48,012 miles…that’s what the account balance showed when I logged onto my U.S. Airways Dividend Miles account back in early December. This posed more than a minor problem, because with 2012 coming like a freight train, I was still roughly 2,000 miles short of the coveted Gold Preferred frequent flyer status I’ve managed to rack up on largely personal travel since moving from California to the East Coast back in 2005. With no planned business meetings in December, this meant a discretionary trip would need to be taken sometime before the New Year. Unfortunately, it also meant the excursion would need to take place during the busy holiday travel period…but if you’ve suffered the indignity of boarding in Zones 2 through 5, or if you’ve had to check your carry-on luggage due to the lack of remaining overhead space, you’re willing to go the extra mile. BTW…wasn’t that a better than average  use of the often overused “extra mile” cliché?

After a mediocre year of flying around the country (Gold status is pretty paltry compared to the more elite Platinum and Chairman classifications of big time travelers), I really didn’t have the need to visit any particular person or place. So, this meant that other than the typical restrictive bustling holiday schedule we all have to deal with and the minimum 2,000 mile criteria, there was really no limitation on the any number of possible exotic destinations from which to choose. I had colleagues and friends traveling to such places as Cambodia, Thailand, Paris, Mexico, New Orleans, and Colorado, so the bar was pretty high. I thought about Fort Lauderdale, the Bahamas, and even a quick trip to Southern California, but at the end-of-the-day I decided to really live it up, and I went ahead and booked tickets to Fargo, North Dakota (my fifth trip to the region this year).

Now, I know what you’re thinking…you’re thinking about the movie Fargo. But you’re also probably contemplating other things…like consulting me about your next vacation, wondering whether or not I’m married, or my undoubtedly impressive SAT score (930…and I got caught cheating). You also may be pondering what kind of pretentious jerk would be so concerned about something as pretentious (straight out of the Department of Redundancy Department) as frequent flyer status that they would take an unnecessary trip in the midst of a hellacious holiday travel season? Well, I wish I knew what to tell you, but I guess the best suggestion I have for you is to reference the SAT score (BTW…not sure they calculate them the same way now, but back in the day 1600 was really good…930…not so much).

There is however a more defendable reason…and it has to do with the exponential decline of service and civility of air travel in general.  The Southwesternization of the airline industry has resulted in a Walmart-like approach to the overall flying experience, and flying first class (I get upgraded about 65% of the time if I travel at off-peak times) makes the now mostly unpleasant exercise almost tolerable. Sure, I suspect it would be better not to be so wrapped up in such superficial things as one’s frequent flyer status, but it would also help to be four-foot two inches tall and have fantasies about living life in a sardine can.

I’ve had to humbly walk past all those smug faces with their pre-flight beverages in First Class looking at me like they’re better than me…and I’ve sat in First Class arrogantly sipping a glass of red wine while sneering at the pillow toting peasants meekly filing by to the lower decks. I’d like to tell you it doesn’t matter, but B is better. It’s not like it’s better by just a little bit either…scenario B is markedly superior.

So, I’m sitting in First Class right now on the trip from Charlotte to my next stop in Minneapolis (had to fly to NC first from DC to rack up enough miles. Again…check the college entrance scores). I finished my second bag of Kettle Chips and had a couple glasses of OJ while the scrunched peons back in steerage shelled out 7 bones for a freaking cheese and snack plate (presuming there was one even available). Hey…it’s almost 7am and here comes the flight attendant again. “Pardon me, but may I have a black coffee with a splash of Jack Daniels please?” Oh yeah…it matters.

Most of you are probably off work relaxing this holiday week, so chances are you might not even need (or want) a Friday morning song. However if you do, and if you yearn to cling to that holiday feeling just a little while longer, take a few minutes to listen to this soothing seasonal gem. It’s a version you don’t always hear, and if you like holiday music,  it might just be a nice way to wrap up the year.

Happy New Year…and if I know or work with you, thank you for enriching my year…and my life.

Happy New Year

...and if you're itching to take a walk...think again.

So I’m finishing up dinner at a rather swank and very popular restaurant in Georgetown last night, when one of the guys (this was a work-related event) in our group of eight guys asks me how far away I live. I respond by telling him Cleveland Park, and round out my reply by noting that I could actually “walk home from here.” Now this chap was a life-long resident of the area, and because he knew I grew up in Los Angeles, I could see that he was concerned that I wasn’t aware of just how far it would be from the eatery home. He asked how far I thought it was, and I boldly responded that I was certain it was no more than a mile-and-a-half.

At that point, he tried to suppress a laugh and repeated my answer in a tone that suggested he thought the distance was much greater. He said “listen…you’re from LA but I grew up in this area. If you’re going to walk up Wisconsin you’re going to have to go up the hill, then down, then back up again before it flattens out just before one last hill up to the Cathedral.” After that, he promised there was still about a mile to get to where I said I lived. He urged me to catch a cab…or at least to hop on a bus to ride part of the way up Wisconsin. I thanked him for his concern, but privately thought it was sad that someone that grew up in the area would know less about the surroundings than me.

So…at the end of the evening, just before 9pm, I gathered my raincoat and headed up Wisconsin through the heart of Georgetown. It was a charming evening, and the juxtaposition of holiday decorations and folks dining outdoors (it was 65 degrees on this December 15^th night and very humid to boot) made for an almost magical atmosphere. As I walked up the Avenue amidst holiday laughter, clinking glasses and the hum of animated conversation, I remember thinking it odd that someone would suggest missing this charming short stroll and recommend opting for an antiseptic taxi ride instead.   

That first hill up Wisconsin seemed longer than I recalled, but I remember welcoming the exercise after a day, ok a week, ok a month, ok…since about the Fourth, of eating as though I thought I’d need to hibernate for the coming winter. The buzz of seasonal revelry seemed to fade as I left the businesses of Georgetown and entered a quieter neighborhood. It seemed like I’d been walking forever, and I was disgusted that the earthquake construction still meant the lights were out at the Cathedral thus rendering the nearby spires unseen on the horizon ahead. As I started up a second hill, I saw a sign that read “Welcome to Maryland.” OK, that’s a lie, but after walking across what seemed like the entire District, that’s what the sign should have said. The sign actually said something about Grover Park I think…but after schlepping up an endless hill in what seemed like August humidity, I was a bit dehydrated and delirious at this point. I remember thinking it sad that my acquaintance back at the restaurant couldn’t have been more considerate by forcefully conveying just how far it was. I began looking for cabs, but all of them appeared to be heading down into Georgetown, not northward toward my destination.

After walking for over thirty minutes, and probably close to 2 miles, I finally saw the Cathedral spires. Thankfully, they appeared close enough to touch. Unthankfully, they were still about ¾ of a mile in the distance.  As I quickened my pace towards Mass Ave, my clothes were soaked with perspiration. Thankfully though, my sweat soaked clothing was almost an afterthought compared to the ragging blisters forming on both of my feet. Just as a side note, if you decide to walk home across the freakin’ United States some evening, don’t wear black dress shoes.

