...and if you don't have anything nice to say...think of something...even if it's a strain

Saturday was an epic summer day in the nation’s capital, with sunny skies, temperatures in the low to mid 80s and unseasonably low humidity. The perfect weather was among the ingredients that were contributing to what was shaping up to be a rare relaxing day. After a challenging early morning 6-mile run, a therapeutic Harley ride to breakfast and some time working out a week’s worth of frustrations on the garage speed bag, I was enjoying a nice cigar and some vitamin D in the privacy of my urban backyard before wrapping up the day with a planned summer BBQ and liver destroying amounts of fermented grapes. As I sat there in my redneck plastic Adirondack chair blowing artistic smoke rings into the bright blue sky and listening to a wonderful blend of  barely audible WPFW jazz and the tranquil flow of the water fountain mounted on the garage wall below the wisteria vines, I closed my eyes and felt my blood pressure slowly start to drop.  

About five minutes into my rejuvenating solitude, I heard a women’s voice from behind the fence by the gate in the alley say “hello there…can we come in?” I silently cussed (the word began with an f as I recall) and responded somewhat startled by saying “can you come in?”  “Yeah” she replied… “we’re your neighbors.” Somewhat groggy from cigar smoke and the heat of the unfiltered summer sun, I rose from the comfort of my chair and reluctantly opened the back gate. As too often happens these days, it wasn’t long into the exchange before I was once again reminded why I’ve always longed to live in the country.

As the crow flies, turns out this couple lives about the furthest away of our 8 or 9 most immediate neighbors. In this neighborhood cluster of brick Wardman-style duplex homes built in the 1920s…that’s still not that far away (probably about 70 yards door-to-door). After some initial and very brief back-n-forth (mostly initiated by me), one of them said something pretty close to the following...

“Well…this is a little odd, but do you know how loud your air conditioner is?”

Well, so much for lowered diastolic and systolic (not sure that’s right but doing that from memory) levels. Aside from being reminded yet again why I drink, a number of deserving profane responses instantly came to mind. First and foremost, I was trying to process how after living in the neighborhood for close to 7 years, these seemingly thoughtful citizens (who admitted they’ve been here 16), consciously reasoned it would be a good idea to make the subject of their inaugural conversation a complaint about my air conditioner (I sit on my front porch all the time and don’t even hear my air conditioner…and none of those that live closer have complained…at least not to me). Thankfully, I didn’t share any of the first ten things that were on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I tried to think about things from their point of view. After apologizing, I asked a couple of clarifying questions like “are you sure it’s mine?” and “do you know if any of those neighbors that live closer have complained?” They went on to explain it’s been bothering them for a couple of summers and that they “live on their porch” in the summer and it gets quite noisy.

It’s not easy to talk while you’re biting your tongue, but I apologized again (scores 2-0 on apologies at this point by the way) and explained that after living immediately next to a group home of inconsiderate sub-human college aged boys (thank god they’re gone now…not dead like I wished…they just moved),  my wife and I were acutely sensitive to our neighborly duty to provide a hospitable environment. I apologized for their discomfort (3-0) and pledged to do what I could to remedy their problem.

Toward that end, I spent about four hours the next day (in now sweltering heat) doing what I could to evaluate and remedy the problem. Amazingly, though I’m usually reminded why as an electrician I shouldn’t venture outside my area of trade jurisdiction (I did fall over backwards with a pair of garden sheers…and it took me about five minutes to get up), I was able to stabilize and level the unit, install an insulating compressor sound blanket  (they actually make such a thing), lubricate the fan impeller and motor, and clean the condensing coils for what appeared to result in a somewhat quieter operation. When done, I walked across and down the street and stood in front of their screened in porch. While standing there for about five minutes…I couldn’t even hear the air conditioner running…at least above the mid-day Saturday afternoon hum of the city.

