...and I should have listened a bit more to my old man

One of the many great things about being an IBEW electrician in Los Angeles was the collectively bargained wages and benefits. Even as a young apprentice living in an old but very nice apartment on Beverly Drive just a block south of the Beverly Hills’s southern border of Olympic Boulevard, I always felt like I had more than a little discretionary money.

Like a lot of young people I didn’t always make the best use of it. I probably ate out a bit more than I should have. There was a classic old restaurant in West Hollywood called Chasen’s that was a staple for Hollywood’s elite back in the day. It was a favorite of folks like Frank Sinatra, Ronald Reagan and Dean Martin and I remember what a big deal it was when my parents decided to go there. My Depression era and WWII vet father was also a union electrician, and best I can remember, we only went to Chasen’s on three occasions when I was a kid. Once when my parents paid off their 30-year mortgage (it was approximately $130.00 a month), once when I completed the IBEW electrical apprenticeship (a proud day for my old man), and one last time when my wife and I got engaged (probably an even prouder day).

I was just a punk apprentice but my fiancée (now wife) and I must have gone there 5 five times on our own before I even hit 25. We went often enough that we even knew you could order the chili, which wasn’t even on the menu. I remember walking out one night just as Barbara Eden was coming in. There were always a couple of photographers out front and we had to cover our eyes from the flashes as we exited the door. That place was really something. I’m guessing I was probably making about $12.00 an hour at the time, but man…I was living (or at least dinning) like I was making a millionaire.

My old man asked me one time how much I was saving each month…but the mere fact that he inquired made me more determined to show him I knew better by saving nothing. I remember telling him I had no extra money to save, and he followed up by asking how much I was spending a week eating out? I told him I didn’t know…but that it wasn’t enough to make a difference. I distinctly recall him saying “why don’t you set aside $50.00 a month?” “$50.00 a month” I responded…    “that’s like $600.00 a year. What difference will that make in my life?” “It won’t in a year” he shot back… “but in 10 years in will be $6,000…and that’s just the principal. Factor in the interest and it will be a lot more.” But…because it was coming from my dad I mostly ignored him. I even remember saying something like “that’s the problem with you dad…you’re stuck in the Depression. You’re always saving for a rainy day…and the truth is…there aren’t going to be anymore rainy days.”

Thankfully I was fortunate enough to work with some seasoned old journeymen that were not my dad. Many of them were a lot like him though, and because they didn’t raise me I was more inclined to listen to them when they passed along nuggets of wisdom. I remember buying a brand new pickup truck as an apprentice. My journeyman at the time was a cat named Johnny (he was a great golfer too by the way). He’d worked up in Alaska when they built the pipeline, and unlike many of his peers, he saved the boatload of dough he’d made up there and came back to Southern California and bought a couple of income properties. He didn’t criticize me for getting the new rig…as a matter fact, he was pretty enthusiastic about the purchase. But…I do remember him saying this. “No…you’ve bought a new sled and you did the smart thing by paying cash. Now…don’t do what all your peers do. Make that car a good buy by taking care of it and keeping it for 10 years.” I kept it for about 13 years I think…and though I’m in a stronger position now…I haven’t purchased a new vehicle since. I’m just too cheap.

Perhaps even more thankfully, I was blessed to be part of a union that negotiated a collective bargaining agreement that more-or-less ensured a stable future. Sure, I had a duty to get up and go to work every day, but if I did, a percentage of my paycheck would be deposited in both a defined contribution and defined benefit pension that I really couldn’t touch. In a way, I was sort of forced to do what my father so wisely advocated…and they made it pretty hard for even me to screw up. Then, additional savings vehicles came a long, and though I could have done much, much better, my dad’s words finally resonated and I’ve tried feebly to put something aside in case the clouds ever did form in the west.

Sure, I’ve pissed away way too much bread on fancy meals. Heck, if I saved all the money I’ve blown on wine alone I’m guessing I could have a second home and maybe even a couple of Cadillacs. Problem is I’d also have to be sober too much of the time, and I just can’t deal with the stresses of work and life without the wonderful soothing benefits of Cabernet. To be honest I’m not sure there’s a god…but one of the best forms of evidence for me is the existence of grapes. That had to be part of a grand plan.