Well, I finally arrived home well-after after 10pm, and while I was tired, soaked with sweat and though I sported several new large blisters, at least I was in a really bad mood.  What’s the point of all this? Well, if you consider yourself a friend, and if you have special knowledge of an area you’ve lived in all your life, you have a duty to share that information with open minded folks that simply may not know the local geography as well as you. This is especially true if they are contemplating something akin to the Bataan Death March. If you do so, you just might save a friend from the unfortunate situation that I found myself in just last night.

Well, gotta go. I don’t have my car so I have to take the Metro into work. Thankfully, the temperature has plummeted during this writing, so while it won’t be a comfortable walk temperature wise, at least the rapidly approaching cold-front means the wind is now gusting about 40mph.

BTW...if you close your eyes for a few minutes before the insanity of the work day and listen to a seasonal song...you might just lower your heart beat. Close your eyes...just do it. It will only take 3:21seconds and if it doesn't work...I'll refund your money.

Happy Holidays...

and before you blink..they'll be over.

Sometime back in September, amidst the hurricane of preparing for a large work-related conference, several work colleagues and dear friends lamented the insane pace. We naively fantasized about the post-conference down time, and talked with optimism about the coming Fall season and the prospect of chilling a bit during the quiet holidays that would soon follow. During the course of the conversation we dreamed about taking the time to see hillsides covered with vibrant changing leaves, covered bridges, maple syrup and festive fall recipes which included ingredients made from things like Butternut Squash (I was mostly listening at this point).

After talk of foliage, pumpkins and Turducken (made that up…but learned about it earlier this year and wanted to work in), we segued into our plans for the month of December, and romanticized the idea of chestnuts, roaring fires, holiday music, wine, ice skating on the Mall and relaxed evenings with family and friends. We talked about the sins of previous years…especially around failing to take the time to enjoy the holidays, and promised ourselves that this year would be different. We even kind of bragged about the wisdom and clarity that comes from advancing years (OK…this was really my advancing years), and essentially made a pact that we’d slow the clock long enough to really take in the magic of the coming season.

Well, this morning at about 2:35am my eyes opened abruptly and I immediately knew that would be no return to sleep. I began thinking that Christmas Eve was fifteen days away, and I’d yet to finish writing cards, or shop for any gifts, or take the time to even send emails (let alone cards) thanking folks for the thoughtful gifts, cards, lunches, Poinsettia plants, birthday celebrations, and other incredibly thoughtful things that have already come my way.

Worse, as the fog of slumber abated and I began to really cogitate, I dwelled on all that was left to do in the next few weeks, and thought even more about all the broken promises to meet a friend for a holiday lunch, or to grab a beer with a dear former work colleague, or to just sit on the couch for 15 minutes to gaze at the beauty of the tree.

Yesterday, while hurriedly walking back to work (after a nice but still too rushed lunch with a mentor and friend), I thought about the myriad of things that needed immediate attention back at the office. I began to stress about all that had to be done that afternoon, and none of it was even mildly connected to chestnuts, open fires, or any of the other things I dreamt about with my friends back in September. I even rudely dismissed a homeless person as he held out a styrofoam cup, and accelerated the pace of my gait in hopes of gaining a few extra minutes back at the office.

 

Sometime, in a period that will pass much quicker that the hours between right now (it’s 4:39 am EST) and tomorrow morning, I’ll blink and it will be Monday morning January 5^th.  It will likely be cold (really have no way of knowing that…just makes it more dramatic), and as I scrape the ice off my driver’s side windshield (won’t have time to do the passenger side) that dark post-holiday morning, I’ll glance up at the garland on the house and silently cuss the thought of taking down the decorations (the following Saturday when it will be even colder). Hopefully when I do they’ll still be plenty of ice on the car window because I won’t want to catch a glance of the aging man that’s managed to learn nothing…and has once again let another holiday season pass in blur.

Sadly, you’re not going to get much of value in these pages…but there is one repeated nugget that you really should heed. If you’re anything like me, slow the heck down and take time to relax. Life is so incredibly fragile, and the next couple weeks should be dedicated entirely to just chilling out and spending time with the family and friends that you love. Many of you won’t…and sadly…more pathetically really…I won’t either. Maybe though, we could all take a couple of minutes, and start this holiday Friday with a song.

Can’t though…just way too busy…

Just chill for a few minutes and close your eyes

BTW…sorry about all the misspellings and poor grammar (even Word is showing this as a sentence fragment). Would have loved to proof this thing…but I simply didn’t have the time.

...well actually, it's only Wednesday...and that makes today even better.

The first year I moved to the District of Columbia from California, I remember driving down Connecticut Ave to the IBEW Office at about 4:30am (I used to go to a nearby gym before work) on the day before Thanksgiving and the street was literally deserted.  The entire town seemed to be asleep, and as I crossed the Woodley Park bridge over Rock Creek, Michael Buble’s song “Home” began to play on the Wash, FM radio. I was so lonesome for Los Angeles, and I remember almost starting to cry when the haunting music started playing. Now, after living almost seven years on the east coast, I’m often amazed that no particular place feels like home…except maybe the few days every couple of years that I’m able to spend in North Dakota.

So, while I typically feel you can’t ever really go home again (especially when you’re not sure where it is), this past weekend I came pretty close. After spending the better part of the week at an IBEW conference in Las Vegas, I shot over to LA for the weekend and after years of being away, I was amazed at how much it felt like home.

I had a luggage nightmare when I arrived at LAX on Thursday evening, so I stayed by the airport on the Westside of town in the neighborhood where I grew up. The next morning I picked up an attorney colleague and dear friend at LAX (flew into LA for the MLS championship), and we cruised up to Malibu on Pacific Coast Highway to have lunch on the outside patio at an old haunt called Gladstones that literally sits right on the beach. After that, we shot up to the Pepperdine campus before turning around and heading back to Los Angeles.

We drove through West Los Angeles, and passed my elementary school in Cheviot Hills. We then cruised by the old house on Esther Avenue, the high school, the Beverly Hillcrest Hotel where we  had our (my wife and me…not the attorney) wedding my reception, through Beverly Hills where I had my first apartment and then through the mid-Whilshire District to downtown Los Angeles. That evening we went over to watch Dorsey High take on Fairfax High (where I coached for many years) in an inner-city playoff game at a field adjacent to the Dorsey campus. The police helicopters circling overhead before the game...only added to the atmosphere.

The next morning I checked out of the Wilshire Grand in downtown and drove west on the Santa Monica Freeway toward Beverly Hills. I met my friend Chuck at a Starbucks in Beverly Hills just north of my old apartment on Beverly Drive. As I sat there chatting with him and listening to Bing Crosby singing holiday songs while looking out the window (I was looking out the window…Bing was singing) at the intersection of Beverly and Charliville…I realized how familiar it all seemed. After saying goodbye to Chuck, I drove west bound on Wilshire towards Westwood passed the Diplomat (the first jobsite I was ever dispatched to as an electrical apprentice) and passed the UCLA campus where my short-lived Bruin football career crashed and burned in the ugliest of ways. As I entered the onramp to the northbound 405 toward the San Fernando Valley for the drive up to my mom’s place in Santa Paula, I realized that like it or not, Southern California really was home. Now however…it’s happily in DC…and as I drove up the 405 that morning, I couldn’t help but think how nice it would be to get back to the District.