Though the problem was seemingly remedied, the exchange Saturday really did get me to thinking about all the times I’ve began with a conversation with a negative comment or some “constructive” criticism. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of my exchanges could have gone better if I was just better at not beginning with the negative. It also made me think about people I know that routinely behave like me...and I see it all around. Some folks can sit through an otherwise wonderful presentation but feel the need to walk up to the speaker afterward offering nothing more than “uncommon has only one m on slide 22” or “you gave too much praise to Alicia but not near enough to Hank in HR.” If you’re lucky…they may throw in almost as an afterthought… “oh yeah…good presentation too.”

My father had a high school education, served in WWII (and Korea) and went on to work as an IBEW union electrician (and union contractor) for over 40 years.  Like many of his peers from that generation, he didn’t have an elite college education or an advance degree, and he was a no nonsense tough customer who by his own admission, had more than his fair share of personal flaws. One of the things he innately seemed to possess though was the basic understanding of people.  In his work where he often had to manage large groups of electricians, he seemed intensely aware of the need to bookend any criticisms with a fair amount of positive input. If he had to correct somebody on something, he almost always started with some genuine praise. After gently offering whatever constructive idea he felt warranted,  he would always close with something positive. I saw him deploy that routinely on the job, but he also tried to use that strategy as a husband, father, and generally with everyday people .

Despite his good example, I’ve failed miserably at consistently emulating the practice of beginning with something positive. On good days, I’ll check my initial constructive thought to point out what can be improved and look for something positive to say first. Too often…the best I can do is to delay any comment, often deciding later that no response is the best course of action. Actually, to be honest, the only reason I’m even still employed is that my Outlook “drafts” folder is full of passionate and well-deserving messages that were never sent.

At the end of the day my neighbor’s concerns were  actually legitimate. When I vented to my wife about it…she immediately responded that she noticed “it did seem loud." Sh*t!  If I’m honest my neighbors ask probably wasn’t any worse than my average complaint to the animals that used to rent next door. I'd just wish they'd done better Saturday than I usually do.

Have a wonderful weekend. 

and why did I look for a job in the town...

...and even better...it's summer too

About 10 years ago I started sending out a short message each Friday morning to coworkers reminding them it was Friday (as if they needed a reminder). The email was always accompanied by a song, that was not necessarily tied to the message or short story. There really wasn’t much to it, just whatever happened to pop into my head at 4am on a Friday morning as a hammered away on the laptop between bench-press sets in the basement gym.

In consideration of folk’s already crowded inboxes, I switched about two years ago from sending out a large group email and went to an online blog format where people can elect whether or not to receive the weekly drivel.  Not surprisingly, not a whole lot have opted in. Oddly, there is a growing number of readers in countries like Latvia, Russia, Ireland and Germany…though I’m not really sure why.

Other than switching the delivery format…not much has changed (except for the diminishing weight on the barbells) and it’s really pretty much the same writing process. I get up, stumble down the stairs, do a set of push-ups to warm up and then start typing whatever is on my mind (often confirming there’s not much). Usually I’m in a hurry…and I rarely have time to proofread. There is one thing however that has seemed to change though…and that is the overall tone of the messages.

Initially, every email was pretty much a feel-good “it’s Friday” message or story about the need to stop and smell the roses that included a hopefully uplifting song (usually some old-school crooner love song or nice operatic number). Over time, it seems to me that too many of the stories have become more rants…probably in a lame attempt to be more entertaining or to provide humor at some else’s expense.  Someone mentioned to me awhile back that the blog had a “the world’s going to hell in a hand-basket” theme.  That actually stung a bit, because it I often think the world would already be in hell were it not for an extreme shortage of hand baskets.

Anyhow…this is a good example of why this is hard to do this every week…sometimes you just don’t have much meaningful to say. It’s been tempting sometimes to fold the tent (I almost never skip a Friday but sometimes the auto email doesn’t go out until Saturday), but there’s always at least one or two people that mention they’d miss it. Ironically, nobody has even said they’d hate to lose the message…they really pretty much all same the same thing. “Where’s my Friday song?” Once-in-awhile, folks say they just like receiving a little reminder that it’s Friday.

