick, without      the broom head-and two kids I'd hired for a half buck each. We      slid all the wreaths onto the broomstick, each kid took one end,      and we went door to door. I charged a buck-fifty apiece for the      wreaths and netted a nice profit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mother said to me one night, \"You know, you're going to be very      successful.\" I said, \"How is that, Mom?\" She said, \"Because money      skips generations. Your father's father was very successful. Your      father and his brothers did the best they could, but not much came      of it. Now it's your turn.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My dad had a panel truck: he'd bought it from a company called      John Wagner \u0026amp; Sons Tea \u0026amp; Spice and had it spray painted      forest green. He called it a route truck; it had no passenger      seat. Every Sunday the four of us, then the three of us-Mike      joined the army right out of high school-would get in my father's      truck and go to my grandmother's for lunch, in Port Washington. My      father drove, my mother sat next to him on a milk box, and I used      to sit in the back where his tools were, where the guy that      delivered the tea used to keep the tea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In Roslyn Heights, there was a section called Roslyn Estates where      the rich people lived. If you took the shortcut through Roslyn      Estates, you'd come out at an intersection, Port Washington      Boulevard and Northern Boulevard, and then you'd make a right on      Port Washington Boulevard to get to Grandma's. And every time we      drove through Roslyn Estates on a Sunday, my mother would say to      me, \"Would you like to live here one day?\" I'd say yes. And she'd      say, \"Well, then you've got to work hard and get an education.\"      And I listened. I knew damn well I didn't want to be poor. I      wanted to be rich.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I had an after-school job in a butcher shop in Roslyn, and after      work every night, from six to seven, I'd go work in a little store      that made rotisserie chickens, cleaning up the grease from the      rotisserie spits. The guy who owned the butcher shop didn't know I      was helping the chicken guy, because he thought they were      competitors. When I was fifteen, in 1950, a supermarket called      M\u0026amp;H opened down the street and across the tracks from the      butcher, and I moonlighted there too, helping them set up the      store, putting the canned goods on the shelves at the same time I      was working for the butcher shop. I caddied at the golf course. I      started my own landscaping business, cutting lawns. When I got to      be bigger and stronger, at sixteen, I got a summer job as a day      laborer in road construction. I was a hardworking little bastard.      Shit, man, as long as I'd get that money in my pocket, I was okay.","brand":"Portfolio","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305406189797,"sku":"NP9780735216242","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735216242.jpg?v=1767729667","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/i-love-capitalism-isbn-9780735216242","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}