With the litany of challenges, losses and setbacks facing so many, it's not always easy feel particularly thankful. However for the best of reasons, I'm hopeful you are able to find your own slice of holiday blessing. 

Not sure where you’re headed this Thanksgiving, nor whether or not you’ll even go over a river or through any woods. However whatever you’re doing and wherever you’re traveling, I hope get a break from the hustle and bustle to have some time to chill with family and friends. Whether it’s by a fire, sipping a glass of wine, or watching the palm trees sway in LA, have a wonderful and well-deserved holiday.

If you’re on the road, travel safely…we need to make sure you all make it home again.

Happy Thanksgiving

A Thanksgiving tune just for you...

...actually...it's only Thursday...and tomorrow is Veteran's Day.

“There goes the Arizona…there goes the California…there goes the West Virginia.” I don’t remember being spellbound too many times as a kid while sitting at the dinner table in my Los Angeles boyhood home, but the night my Uncle Ted recounted his experiences on a December morning in Hawaii in 1941 is etched in my mind as well as any childhood memory. Like a lot of his peers (and just about every one of my other relatives of that generation that I ever knew), I don’t recall Uncle Ted talking much about his WWII service. However for whatever ever reason on that night, he uncharacteristically provided a thorough account of much of what he remembered from that harrowing morning.

He was relaying the radio reports of a fellow Navy Officer who was providing almost  play-by-play account of the attack from his perch above high above one of the other U.S. warships. I couldn’t have been more than about 10 years old at the time my uncle told that story, which means the actual events had happened less than 30 years before (less time that I’ve now been out of high school). To attempt to retell my uncle’s story wouldn’t do it justice, but I remember being amazed, even at my young age, at the apparent chaos and horror conveyed through his graphic account. He always seemed like such a relaxed, reserved and mellow man.  However on this night while recounting the events from that morning in Pearl, he seemed like an almost a different person.

Over the course of my life, I can recall only a handful of similar times when I had the privilege of hearing from Veterans that served in the military and in battle. One of those times was listening to my own dad recounting the time his carrier, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga, was hit by two Kamikaze planes in the Pacific in January of 1945. Actually, for some reason, I had heard that story a couple of times…always as a result of my own coaxing. I always got the sense he didn’t like to talk about it, but I suspect as much to teach me about the the horrors of war, he typically repeated the story in an unemotional and matter-of-fact way.

The last time he told the story was in response to a request I made at the dinner table on a Christmas Eve sometime in the late 1990s. It dawned on me that my wife Julie had probably never heard the account, so I asked my dad to recount the events of that January day. My father reluctantly obliged, but as he moved through the story this particular time something was different from the usual nonchalant tone that he typically used to paint the picture. On this holiday night, as he recounted the horror of what he saw on the fight deck immediately after the attack, he began to cry.

Quite thankfully, I don’t have any stories about military service, or tales connected to the dreadful nature of battle. I can’t tell you about the trenches of Europe, the cliffs at Normandy, the jungles of Southeast Asia or the deserts of the Middle East. I can’t tell you about watching a buddy get cut down by machine gun fire, parachuting into a hail of gunfire, dodging roadside bombs or wearing the same underwear for months on end. I’ve never froze in a foxhole outside Frankfurt or boiled over in a bunker near Bagdad. As a matter of fact, due to timing, luck, and probably a relative life of privilege, I never had to suffer in battle on foreign land.

Sure…I do have legitimate stories of sacrifice here at home. Just in recent months alone, there are sobering tales of clogged shower drains, broken sink p-traps, non-functioning ATM machines and navigating paralyzing gridlock traffic while attempting to commute 4.6 miles home up 16^th Street. One recent Sunday, I was literally stranded when the battery died on my Harley while in Alexandria, VA (not exactly friendly territory) and I needed a jumpstart from a complete stranger. Just this week, I was literally schvitzing up a storm while sitting on the couch in my office…something to do with the temperamental thermostat. Just this very morning, I’m grappling with the hassle of walking to the Metro (and it’s kinda cold) versus driving in and having to fight the pre-holiday traffic on the way home.

Thinking back, people like my uncle Ted and my father never really had a fair appreciation for my own struggles here on American soil. On the eve of this Veteran’s Day, I’m awfully grateful for the sacrifices they made on foreign land…so I have the luxury of suffering here at home.

A couple of years ago we were travling with another couple over in France. We had headed out to Normandy for the afternoon...and after getting lost, we arrived on the cliffs about sunset. As darkness set in, there were lights twinking from a what appeared to be a small town at the bottom of the cliffs right next to the beach. We made our way down to the charming hamlet of Arrowmanches and walked into a near deserted cafe. As we sat down at the table...this song started to play.

Happy Veteran's Day

BTW...absolutely no time to proof today...so I apologize for the many likely mistakes.

...and you really should do your best to enjoy the weekend.

There are a lot of cool things about my current job, but one of aspects that offers the most tangible sense of accomplishment comes from the opportunity to teach as an adjunct several times a year in classes for union organizers. For me, it’s almost like smoking crack (I mean…so I’m told), and the therapy I get from spending an afternoon outside of the office and out in the field with the people doing the work in the trenches is beyond my feeble ability to describe. Usually, I am privileged to do a communication’s piece around skills needed when talking to unrepresented workers, or open shop employers, however this last time around, I did a new segment for advanced organizers on avoiding burnout.

Now, like just about everything else, I have zero academic expertise in the area of burnout. As the former head of a large contingent of construction organizers, and having been one for many years myself, I did feel as though I had some practical knowledge on the subject, but no textbook expertise. So…as I always do when I need to find out how to repair the belt on the clothes dryer, or the name of a buttery Chardonnay, or to diagnose shortness of breath and a sharp pain in my lower abdomen, I began surfing the internet.

While perusing the online material on the subject of burnout, it was tantamount to what happens to me just about every morning these days (OK…every morning). It was, for lack of a better analogy, like the horror that accompanies my first morning glance into the bathroom mirror (I have to put a dimmer on that light switch). Despite the fact that it happens every single day, I am still shocked and disappointed each and every morning…and I cannot fathom how things went so wrong so fast (actually…that’s the problem…it took a long time to get this bad). I could have a house on the water in Fort Lauderdale for all the money I’ve spent on those useless anti-wrinkle creams.

 As I read through the differences between stress and burnout, and the consequences of letting both go untreated, I recognized immediately that I was reading about me. Sadly, it was apparent that years of mounting stress and my failure to deal with it was resulting in my own burnout, and it was a difficult and sobering recognition that I had let things get way out of hand. I won’t bore you with all the details, but perhaps the best analogy I came across is this. If you feel like you’re an eight-ounce glance and someone is trying to pour a one-gallon pitcher of water into you…you’re under stress. If you feel like your glass is empty…you might be burned out. My glass is too often bone dry. If you feel like every day is a bad day, if you’re often exhausted, or if you feel like nothing you do makes a difference or is the least bit appreciated, you may be beyond stress and into burnout.

The good news is that burnout is reversible, which is why I’ve plunged headlong into increased tobacco consumption, heavy drinking, copious amounts of trash TV, reapeating myself and heavy drinking. OK…truth be told, I’m not sure that is the best medicine but I haven’t surfed yet on fixes and cures…too busy trying to self-diagnose this tightness in my chest.