What’s the point of all this? Don’t faint here but unlike most Fridays…there might be one today. A ton of time and poor writing is devoted here most weeks of the year singing the praises of spending time with the people that matter. Being financially stable in your advancing years won’t make you happy…but it will provide you greater flexibility in doing the things and spending time with the people that will. So…today’s message is really pretty simple. If you at all possibly can, take some of your discretionary money each week and do the smart thing and drink some wine (or whatever you enjoy that makes you smile). If at all possible…save a little too. Dad was right…it will make some difference over the long haul…and you really won’t be sorry.

 

Have a great weekend. And please...take a few minutes to start the day with some music.

 

When we want to kiss...we kiss...

...and how (or if) you shovel snow may say a lot about you

It would have been a lot easier to stay in the cozy house sipping Napa Valley cabernet relaxing in my poorly coordinated but comfortable leisurely athletic wear while catching up on Season 3 of Homeland… but I knew it would be getting dark soon and the 3 1/2” snowfall that brought the nation’s capital to its knees and forced the closure of the Federal Government (and most school districts east of the Colorado River) needed to be shoveled. The Armageddon newscast promo I’d just seen was complete with local reporters on location braving  the “blizzard” conditions who promised another possible two inches before the storm of the century (or at least so far in 2014) abated, and pretty much shamed me into feeling as though I had a neighborly duty to get out and clear the 50 or so yards of sidewalk on my corner lot in the DC neighborhood of Cleveland Park.

Not one to shirk responsibility unless I think I can get away with it, I dutifully put down my stem-less Bordeaux wine glass and schlepped down to the basement to put on my flannel-lined Wrangler jeans, brown duck Carhartt jacket and weathered Caribou Sorrel boots. As someone that spent a fair amount of time working in Fargo, ND and also as a ski bum living in the California town of Mammoth Lakes, I have legitimate cold-weather gear that would send shivers down the back of the average privileged Northeastern academic North Face 600 wearing liberal. So, looking like an extra from Nebraska, I ventured out the back door and fastidiously started to sweep down the light snow that covered the back steps.

After clearing off the stairs I forged my way through the 4” snow (it was still accumulating) and even managed to plow through some blowing drifts that seemed to be at least 4 ½” inches to make my way to the garage. Once safely inside, I picked the lightest of my four shovels (again…this is a Midwest/California ski resort snowfall snobbery thing) and began carving a path from the back door to the rear gate.

 

Once in the alley, I cleared out the entire area around the garage (for my wife) and dug out about 20 yards of the driveway (alley) so she could easily make it to the street the next morning. Then, I meticulously shoveled the north side of sidewalk along Warren Street and continued around the corner to clear the front of the house as well.

Because I’d seen my neighbor out shoveling part of my sidewalk earlier (while I was drinking wine), I returned the favor and completely cleaned up his front, and the next two places up the street as well. As I finished up and went back indoors to the comfort of my couch and a continued path of red wine anesthesia, I silently prayed my storm-shoveling duty was complete and that the doomsday forecast of two additional evening inches would never come to pass. I mean, what do you do when you've shut down the U.S. Government for 3 1/2" inches of snow...but two more is still forecast? I guess you have to start shutting down the governments of foreign countries.

Turns out the end-times weather prognosticators were correct, and the blustery night seemed to bring at least another inch or so. So…at about 6am the following morning I trucked out again in my North Dakota-wear and repeated the shoveling exercise. As I worked, at least three different dog walkers commented on the thorough job I was doing. I felt like conking them on the head with my shovel (not sure why really…guess my “Fargo nice” had worn off), but their unsolicited comments actually did get to thinking that you can tell a lot about  people by the way they approach snow removal.

My dad used to refer to an old Navy adage (at least he blamed in on that service branch) which held that you can tell a lot about a man that doesn’t take the time to properly shine the backs of his dress shoes. I won’t go into detail here, but let’s just say it’s directly connected to that same man’s commitment to the conservation of toilet tissue. I thought about that yesterday as I jogged through my DC neighborhood at 4:30am in the crisp 10 degree air.  As I moved from houses with meticulously shoveled cement to those fronted by untouched sidewalks covered with practically virgin snow, it dawned on me that you can probably tell a lot about people by the attention they give to the polish on the backs of their shoes.

