...and if you can...try not to travel this weekend

Thanks to the Walmartization of the airline industry that has created a legion of consumers with readable brain waves that will stand in long lines to pay $4.25 for a latte only to be herded like cattle to save $50 on a four-hour cross country flight with flight attendants dressed in Khaki beachwear...traveling by air these days can be a real joy. For me, yesterday was one of those days.

The return flight from O’Hare to DCA was supposed to take off at 2:05pm, so when the wheels finally came up over two hours later at about 4:10pm, that really didn’t seem all that bad for the perpetually non-performing  United/Continental/who gives a rat’s ass about the customer airline. While the excruciating experience was bad enough, it was further enhanced by the fact that I wasn’t flying my beloved U.S. Airways, which also meant I wasn’t upgraded and was sitting with the rest of the lepers deep in coach, in seat 24D, a full three rows behind even the Economy Plus section. At least in that Coach purgatory, the airline can ream you for an extra $41 dollars so that you don’t have to rest your chin on your knee caps while you’re contracting the latest airborne virus and preparing to host a fresh herd of head lice. 

While hanging out with the unwashed has a whole bunch of ancillary benefits that extend well beyond those described above, there’s something about the horrific experience that also confirms any inkling one may have regarding our general de-evolution and that fact that we’re hurling straight to hell. Despite repeated pleas from the crew of flight attendants to shut off electronic devices, the clueless hipster to my immediate right sat with his tray table down and headphones on while playing some mind-numbing game on his iPad. I thought about demonstrating one of the real advantages of the slimmed down tablet by shoving it up his alimentary canal, but the dude was younger (and pretty big) so I reasoned that he might be the one doing the shoving…and even with the sleek new design and smooth hi-res screen, it seemed like it might hurt. Thankfully, the stewardess (Melissa) actually tugged on his ear-cord and told him he had to shut it off and put the tray table in the upright position so there wasn’t a need for either of us (it was going to be him) to have to see the proctologist. 

Through it all…the flight attendants kept their composure, and while many of the cabin’s frustrated professional wrestling fans were getting unruly and clearly wanted to get home to their trailers to see the latest episode of Moonshiners, the crew of professionals stayed cool. They were business-like, but also maintained a remarkable upbeat attitude while continuing to smile throughout the boarding ordeal and turbulent flight. As I sat there with my brethren in coach, feeling my already low IQ drop and a desire to stop going to the dentist and combing my hair, I suddenly longed for a cold can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I also couldn’t help but once again notice the perpetual smiles of the flight attendants. They were unflappable, and over time, their good moods actually wore me down and made me feel better. I was actually feeling pretty good by the time we landed…but that was well-before the hour-and-ten minute 8-mile commute home from DCA.

What’s the point of all this…heck if I know. Could be to avoid O’Hare, to fly U.S. Airways (actually, United is not all the bad…much better than Delta…who is more than ready to ruin your day whenever you are), to take the metro or to simply smile more. For some reason…I’m guessing it’s C. There are a lot of things I can’t control…but the expression I choose to wear is clearly up to me. Sadly…I don’t smile near enough. Usually, I walk around with the expression of a man that’s just learned he’s failed to receive a First Class upgrade or worse, like someone that’s about to walk into my fifth one-hour meeting of the day.  I don’t really know why I don’t look happier…because I’ve experienced firsthand the benefits of a smiling face…both as someone on the receiving end and as the beneficiary of the good that comes from wearing one myself. I’ve even had people comment that I look better when I smile (I know…low bar), but for some reason I’ve chosen to master the habit of looking perpetually pissed. So…go ahead…even if you think it’s stupid…just smile.

Just before pulling out of the lot for the 70-minute drive home from the airport, the parking booth gal smiled and wished me a Happy Father’s Day weekend.  I’m not a father, perhaps because I knew I could never live up to the standard set by my own dad. Whether you’re a father, married to one, looking to be one, happen to know one or simply if you just have a dad yourself (that should be almost everybody), have a great weekend. If you can, do something fun just for you…and when you do…smile. If you can…enjoy a little music…and if you do…close your eyes and think about your dad.  