I have a feeling one of the remedies is taking it easy, and because no one of us is going to turn this thing around by ourselves, there really is no reason to drive ourselves into the ground trying to do it alone. We are all reminded repeatedly of the fragility of life, and in recognition of those signposts, we owe it to ourselves and our families to just chill a bit. Who knows, if we were actually refreshed, clear-headed and well-rested enough, we may actually be sharp enough to figure out how to turn this thing around.

If you’ve ever wandered into a saloon down were Bob Wills is still the king, you’ve probably heard this snappy little tune. There are literally a hundred versions of this song, and I like this particular one because it is one of the longest. The sawing fiddle, steel guitar and piano won't be everybody's thing...but I'm hopful it puts a smile on your face nonetheless.

Have a wonderful fall weekend. The weather is supposed to be splendid, with sunny skies, colorful leaves and temps pushing the upper 60s. Go do something fun…recharge your batteries, step away from the chaos, laugh, crack a smile…and feel appreciated.

 This could be my theme song...

...and Monday is Halloween

Just off old 81 about 40 miles south of Fargo, North Dakota, there is a quintessential mid-western small town that my grandparents called home after moving off the family farm in about 1967. I’ve talked about that town of about 300 here before, and while so many other small towns across the Plains have slowly died, this particular little trade center has managed to keep going. The town is not exactly thriving…the bank, the hotel, the hardware store, the small Ford dealership, a couple of filing stations, the butcher, and the café have all shut down since I started visiting, but there is still a grocer, a town hall, one Standard gas station, a lumber yard, a fire house, a grain elevator, an elementary school, a Lutheran church and a thriving bar. Even if everyone were to leave…I have a feeling the bar would still do enough trade to stay open. Note: I have been in towns in Minnesota…where every single of the businesses have closed…except the saloon.

For many years (15 in a row) I would drive from Los Angeles back to that North Dakota town to visit my Grandfather and family each summer. I would stay in his old house, which had been the local hospital back in the late 1800s and early 1900s (my mother was born there), and we would spend days driving around the country with my Grandpa as he told stories about the old days.

My grandpa was pretty old when (in his 80s) when I started visiting him each year, and he was a devoutly religious man that attended the Evangelical Free Church in neighboring Wolverton, Minnesota. Any kind of extracurricular activity was usually off-limits, and drinking alcohol was a sin that doomed you to an eternal future that included a shovel and a whole lot of coal. Thankfully I was pretty straight-laced at that point in my life, and he used to love to introduce me to folks by telling them that I didn’t drink…and that I didn’t even like coffee.

In the evenings he would “hike of to bed” pretty early (sometimes around 7 or 7:30, at which point I’d sneak down the stairs and hop into my car and head up old 81 into Fargo. They had just passed a gaming initiative about the time I started to visit each year, and in Fargo you could walk into a bar and play blackjack...but there was a two-dollar limit on the bets. I would sit there for hours…drinking diet pop and playing blackjack. Usually around 11pm, I would leave and head back to my car and make the drive back south.

One of the things I love about the Plains is the hellacious thunderstorms that come across the prairie. Oh this night…it was shaping up to be a good one. I was driving my red 72’ Ford Pinto (whatever cool image you have in your head…I looked even cooler) with the window rolled down and you could literally feel the hair on your arms standing in anticipation of the pending electrical storm.

As I drove southward by towns like Oxbow, Hickson and then Christine, you could see bolts of lightning striking the ground. I stepped on the accelerator hoping to get to my grandpa’s house before any heavy rain…or worse…a whole bunch of hail. Thankfully, I could see the lights of town on the horizon and security of the blinking yellow caution light that swayed in the building wind above of the intersection of County Road 81 and Broadway.

Just on the left side of that intersection is the cemetery that hugs the Lutheran church on the west end of town. I used to see an old woman that lived in town walking her dog along the road there sometimes late at night, but after not seeing her for some time, I was surprised to see her outline illuminated by my headlights…particularly on this stormy June night…especially with the weather closing in fast. To make matters worse, she was walking directly through the cemetery…and I remember thinking as I made the left turn into town that it’s true what they said about Plain’s folks…they are a hearty group indeed. There is no way I’d walk through a cemetery at night…in pitch dark, with an electric storm about to break. I surmised that she too must have felt the storm approaching…and decided to take a short cut back to her house to avoid the rain.

The next morning I walked up town to have coffee with the boys (my grandpa never came…couldn’t see “giving” 35 cents for coffee when you could boil it up at home for free) at the town hall. I’ve referenced this group of mostly older farmers before, and I had become a welcome yearly regular with these guys (many of whom I was related to in some way…you may start hearing the banjo music from Deliverance in your head). They reveled in my stories of rough-an-tumble “life in the hood” stories of LA, and they also enjoyed my animated recaps of my nightly gambling excursions into Fargo. Often times, if I’d hit it big, I take my 10 bucks and cover coffee for everyone at the table…I was a popular guy.

On this morning I was telling them about my previous night’s winnings and one of them asked me if I’d driven back in the storm. I told them yes, and almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that I’d seen crazy old Mrs. Erickson out walking at midnight again…directly through the cemetery on the west-end of town. Some of them laughed a bit nervously, and I continued to go on about how odd it was that she’d be out in weather like that. I noticed my uncle looking at me kind of strange…and he leaned over and asked me if I was sure that I saw her. I told him yes…it was her…I have no doubt. I asked what the big deal was…at which point he told me that she had passed away the previous winter.

I know what you’re thinking…but it’s a true story…and the only I was drinking that night was diet Pepsi. It was her…but don’t ask…I don’t know either.

One of the trippy things about moving from Los Angeles to the east is the amount of fervor folks have here connected to Halloween. Sure, kids went trick-or-treating in the west, but there just wasn’t the fascination with the holiday that there is here. I’ve had some people here tell me it’s their favorite holiday…and it’s clear that folks really get into it.  So…have a fabulous and festive holiday weekend. It’s going to feel like the season…so make it a good one and do something really ghoulish.

This ain't the Monster Mash

...and you have a designated driver.

After dinner a couple of Friday’s ago my wife suggested we stop by the Politics and Prose book store so that she could pick up a book. She was out of books, and because she is the most voracious reader I know, this is a problem. Note…please don’t send me anything about how much you love your Kindle. This is weird to me, because I totally don’t get the whole book thing. Sure, I suspect they provided some entertainment back before indoor plumbing and Edison’s light bulb, but to me 54” HD flat screens and shows like American Chopper: Senior vs. Junior or The Housewives of New Jersey have made reading unnecessary. I suspect books may serve some purpose someday (maybe during an ice storm if you don’t have a generator), but until a transformer blows at Bravo and Kourtney, Khloe and Kim aren’t available seven nights a week…I’m just not getting the need to paint pictures with words.