Well…here is the reminder and a song. If you can’t close your eyes and enjoy the swaying palm trees and rolling waves on this first day of summer, well, you should probably unsubscribe. Have a fabulous first day of summer, and make it especially good because it fell on a Friday.  Enjoy the weekend, and if you can, spend a few minutes on the porch in a rocking chair with a glass of lemonade. If you’re lucky, you might even hear the sound of children laughing in the distance and the crack of a slamming screen door. It’s Friday…and it’s summer too J  

 

Gabby...

Just hit play all for more

...and the little things...are really the big things

Earlier this week I was sitting in my office dealing with yet another human resource related issue, when it dawned on me that the preponderance of my time is often spent on things that really don’t seem all that big. As it is in most organizations, it’s not on the really formidable challenges or endless opportunities that consume the majority of my time now…it’s really the seemingly little things. And when I think about it…it’s pretty much been that way just about everywhere I’ve ever worked.

About 15 years ago, I was a foreman for one of the country’s most successful electrical contractors on one of the largest construction projects in Los Angeles.  It was a high-profile studio project, and as the job ramped up and the number of electrician’s increased, the company and the union, in the cooperative  labor/management spirit  indicative of the organized construction industry, jointly asked me to be the labor liaison (or union steward). In equally typical fashion, the job was finished ahead of schedule and under budget…and committed to doing my part, I spent the lion’s share of my days installing conduit and pulling wire. However on the rare occasion that I did have to don the steward’s hat, it wasn’t complicated or challenging electrical systems that commanded the majority of that time, it was usually dealing with the basic wants, desires and feelings of regular human beings.

I remember standing one day in the afternoon sun chatting with the company’s superintendent on the south side of the sprawling jobsite which was bordered by the very un-picturesque concrete-coated Los Angeles River. We were both roughly the same age (mid 30s), though even at that young age he was a supervision rock-star in the electrical industry who I consider a mentor and still attempt to emulate today. We were talking about some mundane personnel  matter, and I remember then being amazed at how much time he and I spent dealing with these types of issues. This cat oversaw some large projects in his young career, and I remember asking him how much of his high-level supervision time was devoted to the installation of complicated electrical installations. “Oh…about 5%” he replied… “most of the time I’m more of a human resource guy or even a counselor and my biggest responsibility is to keep our people happy…and to make sure they have the tools and material they need to do the job. If I do that…they figure out how to deal with the really big stuff.”

Many years later, things are really not that different.  As I stand looking out the window of my office on any given day lamenting  the confluence of external forces committed to destroying the middle class values of fairness and equity that built this country, the reality is I don’t spend a lot of time addressing those big topics. Much of my days are taken up with dealing with people…discouraged because they were dissed by a colleague, left off an email, are being micro-managed, feel frustrated by constant headwind,  are overdue for a laptop upgrade, often excluded from an important conversation or flat out are feeling unappreciated.

 

This is hardly restricted to my organization, as even when I eavesdrop on high-level conversations at the local District watering holes, much of the conversation isn’t about big problems, but goes more like “what do I have to do to get copied on an email” or  “you’re not going to believe what so-and-so just did” or “do you believe that a-h*le took credit for my project and didn’t even say thank you?”

All this makes me think of some real irony. As others much smarter than me have noted, it’s really the focus on the little things that allows people to deal with the big things. If we take the time to consider other people’s points of view, their needs, their interests, and their yearning to be appreciated, then they like me, are in much better condition to take on the challenging work that must to be addressed if good is going to prevail.

“Be master of your petty annoyances and conserve your energies for the big, worthwhile things. It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out - it's the grain of sand in your shoe.”

- Robert Service

If it weren’t for my family, friends, red wine, books, pushups, red wine, trash TV, cigars, jumping rope, my speed bag, bourbon, crystal-meth (just kidding) copious amounts of red wine (not kidding) and an occasional cigarette, I wouldn’t be able to cope with the self-imposed frustrations at work. My best days, are those where I focus on the things I can control, and brush aside the annoying little grain of sand while focusing on the importance of the people that do the work that matters. The worst days are the ones where my lack of concentration on the value of human beings becomes the grain of sand that ends up in some hard-working colleague's own shoe…and I worry that still happens way too often today.