As I turned off Nebraska and ran southward toward Georgetown on Wisconsin, I noticed the same could probably be said for businesses. So, as I jogged along…I decided to give some grades.

 

The Z Burger gets an F. Best I could tell, they’d made no attempt to clean the sidewalk in front of that thriving testament to cardio pulmonary disease.

Across the side street the 7-11 appeared to be in even worse shape. Not sure how that’s possible, but they get a solid F as well. Next door to 7-11 there’s a Popeye’s Fried Chicken. They’d actually cleaned off the area directly in front of the front door…but were too lazy to move out another 10’ to clean off the sidewalk. Somehow the fact that they'd been outside with a shovel and still done that poorly reflected even worse on them. So...they too get an F.

There’s some sort of eyeglass place next to Popeye’s and they’d obviously been motivated by their northern neighbor’s underachievement. What’s weird is there is a Chipolte right next door that could have served as the model for business snow removal. Chipolte is on a corner too (Warren & Wisconsin) and that made it all the more impressive.

 A couple of doors down there’s a place called Cava. I’ve never been in there, but I’m told it’s kind of a Mediterranean Jack in the Box. While I’m not great with world maps…I guess they don’t shovel much snow in the Mediterranean so they got an F too.

 

There’s an apartment on the northeast corner of Upton and Wisconsin (I couldn’t get the address…I move too fast) that should be on the cover of Snow Removal magazine. This corner lot had snow removal manicured to perfection…I almost slowed down to take it all in. The Friendship Station Post Office directly across the street on Upton was kind of a Mona Lisa of snow removal too…and they’d also put salt (or some other granular chemical) down to help with the melt. Both the apartment building and the Post Office get a solid A.

The next place down on the left was the prestigious private school Sidwell Friends. Don’t really know much about it other than I hear the President’s kids go there and that the tuition is around 30K (per child). Don't know what they're really doing in there other than keeping out kids of working stiffs that can't afford it, but it's clear they're not spending the dough on snow blowers. In fairness, hey actually did a decent job on parts of the enormous property, but at 30K per kid, they should be able to sprinkle the pavement with diamonds instead of salt. 

What’s the point of all this? Well, if you know, please tell me. Perhaps at the very least it’s this. If you know some otherwise able-bodied person in your community that doesn’t take the time clear the sidewalk in front of their house after a significant snowfall, you may be able to help them. Get them what you know they probably really need…buy them some shoe polish and a couple of rolls of toilet paper.

Have a great weekend…and start it with some music by a group I’m betting you haven’t heard.

If the clarinet doesn't do if for you at the 1:40 mark...I just can't help you

...and I just don't have any free time

A mentor of mine sends me and a few other fortunate folks a positive quote via email most days of the week. I’m not really smart enough to understand some of them, especially many of the older ones by people with names like Aurelius who lived in times marked by dates with B.C., A.D. and C.E. (I don’t even know what C.E. means…commonsense economics maybe?). Sure I do get some of them…like the one that came in yesterday by a really old guy who’s name I can’t pronounce.

“It is a good thing to be rich, it is a good thing to be strong, but it is a better thing to be beloved of many friends…and to be really, really rich”

-- Euripides (480-406 BC) Greek Playwright

OK…I added the part at the end.

Thankfully most of them make sense, and often times they even resonate…especially the ones that remind me of my own shortcomings. A consistent theme of many of the inspirational quotes is about personal responsibility…and as someone that wastes way too much time lamenting my status as victim, it’s nice to be consistently reminded by people wiser than me that I’m almost always the architect of troubles I’m all too eager to blame on anyone but me.  While I love the quotes my good buddy sends over, he's not the only source for great inspirational sayings.

I picked up this book at the local bookstore Politics and Prose about six months ago that I just started reading the other day (it took me six months to finish the 300+ page “How to Win Friends and Influence People in the Digital Age” that I’d purchased in January of 2013). It’s called “This Thinking Life” by a Ph D from Johns Hopkins named P.M. Fiorni. I know what you’re thinking right now…Zzzz.  But he actually wrote a couple of books about civility (one called “Choosing Civility”) that helped me recognize how often I fail to pick that preferred course, so when I spotted his new book about the value of making time in our otherwise overbooked lives to simply think, it somehow caught my eye.