So (it still trips me out how many people start sentences with “so”), I’m walking up the old staircase in the bookstore and on my left I notice a book called “Choosing Civility: 25 Rules for Considerate Conduct.” I glanced around the old store (I hadn’t been in there before), and noticed there weren’t any TVs. They had some comfy chairs, but I didn’t see a remote…let alone a flat screen…anywhere. I remember picking up the book and thinking it would be cool to skim, if only I had chosen to bring my reading glasses. I could see the title, but when I opened the book the number 10 font just looked like black lines. Then, it dawned on me there might be some reading glasses in the store (if you see me today, just call me MacGyver), and I found a small display around the corner on the counter. Unfortunately, all the glasses had flowered patterns and appeared to be for women, but I didn’t see anybody I knew (all home watching the Housewives Reunion I suspect) so I bit the bullet and began reading.  

I remember thinking it was a good thing it was a book because the subject matter had no future on cable TV. There was no instant hook like you get on Storage Wars or Man vs. Food, but I persevered nonetheless and it actually began to draw me in. For one thing, there was an early quote by Eric Hoffer noting that “Rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength.” This was immediately intriguing to me, because if I’ve noticed anything about myself over the years, it’s my undeniable de-evolution toward becoming an A-hole. There was a line about the “coarsing of America” (I used it last week), and it hit me like a lightning bolt because I often lament the coarsing of me. I used to be fairly considerate…or at least try to be, but over time…especially of late, I have simply become less considerate and more rude. Hell, there was a time when I NEVER even used profanity or even words like A-hole, and now, I think nothing of starting a sentence with the word hell (or much worse), and putting it on the internet for all to see.

A little bit later in the same chapter, the author was talking up the virtue of restraint. They contended that restraint is our inner designated driver, and it’s often what separates immediate gratification from later happiness. It encouraged the reader to do ask three questions before taking an action.

Do I really want to do this?

Will anyone be hurt by this?

Will I like having done this later?

I’d love to tell you I applied this criteria to everything I did this week, but that would be a lie. I did however try it quite a bit, and those three questions alone probably prevented me from sending about five fully composed (and rather acidic) emails. I also noticed I was a lot quieter, and I suspect the folks I work with appreciated that too. Now, after applying a little restraint, I have to admit I’m happier in the long run than I would have been with the instant gratification provided by zinging folks with a stinging electronic messages or a well-chosen caustic comment.  

Anyway, all this is yet another reason why there’s no point in reading with shows like Modern Family. Everything is so much less complicated when you simply watch TV. If everybody was reading books, especially about civility, they couldn’t even find people to be on shows like Housewives.

Have a wonderful weekend, and if you’re even slightly tempted to do anything inconsiderate, listen for your inner designated driver. Hopefully, many of those you encounter will reciprocate with the same consideration.

Start the day with a song...

...and on Tuesday, I had a magical evening.

On Tuesday night about 8pm, I walked into the Prime Rib restaurant with a couple of old friends from a former life. Every table in the old-school eatery was occupied, as was most of the bar, and as I looked about the room and took in the sport coats, ties and dresses, it literally was like stepping back in time. As you walked in, you could hear the conversation, laughter and cocktail glasses tinkling…and there was a fellow in a black tux (with white hair) sitting at the piano tickling the ivories with all of my favorite old tunes. At a point in my life where I literally feel like an island, where much of what  I truly love seems to be dying, this instantaneous step back to another era immediately transported me to a better place. If you’ve ever read one or two of these stories, you know this old-soul was genuinely in heaven.

One of the friends I was with knows the owner pretty well (I think his name is Russ…the owner…not my friend), and he came over to greet us at the bar. The guy was classic…sporting a handsome tanned complexion, white hair neatly combed back and a tailored blue sports coat, red tie and matching red handkerchief neatly tucked (in a fold I could never duplicate) into his coat pocket. He looked like something off of a 40s movie screen, and he oozed of sophistication and class (kind of like a male Barbara Shailor for those of you that know her) in a way that no amount of money, wardrobe upgrades, Emily Post training or Beverly Hills makeovers could ever do for me.

The piano player took a break, and when he did my friend walked over the owner (now seated opposite us at the bar) and asked him if I could sit in a play. He walked over and said “you’re on…but don’t play too loud.” One of the good things about hanging out with these guys is that after three drinks, my judgment is impaired enough that I’m up for just about anything. Without hesitation, I walked over to the piano, sat down, and discretely started playing “As time goes by.” I blended that into “I’m in the mood for love” which morphed into “Smoke gets in your eyes.” As I looked around the restaurant, it dawned on me that nobody really noticed the switch. You could still hear the conversation, the tinkling glasses, the laughter and the tapping of silverware on the plates. As I finished up with “Autumn Leaves,” I was struck by the fact that for me, it really was a magical moment.

When I walked back to the bar, the real piano player sat down and essentially replayed my entire repertoire...but he played it the right way, like a pro. As I glanced back at him and smiled, we exchanged the classic “leave it to the experts” glance. It was actually nice to hear the songs performed by a master, and I bowed down signaling his superiority. When he finished he came over and explained how I missed several of the chords…so I beat the crap out of the old man.

Actually, I didn’t…(for all I know he could have dropped me)…and he was a charming guy who was just trying to help. He started talking about minor chords (I didn’t know there we minor chords) and immediately started talking way over my head. I thanked him for the opportunity to play…and he graciously encouraged me to practice more.

When I was a kid I used to hate practicing the piano. I would be able to hear the kids playing football out in the street, but my old man would make me sit and practice 30 minutes every, single night. I wouldn’t complain much, but whenever I did, he would often respond by saying “someday you’ll thank me.” As I sat at the piano Tuesday night at the Prime Rib and played to a full room…I was thanking my dad. The son of a gun was right again.

So…what’s the point of all this? I have no idea. Maybe it’s just a story for a Friday morning, or perhaps if you have a child or grandchild contemplating taking up the piano (or any instrument), you can encourage them to play. That way, if the coarsing of America ever reverses and civility ever becomes vogue again, there might still be a restaurant with white table linens, tuxedoed waiters and a grand piano where they can one day sit down and play.

Have a truly fabulous weekend. Try to do something fun.

BTW...this is one of my all-time favorite songs. It's not the best version, but it's a good one nonetheless and I promise to send along the best one at some point before too long. Also...once again, I hadnno time to check typos so I apologize for all the mistakes.

One of my favorites...

...and I'm thinking again about things my father taught me

There was an incident this week that reminded me of what of the few times I ever saw my father cry. The vivid memory is a striking one for me, because the emotional incident was one of only three or four episodes that I can ever recall him being moved to tears.

You may recall my dad has been described here before as a politically conservative devoted husband and father, who lived through the Depression (born in 1917) before serving proudly in WWII and Korea. He was also a 50-year IBEW construction electrician that I had seen cut off body parts without as much as wincing. True…it was only a tip of a finger, but you might remember the story about him sitting calmly drinking a beer before he drove himself to the hospital (he had put the fingertip in his lunchbox knowing he’d try to have it reattached…but only after the whistle blew). He was simply the quintessential tough guy that almost never cried…and as far as I could tell, there was no part of it that was even close to an act. I suspect after all he witnessed and lived through…there just wasn’t a whole lot that hurt so bad that it would cause him to cry. As his spoiled son who still often curls in the fetal position when the ATM malfunctions, his reluctance to cry was always a trip to me. Looking back, the few times he was ever moved to tears, it had nothing to do with any kind of physical pain, but everything to do with his disappointment in me.