Have a great weekend and try not to let the little things get you down. Whether it’s family, friends, a chilled straight up Manhattan, hiking, pets, a relaxing dinner, books, holding hands, exercise or wine, do something that brings some genuine chill to your life.

 

This old house here by the road...

 

Sorry for all the typos, misspellings and poor grammar.

...and "it's a beautiful day for football in the Coliseum"

“I’m on the 50” my old man used to say… “33 rows up, smack dab in the middle of the Coliseum. I’ve got the best seat in the house.” That’s how my dad would respond when people asked where his season seat was for his beloved Los Angeles Rams. For as long as I could remember as a kid, my father was a season ticket holder for his favorite football team. He always seemed kind of excited as he’d head off to the game on Sundays after church, and I still remember the light brown binocular case he’d have slung over his shoulder as he headed out the door to hop into his black ’65 T-Bird to head downtown to the game.

Once I was older…about 6 or 7 or so, my dad would take me along to the game with a buddy of mine (usually Billy Horning from down the street on Esther Ave) and drop us off in near tunnel 28 in the General Admission section on the Peristyle end of the famed on Coliseum. The Rams organization had a program for years called “Free Football for Kids,” so my father and I would stop by each week at the Rams ticket office on West Pico (adjacent to 20^th Century Fox Studios) and pick up a general admission ticket for four dollars which came with two free tickets for kids under 12. My day would then accompany us into the game through the General Admission turn-style, tell us to stay out of trouble, and proceed to his 50-yardline perch while we happily watched the game  from the corner of the end zone.

Regardless of the many times I’d been there, it was always a magical feeling to emerge from tunnel 28 and arrive inside the historic Coliseum. Just the bouquet of colors alone was overwhelming at that young age, and it was always fun to watch my beloved Rams warm up in their beautiful blue and white home uniforms. I knew every player…every player…and I truly loved many of them. Dick Bass, Les Josephson, Willie Ellison, Billy Truax, Kenny Iman, Jack Snow, Roman Gabriel and Merlin Olsen…the position didn’t matter…if they played for the Rams…I knew their name. My favorite player of all time was number 75…Deacon Jones. He was part of the Rams notorious defensive line ominously named The Fearsome Foursome. They were all good (Lundy, Olsen, Grier and Jones) but Deacon Jones was my guy.

I suspect part of the love for Jones was simply his name. I just thought Deacon Jones was a really cool sounding name. But the thing I liked about him most was the tenacious but humble way he played. He was credited for coining the term “sack” and rushed the passer in an era were marquee players were known less for their idiotic antics than for their actual ability to play the game. In all the years I watched Deacon, I never recall him celebrating after a sack (ala Mark Gastineau), he simply made the play and then walked back to the huddle like it was routine. I suspect he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but I’m also guessing he didn’t want an offensive lineman dancing around like a moron every time he’d successfully kept Jones off the quarterback.

 

Hall of Fame defensive end Deacon Jones passed away earlier this week at the age of 74, and it made me think about how yet another part of my childhood is gone with the wind. It made me think about Sunday afternoons in the warm sun at the Coliseum in Los Angeles watching my team play as I listened to Dick Enberg’s play-by-play on my cool little cutting-edge transistor. It made me think about a time when talented players like Deacon Jones quietly went about their business and let their ability do the talking. It made lament the decline of humility, and welcome the attractiveness and drawing power of that characteristic on the rare occasion you see it today. It made me think about missing my dad.

This useless blog ends pretty much the same way every week, with some lame appeal to think more about the things that matter most and an urging to spend more time with the people you love. When you’re young, you assume things will stay the same way forever. Then one day, you wake up with shingles and realize that many of the people and things you thought would always be here have vanished.  So…keep the priorities clear…and if you can, make your time this weekend count.

I was driving home from work the other night when this song came on the radio. It sounded to me like Alison Kraus and James Taylor…and when it was over the DJ confirmed that suspicion. This won’t be everybody’s thing, but if you can’t appreciate serene beauty of this tune popularized mostly by Elvis Presley, well then, I really don’t know what to tell you.

Have a great weekend, and I really am sorry about the poor writing, bad spelling, and lousy grammar.

How's the world treating you?