My father was a good man

...so beware of that pebble in your shoe

There’s a room off the rear of the house at the top of steps by the back door that I’ve always referred to as a mud room. The roughly 5’x 7’ closed-off area could probably be better defined as something else, and compared to the mud rooms these days with 16-station shoe cubbies, closets, heated changing benches, showers, refrigerators, flat screens and bidets, this modest 1928 space probably doesn’t really qualify anymore as a bona fide mud room.  There are some improvements to the room though, as several years ago I piped in a mason jar light fixture and built some shelves on the north side where plastic bags, recycling trash, Duraflame logs and bottled water are stored. It’s also a good place for the broom, dust pan, the spurs from our horse days in California, an old sand-wedge golf club I use for intruding animals (different story for a different day), a couple of baseball mits and my old cowboy hat.

At the base of the old shelves are some shoes…the blue flip-flops I bought 20 years ago at an ABC store in Waikiki, my Redwing work boots, and a pair of old Asics 1100 running shoes I use for various lighter home improvement projects. The running shoes were originally off-white with oranges stripes, but after several recent roofing projects (house and garage), they’re covered with more silver emulsion reflective roof paint than anything else.

Last Saturday, I sat down on the wood steps in the back and put on the running shoes before a few hours of vegetable planting and general gardening. As soon as I started down the stairs, it was apparent there was some sort of annoying pebble or stone in the left shoe, but at 50, it hurts too much to bend over and remove the shoe, so I decided to just tough it out. Also, as a heralded Los Angeles high school athlete that still likely holds the record for most passed balls as a catcher in a baseball game (Hamilton vs. Gardena 1979), it just seemed more manly to suck it up and play through the pain.

The obstruction in my left shoe was indeed annoying, but it wasn’t long before I was immersed in transplanting tomatoes and basil, as well as couple of violet colored impatiens for some hanging potted plants below the wisteria on the brick wall on the back of the garage. Thankfully, I didn’t have to move around much so the damage to my left foot was pretty minimal. After a couple of hours of intense planting, I decided it was time to knock off for the afternoon and have a non-alcoholic beer and a cheap cigar.

As I climbed the rear stairs I became more aware of the pebble in my left shoe, and was looking forward to kicking of the shoes and trading them out for my blue ABC flip-flops. I used the toe of my right shoe to step on the heel of the left shoe (hurts less than bending down and doing it the right way) and quickly kicked off the left shoe. As I did, a small white pebble that had been stuck to the bottom of my sock broke away and bounce along the brown wood floor. Phew…what a relief. I then used the left stocking toes to press down on my right heel, and when I kicked off the right shoe…I noticed this horrific multi-colored stain on the right side of my right sock. It was gross…a kind of brown…yellow and blood-colored blotch that had soaked into a good part of the cotton material.

I tried to figure out what had happened, and as I kicked the right shoe right-side up (it had flipped over), the fresh carcass of a rather good sized mouse fell to the floor.  The mouse was flat as a pancake, and remarkably well-preserved. It was fairly clear that every drop of bodily fluid that had been in that mouse…was now soaked into my sock.

Now…I know that you’re thinking…you’re dying to give me a foot massage. But beyond that,  you’re also probably wondering how I could have a mouse in my shoe and not know it? Well, I don’t know either. I’ve always heard they’re very supple which allows them to get through small openings, and I suppose the combination of that and the fact that I’m losing the feeling in my feet conspired to create a condition where I could work for 3 hours in the yard with a mouse in my shoe…and not be aware it was there. However it also seemed like a gross metaphor for the fact that the things I often think are my largest issues, are not really my biggest problem. It also seemed like a good sign that I shouldn’t keep shoes in the mud room anymore.

Have a great weekend and try to do something fun. If you can take about 3 minutes, start is with a little music. This song played out the most recent episode of Mad Men.

I'm gone...