The first time I remember happened when I was about 13 or so. I had been to the grocery store with my mom, and while there the manager asked me if I wanted a job bagging groceries (I was big for my age and looked much older). I don’t recall what the scale was going to be, but whatever it was (seems like it was around two or three dollars an hour), it was huge for the time. I didn’t really understand it, but the store was having some sort of problem, and they needed willing folks to come in and help with duties until the issue was resolved.

That afternoon my father returned home from work, we had our usual two-second interaction but he must have immediately picked up on the fact that I was quite animated. I remember hearing him ask my mother what I was so excited about, and she told him I’d been offered a job making good money up at the local market. I remember my father calmly walking into my room as I dressed to head up to the store. Things seemed pretty normal at first, but they disintegrated pretty quickly.

He then explained to me that everything we owned, every bed we had in the house, every thread of clothing, was paid for by collectively bargained wages. Though he epitomized rugged individualism, he explained with passion his fervent belief that despite his master electrician’s skills, he would NEVER be able to provide the kind of life I callously enjoyed every day had it not been for the enhanced wages and benefits made possible through collective strength. I’m not sure why, but I suspect he was disgusted with my lack of response, and as he tried to explain why I wouldn’t be taking the job, I remember his lip starting to quiver. It was unreal.

I made the mistake of thinking I still had a choice in the matter, and unmoved by his reasoning, I informed him I still intended to take the job. He was firmly planted in the “spare the rod, spoil the child” camp, so I won’t tell you what happened next. Let’s just say the few times he had to go that route, he did it with enthusiasm. Needless to say…I didn’t go to the store, and shortly after he won me to his way of thinking, he further explained the destructive consequence of what I was about to do, and how even considering doing such a thing, violated everything he and “our family” ever stood for.

Not sure why all this matters now, but with folks seemingly appreciating the value of standing together, it just seemed apropos.

Hope you’re all on the threshold of a great three-day weekend (Hmmm…weekend…now that I think about it…that might be another thing that grew out of collective action). If you can, start it off with a genuinely great song. If you don’t like this morning’s tune, you may have an obligation to resign yourself from the song club.

BTW...not even a second  proofread today...so I know the errors are horrendous. I do apologize.

Always be a good boy...

...and I'm really getting old.

Unless you’re walking around a pre-school or elementary school campus, there’s something about being the oldest person in the room that just doesn’t feel good. Sure, there are those that lie to themselves about some added levels of peace and perspective that come with the additional years, but as  I wandered aimlessly around last night during a reception of approximately 800 people almost all at least 10 years my junior, it was hard not to feel as though the game has passed me by. I was also reminded why I find myself slowing down to browse in the aisle at Safeway where they stock the adult diapers, and why I now take special notice of the Sunrise Assisted Living facility each time I drive by it on Connecticut Ave. I like the white rocker on the north side of the porch patio…someday…that one is mine. There is just something about realizing there is a lot less road ahead of you than there is in the rearview mirror. Often, if you add up the actually miles…it’s downright scary.

Despite these feelings of getting old, there was also something very cool about walking around during the party. As you listened to the chatter, saw the smiles, felt the enthusiasm, and took stock of all the young talent, you couldn’t help but think that things just might be OK. When you look at all the obstacles facing progressives, the one thing you have to feel good about is the deep bench of talent literally yearning to grab the reins. That sense seemed particularly apropos to me while attending this conference, as I handed some of my most cherished conference duties off to a far-younger team, and the work they’ve done clearly surpasses any of my earlier efforts.

So, I had mixed emotions when I hiked off to bed during the reception last night about the same time many of the young bucks were just beginning their evenings. Though I felt a little blue when I popped my Geritol, turned on Lawrence Welk and climbed into bed at 9:47, I also had this incredibly positive sense that there are some awfully good young leaders waiting in the wings.

I still felt a little melancholy when I rolled out of bed this morning and stumbled down to the hotel gym at 4:45 am. When I swiped my keycard and walked into the room, not one of those young twenty-something whippersnappers was up and working out. Suddenly, I felt a little better…and when I hopped on the treadmill…this song started to play. When it did…I smiled.

Have a wonderful weekend and if you get an opportunity, hand off some responsibility to a younger worker just dying to get a chance.

BTW...didn't get a chance to proof this...so sorry about all the errors.

Waiting...

…and if you see me today, ask me what time it is.

In his 1936 book “How to Win Friends and Influence People,” author Dale Carnegie contended that the greatest human hunger is to be appreciated.  I think he may have also implied that anyone that sincerely learns to satisfy that universal craving will probably have a fairly successful go of it in life.

Sadly, though that nugget was passed onto to me early in life by a man who never finished high-school, I’ve never been able to duplicate, nor even come close to, his ability to make folks feel like they matter. I know my failure to match my father’s skill at doing this has frustrated me, but it’s also made me acutely aware of the people that learned the lesson well…especially those that pull it off with grace and absent any fanfare. This past week, I was on the receiving end of a gesture by someone that has truly mastered making folks feel appreciated.

This week, the IBEW held its convention in Vancouver. It’s the first one I haven’t attended in some time, and though it was tough not to be there, I was up-to-my-eyeballs in work so I didn’t have much time to dwell on it.  Thankfully, a couple of my good friends were able to go, and when one of them returned to the office this past Wednesday, she handed me a box that looked like it probably contained one of those typical little convention mementos.  Then, she told me who it was from.

I opened the box to find a beautiful gold watch, which contained the Vancouver convention insignia on the face. I looked at the back of the watch to see what number it was (they only make so many), and on the back were the engraved words “My Friend.” When I saw those words, I instantly knew my friend had once again satisfied that greatest human hunger.

Over the course of my Walter Mitty life, I have been blessed to meet and get to know a few people that truly mastered the ability to make people feel appreciated…especially when there was absolutely zero motive behind doing so. The person that sent me that watch is the best I’ve even scene at making folks feel appreciated…and it’s easy to see why his life has gone so very well. No matter how hard I try, I know for sure I will never be that good...however, even if it kills me…I swear I’m going to get at least a little better at it.

Today’s song has nothing to do with this story, but I heard it while watching some cerebral show like CNBC’s Squawk Box  (if you think you heard it on Glee earlier this week…trust me…it’s just coincidence) yesterday and it instantly made me smile. It wasn’t so much the music as it was the image I think about instantly every time I hear it. If you start your Friday by listening, you might find yourself smiling…even if you don’t like the song (I don’t particularly like it). If you watch the Youtube video, I have to think you’ll enjoy at least a chuckle.

Have a wonderful Friday and an even better weekend. Whatever you do, I hope you there's more that a moment or two the next few days where someone makes you feel truly appreciated.  

The Song

The Video

...and I should have stayed in bed

Normally I wake up a few minutes before the alarm so the fact that it went off this morning at 3:55 should have been my first clue it would be a good day to stay in bed. I stumbled down the stairs as always, let the cat out, and then when I looked into the mirror, I knew sleeping in would have been a much better option. After brushing my teeth I went into the basement to knock out a couple of sets of bench-press, but my back was sore from having to change a tire on my wife’s car last night. Actually, it was my car, which she’s using because her car is not running. That means I have to schlep to work by foot (I cheat and take the metro part of the way), but that’s probably another reason my back hurts.