Early on in the book there’s a quote by a cat I’ve never heard of named Michael Altshuler that appears in the beginning of a chapter on carving out time to think. The quote is simply this…

“The bad news is time flies. The good news is you’re the pilot.”

 

--Michael Altshuler - (no B.C., A.D. or C.E…must still be alive) Motivational Speaker

Dammit. Here we go again. Most Fridays I spend an hour writing this crappy blog at the crack of dawn and like to use this time to whine incessantly about the highly unfair and ever escalating passage of time. Now, along comes this self-help sales seminar sh*thead implying that I actually have some control over how I allocate the hours and minutes of my life.  

 

It’s so much more convenient to cry about all the demands on my waking hours…feeling often like I have literally no discretionary time to do the simplest tasks…let alone the luxury of just kicking back and thinking. Heck (that Fargo thing is lingering), I can’t even watch television anymore without my laptop open. I’m on the internet constantly…never unplugged. My high-powered job essentially demands connectivity 27/7  (yes…I added 3 hours to the day. Had to, to get things done).

But you see…that’s the thing. If I really think about the stuff I’m looking at on the internet, most of it is crap (and that’s just the stuff I’m admitting to). I see an actor in an old movie and look up if he’s dead or alive. I see the old blonde waitress from Cheers on Modern Family and I hit up Wikipedia to find out she’s 65. I hear a commercial about Shaun T helping people lose 200 pounds and 10 inches via the latest P90X knockoff scam and I google it (just a side note here…but are there people that are still amazed you can get in shape if you convulse in front of the TV like a maniac every day for 45 minutes over the course of 90 straight days? Do you need to purchase CDs for that? The little underwear dude with the Dolphin running shorts, squeaky voice and really bad perm taught us all that years ago…and all he was doing was dancing to oldies).

During the holidays I received a call on Christmas Day from my cousin that my 90 year-old aunt was near death in Moorhead, MN (see previous post). My aunt who’d been in a rest home for four years, stopped eating and drinking and the medical folks said she’d likely last a week to ten days.

 

Now, I’m way too important to just drop everything and schlep my 84 year-old mother (who was staying with me for the holidays) to Fargo, ND (Moorhead’s twin city) to deal with her sister’s death and funeral arrangements, but that’s what I did. Not really sure why to be honest, but despite my preoccupation with being indispensable in the office, I’m not even sure anyone really noticed I was gone. I pretty much unplugged too (at least by my standards)…and to be candid, other than getting markedly more relaxed, nothing really seemed to change.

“You’re already in the cockpit…so you may as well grab the controls.”

--It’s Friday Blog Author (1961-still barely kicking ) Really Bad Writer

Have a great weekend, and ease back on your airspeed by starting your Friday with some relaxing music I’m betting you haven’t heard.

My soul is weary and beaten down...

...and you just can't get enough of Fargo

“What’s up with you?” my cousin Annie asked as we sat with the party of about eight family members at the packed Texas Roadhouse restaurant on New Year’s Day on 13^th Avenue in Fargo, ND… “you look mad.”

“If that bubbly waitress giggles and smiles at me one more time, I’m going to go DC on her and make her cry” I responded. “She’s so freaking nice it’s annoying as heck” (I don’t usually use words like heck unless I’m with my god-fearing family in Fargo).  

“She’s just being North Dakota nice” Annie shot back… “you’ve just been gone too long to appreciate it.”

There was more than a little truth to what my young cousin had just said. Annie is the daughter of my mom’s brother’s daughter Cia…who is my first cousin…so Annie is my first cousin once removed. I know that because when I did live and work in Fargo, we’d spend a lot of time sitting around the living room after dinner (which we ate at noon…lunch would follow in the afternoon…between dinner and supper) talking about family and how we were all related.