I sat down at the computer between sets to hammer out the song of the day story, but there just wasn’t anything there (there’s stuff in the gym…there just wasn’t anything in my mind). I laid back down to do another set, but I didn’t push up the bar because that hurt too. I started thinking about my sore back and what a pain it was to be without wheels. That got me to thinking about some of my old cars.

For most of my life, especially all the years I wore a tool-belt in the trade, I drove a good, old-fashioned standard pickup truck.  I had a couple of them, but my favorite was a blue 1974 full-sized Ford with a standard transmission that I purchased from my cousin’s Ford store in Fergus Falls, Minnesota. When I think back about all the therapeutic drives I had in that rig on gravel roads around North Dakota, I can’t help but think about how nice it would be to do that now. Somehow, crammed into the Red Line with my face slammed against the glass next to some cat that is having the same problem with his indoor plumbling that I am with my cars,  just doesn’t provide the same level of therapy.

Anyway, this is starting to shape up as a great example of the contrast between having something to say and feeling the need to say something. As I noted earlier, there just isn’t much there today…must be my sore back.

Hope you have a terrific weekend. It’s shaping up to be a Fall beauty here in the east, so hopefully you’ve planned something fun. If you feel the tug to work too much…fight it. It may not feel like it now, but whatever you think is so important that it should keep you from what really matters in life, will seem much less significant when the final curtain falls.

If you start today with some music, you'll have a better day.

Take a drive...

Know when to fold 'em

Several years ago when the whole Friday morning email/song thing started, the weekly practice was little more than an informal attempt to do something nice at the end of the week...and partly in hopes of encouraging hardworking coworkers to go out and truly enjoy a well-deserved weekend. After a long and fairly popular ride in its largely unchanged original format, the weekly practice morphed into something more formal, where at least the attempt was made to make the stories more than the impromptu blathering contained in the less structured initial design. I suspect that happened for several reasons, including both the urging of well-intended colleagues that thought the weekly missives deserved a wider audience, and my own gargantuan ego that somehow believed there would indeed be broader interest.

I’m trying not to beat myself up too much about that expectation…I suspect most of us want to believe what we think matters to others, and that people will be interested in what we have to say or write...but that’s probably only true you if you have interesting thoughts, tell good stories, or if you particularly write well. I wanted to believe folks would eat up musings about quirky people on airplanes, seeds-of-faith infomercials, personal college football failures, the human hunger for appreciation, altar boy experiences (that just sounds bad), the death of style, my father’s wisdom, self-reflection, the value of a smile, growing older, listening, two-lane roads covered with Buffalo, the greatest generation, road trips, motorcycle rides, chivalry, noteworthy retirements, enduring romance, South Dakota, holidays in mid America, the fragility of life, balconies in Tuscany, North Dakota, formica kitchen tables…and the people, pets and things that should matter most in our lives.

I guess I thought the popularity of the narratives would grow, and that fascinated readers would share the missives with their friends and relatives, who would then pass them along to their various contacts…and so it would go. Soon, I reasoned readership would go global, and folks in other countries would start following, followed not long after by my inevitable appearance on Oprah. Actually, the stats function of the formal blog shows there are readers in France, Germany, Austria and Switzerland. That sounds encouraging, but deep down inside I know I’m the one that accessed the site from those locales…so aside from some Canadian and UK followers (who I’m guessing stumbled on the site thinking it was connected to the god-awful internet song “It’s Friday)…the thing just hasn’t caught on oversees…or anywhere else for that matter.  

Unfortunately, the blog stats feature also shows actual page views, and since the switch to the online format the trend line is heading down at a steeper angle than my 3-year GPA at Alexander Hamilton High School. On top of all of this, I have received a ton (maybe four people) of feedback from folks that don’t like having to hunt for the stories online or the antiseptic environment of the blog. Perhaps more importantly, they note they also miss the more folksy appearance of the “It’s Friday” message in their personal inboxes. I guess it was kind of a modern-day version of the flag up on the mailbox.

So, given the unlikelihood that I’m going to become a better writer (think comas and the whole desert vs. dessert thing…still not clear on that one), and knowing that my life and related stories are probably not going to get any more interesting, it seems quite clear that it’s about time to look in the mirror and scrap the formal blog approach. 

Not sure how I’m going to remedy all this. I’m tempted to revert to emails but I don’t want to presume anyone really wants the weekly messages. Actually…judging by the blog stats, there isn’t really much to wonder about. Maybe I should just enroll in a writing class at UDC or at least figure out how to disable the stats feature on the blog account.

What’s the point of all this? Well the six of you still reading know there is no point. I suspect there could be some connection to lessons about not tinkering with something that isn’t broken, but I’m not really sure. In the meantime, let’s get back to having a great weekend, spending time with the people we love, relaxing, and starting the day off with some good music.

I actually heard this song while watching Imus earlier this week and I had to get up off the couch at 6 a.m. and dance. Now, if I could just get that video on the blog…that would go viral.

Have a wonderful, relaxing, family-filled weekend. Do something fun…you certainly deserve it.

http://grooveshark.com/#/s/I+m+Goin+Down/2rRunH?src=5

Stand Aside

Not sure why, but all this talk of the recent earthquake got me to thinking about the big shakers I experienced during the 43 years I lived in Los Angeles. These quakes were different than the recent one we had here in DC...these were the kind where the ground actually shook violently and stuff fell down…including some actual buildings (to be honest, I wasn’t even here during the recent DC tremor, but I thought a little California quake-snobbishness might be a good engaging hook at the outset of this story). The last really big one I remember was the Northridge quake in 1994, and ironically, I was running a big new electrical construction project on the campus of Cal-State Northridge. 

The events of that day the quake hit and the devastation that occurred are another story for a different time, but what is interesting to me is that as dramatic as that episode was; navigating on that morning around crumbled overpasses, sunken streets, downed power lines, demolished buildings, and finally arriving at the collapsed parking structure where I’d parked every day for over a year, all that was not the most memorable part of working on that campus.  While the images of that destruction are vivid, the thing I think most about that project is the influence is had on my own professional career.  

Back when I was a young crackerjack electrical foreman, I was the gold-standard for micro managers. I would lay-out all the associated tasks with color-coated instructions (literally) that were almost idiot proof. I was the test, and the rule was if I could figure out my instructions, anyone should be able to do it. Boxes were color coated for conduit systems (power was blue, fire-life safety red, lighting was orange etc…) and the so were the diagrams carefully spray-painted on the floor for the journeymen to follow. I was real proud of the system, until one day when someone actually had the the nerve to challenge the perfect model.

He really wasn’t that much older than me, but he’d been around the trade for awhile and he was a seasoned journeyman electrician named Tom. One day while I was instructing him on his next project, I noticed he was smiling. When I sternly asked him why, he hesitatingly pointed out to me that I might want to try standing back and letting the talented folks around me do what they were trained to do. To me, that sounded like idiocy… and I remember asking him if he really thought he could read the blueprints and actually put in the installation without my guidance. He asked me to let him try, and even implied I might like the outcome if I gave it a shot. It was laughable really, and I remember looking forward to the “I told you so” moment when I returned to see he’d screwed it up royally without my guidance.

I watched him from a distance for a while, and wallowed with satisfaction as he studied the prints and removed his hardhat to scratch his head. I figured I’d give it a couple of hours, and when I returned at the end of the day, my instincts were immediately validated. Predictably, Tom had installed the conduit runs completely different than my well-thought-out layout. Then, as Tom feebly tried to explain his rationale for his bonehead approach, I started to realize that his ideas and ultimately his entire installation, was superior to what I initially wanted done.  

It wasn’t easy letting out the reins at first, but once the talented well-trained crew on that IBEW job was really unbridled, even better things started to happen. It wasn’t long before that became the model on every job, and soon I was benefiting from the skills and expertise of those around me. Eventually, I learned my best strategy was often to just get out of the way (too often the crew would reminded me of that), and over time, I benefitted more and more for the good work done by others.

Though I still stick my nose into things way too much, the hands-off approach has for the most part been a good model. To put it simply, I have had a blessed life…often getting credit, or at least far too much recognition for the work done by people theoretically working for me (at least on the org chart). Usually, they are accomplishing it by their own initiative with little or no direction. Then, by virtue of their efforts, I often end up with a preponderance of the credit they deserve. To the degree I’ve amounted to anyting, being pushed up by others, and ton of luck (and having a great boss) has been the quintessential blueprint. At no time in my life has that been as true as it is right now.

I miss the days I worked in the field and the lessons I learned while doing so, but I can’t complain  too much.  Now days I have a pretty cool office and to be completely candid, sometimes I look out the window at the stunning view and wonder how it all happened (people that know me well are even more perplexed…actually perplexed doesn’t cover it). In the corner of my office is a hard hat from my home local union. It’s the one I wore when Tom told me to stand aside and let the talented folks around me do what they knew how to do. I won’t lie and try to tell you I think about it every day, but when I do, it reminds me of one ultimate truth. Every good thing I’ve ever enjoyed professionally (and much of the happiness I’m blessed with personally), is due to the work of others.

Have a terrific Labor Day weekend and try to spend a minute or two thinking about the good work people do and how it has affected your life.

When I think about the look on Tom's face when he gave me that sage advice...I wouldn't be too surprised if he was thinking about this song.

Happy Labor Day

Now Boarding...

The past couple of weeks I’ve had the good fortune to do an inordinate amount of traveling (at least for me), and while flying to various destinations on largely leisure travel, I witnessed several things that literally drove me nuts. I know that many of those living in the modern era are convinced that they are the only people inhabiting the planet, but the deterioration of the airline travel experience really seems to be spiraling out of control.  
 

Now, let’s just establish at the outset that this diatribe is probably going to upset a few people.  To be honest, it wouldn’t be completely surprising if half of the approximately six people that regularly follow this weekly offering stop doing so after today. However, even after considering the potential downside, I’ve decided to plow ahead nonetheless. I can’t really afford to lose any friends here, but somehow, I’m naively hoping that two of the six will feel the same way and that maybe we’ll start a trend.

OK…here’s the deal. Quite a few people (most of the six) have pointed out to me that a good deal of the subject matter contained here each week deals with nostalgia. As one reader recently noted…much of the Friday Song blog seems to be about a fixation for “days gone by.” 

To be honest, that actually stung a bit because though I suspect I’m the quintessential old soul, I don’t like to think of myself as obsessed with the past. When I note the myriad of technological improvements just in my lifetime alone, I am often almost overwhelmed at the good things that have evolved over the course my mere forty-nine years (don’t laugh…it’s been a rough life).  

Actually, I can still remember a time before cell phones, when an actual human being was enough to hold someone’s attention.  But as much as I might romanticize the way I liked things before, I am under no illusion that we’ll ever retrieve much of that simplicity nor do I deny the obvious fact that we’re largely better off off due to much of the progress. There are however a couple of areas when I’m convinced we’re de-evolving, and though I suspect  we’ll never reverse the trend, I’m still clinging to the far-fetched hope that somehow, someway, some things are going to come back.

Now, though I’m only 49 (remember what I said about laughing), I can still remember a time flying commercial airlines when the planes only had props and when people actually dressed up…I mean really dressed up, when they traveled by air. The fact that planes now have jet engines is a vivid example of the way things have improved over time. The fact that many of the people that now fly in them dress and behave as though they were raised in a freaking barn, is an equally clear example of how we’ve regressed (I can also remember a time when you would never see or hear a word like “freaking” and what it implied).

When I was a young boy, I can remember flying on TWA planes with legions of flight attendants wearing outfits that looked like something out of the Royal Navy. Male passengers were often in suits or at least slacks, and women were usually dressed as nice or better. Somehow though, in the course of just a few decades, we have advanced technologically while undergoing an equally proportionate deterioration in the area of civility…and in no area is it more evident than commercial air travel.  

Fortunately, I fly often enough on the same airline that I’m upgraded to first class about two-thirds of the time (I never buy the first class ticket). Unfortunately, even the curtain and those bigger seats provide little insulation from the depravity that seems to have largely overtaking the industry. Regardless of where I’m seated, there is an increasing chance I’ll be placed next to some cat in cutoffs and flip-flops (it’s especially nice when they then cross their leg and rest there dirty foot on their knee about 24 inches from my face). Sometimes, that fresh-from-drunk-tank look is exceeded by somebody in what I swear has to be a pair of pajamas (at least the bottoms). Increasingly, they’ll augment that stellar fresh-off-the-mattress-without-brushing look by towing along a stained, lice-laden pillow from home.

Now, I know we’ll never get back to a time where folks dress up to fly. Guys in white uniforms are never going to come jogging out from the Texaco station again to wash my windows and people will probably never get back to visiting with one another for more than 5 minutes without looking at their smartphones. Though some things are clearly gone for good, maybe people will stop boarding planes looking as they do in bed or after a workout at the gym. Perhaps, some element of consideration will seep back into travel. Sure, I know generations of folks obsessed with only their own comfort will find it astonishing to recognize they have a duty of consideration to those around them, but maybe, just maybe, some young hip, throw-back star will come along and stop dressing like a meat locker… and instead inspire folks to emulate something with bit more classic style.

When I was a kid, I remember my father popping me in the head as we walked down a Ramada motel hallway very early one morning while on one of our classic summer car trips (had to cross the desert early to ensure the radiator didn’t overheat…another example of real progress). I wasn’t initially sure what I’d done wrong, but my dad quickly pointed out there were paying customers trying to sleep just on the other side of the hallway door and that even my “inside” voice wasn’t appropriate for that early hour. He told me we had a duty to leave quietly and consider the comfort of others by not subjecting them to our pre-dawn conversation. When I asked why, he told me that is how we would expect to be treated if we were trying to sleep.

Some will have trouble connecting today’s song to the drivel above, but then again, that is nothing new. There is something about this tune however that just smacks of class, and I always connect it to the original Hollywood gem Sabrina. I have no way of knowing this, but I want to believe not one of the stars of this film ever boarded a plane looking like they’d just rolled out of bed.

Have a great weekend…and if you live on the east coast, stay dry.

Audrey, Bill and Bogie...