I remember sitting once in the Evangelical Free Church in Wolverton, Minnesota that my Scandinavian ancestors help found back in the 1800s. Before the service, my mom’s brother Donald (my uncle) was explaining how I related to just about everyone in the small country church.  He was telling me how I was connected to some of the old women like Beullah, Hazel and Aurora, and how our family was connected to the Andersen’s, the Sundquist’s and the Lundquist’s and the Nyquist’s. 

“Just tell me I’m not related to those two idiots” I said as I pointed to two blond-headed kids I’d never really liked. “No…he laughed…you’re OK there…there’s no connection.” Then about halfway through the service, he giggled out loud, and leaned over to report the bad news. He’d figured out a connection and I was indeed related. I know what you’re thinking…and yes…though I don’t recall ever seeing a banjo…I can hear the music too.

Anyhow…not sure what that really had to do with anything…other than to perhaps provide some context to set the scene. Plus…it’s about 4:10am on a Friday morning and my thoughts are even less organized than they normally are. So…back to the whole “Fargo nice” thing.

The next day after the Texas Roadhouse annoyingly nice waitress incident, which was just the latest I’d experienced in my first 24-hours, my same cousin Annie offered to take me over to the new Sandford/YMCA Wellness Center in West Fargo. She probably thought it would be a nice break from the whirlwind of rest home, mortician and banker visits (tied to the passing of my mom’s sister which necessitated the trip to Fargo) that dominated my first 48 hours back in North Dakota.

I was expecting some unimpressive facility in the middle of a harvested sugar beet field, and while I was probably right about the location (may have been a soy bean or wheat field), the two-year old facility was the nicest I’d even seen. My cousin got me in on a guest pass, which was really sort of pushing it because she wasn’t actually working out that day. The attendant at the front desk acknowledged that really wasn’t the spirit of the way the passes are supposed to be used, but the blond haired/blue eyed upper plains states poster girl was way too nice not to let me use the gym with my cousin’s pass.

After completing my cardio workout I was doing some old-school bench press sets in the free weight area. Between sets, some gangly cat in a goofy red sweat cutoff top sauntered up and asked if he could “work in” with me. Where I’ve lived most of my life (Los Angeles and DC), a dude really doesn’t walk up to another dude in a gym and ask if he can work in unless it’s about space, safety or a possible date.

What was annoying about this was that there were two empty benches on either side of me…so if the guy wanted to lift he could have just done what guys do in the big city and done his thing on an empty bench. The more annoying part is that that I was sporting my best standoffish Clint Eastwood expression, and the guy still approached me. So…I let the smiling goofball “work in”…at which point he asked if I would “spot” him. Then…just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse…he wanted to talk. I could give you my response…but just believe me here…you don’t want to know.

 

So all in all I spent about a week in the -25 degree charm of a January in Fargo (even that set some records to be fair), and I was reluctantly reminded of why I really do like the place. People are annoyingly nice, hardworking , helpful and mostly genuinely good. I left last Sunday morning to drive my 84 year-old mother down to Minneapolis so she could fly nonstop back to LA. Shortly after going through security at MSP, I received an electronic notice from US Airways that my non-stop flight back to DC (scheduled after my mother’s flight to LA on Delta) had been canceled.

 

I was looking forward to my interaction with the first US Airways representative that I’d encounter. After a frustrating week dealing with death and too many annoyingly nice people, I was ready to unload on US Airways in true DC fashion. Thankfully, I spotted a US Airways employee working the gate at E2.

I was just about to make her cry, when I unexplainably decided to deploy a little Fargo nice. Instead of going off, I acknowledged that it must be tough for her to deal with all the canceled flights and unhappy people. Then, I explained that I would never have the patience to do what she did so well. Amidst our back-n-forth…the woman stopped and said this. “Can I just tell you something…you’re the nicest person I’ve dealt with all year.”

I reminded her it was only January 6^th, but that I’d take the compliment. I also reminded her that it wasn’t my usual MO…but that I’d just spent a week in Fargo.

I tried the same approach with the gate agent in Philly as I attempted to get on standby for my last leg to DC. She seated me in an exit row in 10A…which is the best coach seat on the airplane (no seat in front of you).  

Freaking Fargo.

 

So this movie is playing in the background while I type...and apparently it was Whitney Houston's last. As I finished up, she was belting out this song.

 

His eye is on the sparrow...