...and it's time to unplug

It wasn’t always this way, but it seems like there’s seldom a time anymore when I’m not connected to the internet. Whether it’s the countless hours in the office, the decreasing amount of time spent at home, or even when on the road or visiting my mom in California, the laptop is usually open and connected to the web. The other day it was open on the top of the upright piano, so I could monitor the Stanley Cup playoff hockey game as I played.  I don’t even watch trash TV anymore without the laptop open. That way, just like a crystal-meth addict, I can check my emails every few minutes. The messages can be monitored between surfing internet golf discount sites, checking out craigslist adds for motorcycles, or while reading various articles on subjects ranging from Dale Carnegie communication tips to quick weight loss tricks…or while watching videos on how to make the best beignets Cafe Du Monde. Best of all, this can all take place while enriching my brain by passively watching NASCAR, the New Jersey Housewives or shows about fishing in 35-foot waves during a blizzard on the Bering Sea. Using this model, I’m always connected…and I rarely miss an email…even one sent on the tail-end of a long 3-day weekend.

Just after 10pm EDT this past Memorial Day, I was sitting on the couch mainlining Cabernet and lamenting the return to work while watching Deadliest Catch (if couch sitting were an Olympic event, you’d see me on the podium regularly) when I heard the unmistakable ping of a new email in my Outlook Inbox. Suddenly, I lunged for the computer and noticed there was an message from the Business Manager of my old IBEW local union in Los Angeles. The email read simply:

mayor ledford (58) suffered a heart attack late afternoon/early eve yesterday.. Mitch got a call at 9pm, he then went in for angioplasty this morning.. We don't know much more, we'll update you as we do..

Thankfully, in the days that followed, reports from California indicate the mayor should be OK. This is important to me for several personal reasons, because he as much as anybody served as a mentor in both my personal and professional life. He has been the mayor of Palmdale, California for many years, and shepherded that city through prosperous boom years and several devastating real estate busts. In an often volatile and unforgiving political climate, his unwavering commitment to the residents of the south Antelope Valley and the manner in which he conducted his leadership charge provides valuable lessons which I feebly attempt to emulate almost daily.  

The starkest lesson from the email and its sobering content is one that has been a familiar theme in these rarely read and poorly written Friday posts. Though these paragraphs (or at least the closings) often attempt to highlight the fragility of life and the paramount importance of focusing on what really matters, I display the quintessential “don’t lead by example” model and routinely demonstrate the exact opposite set of priorities. Despite repeated and glaring reminders that our time on earth is precious, I waste too much time worrying about work-related stuff…ignoring all the vivid lessons regarding the consequence of losing perspective…and literally flipping the priority pyramid upside down. Sure…commitment to one’s job is important and noble, but if you think your deathbed is going to be circled by the same people that are sitting around the table in the conference room, you really are smoking way too much crack.

Given what seems like a plethora of daily signposts peppering my face like blowing sand from an Antelope Valley high desert dust storm, you’d think I’d adjust and get busy focusing on the things we know in our hearts matter most. Sadly though, my life is littered with repeated examples of the results that come from disregarding such warnings. I’m not sure what it will take for me, but someday, perhaps as they’re wheeling me into the cardiac care unit,  if I’m lucky the epiphany will hit me just before they get the stent in place. The good news for you is that you’re almost assuredly smarter than me, so please take notice of the signs all around you that literally scream the need to put the things that matter most first.

This weekend, close the lid on your laptop and put away the smart phone for a while and enjoy the people and pets that make life worth living.  Walk the dog, take in your kid’s T-Ball game, golf with some old friends, hold hands (but maybe not with your golfing buddies), have dinner with your family, paddle down a river, hug a grandkid, go for a bike ride with someone you care about, spend time with a nephew, sit by the pool,  have a chat with your sister, call a parent…and tell somebody (even your golfing buddies) you love them…maybe even twice. You can start all this by slowing down a bit, closing your eyes and listening to some music (Ironically...you'll need your computer to do it this way). You’ll have to set aside a full 3 and a half minutes, and despite your sense that you have way too much to do, you will have a better day if you start it like this. As an added bonus, it will also make you better at dealing with all that work you believe matters so much. It’s a guarantee…and you don’t receive many of them anymore. .  

Spring...

Have an enjoyable and well-deserved weekend.

...and I'm glad there's a shortage of hand baskets

A couple of weeks ago a highly respected and generally brilliant friend emailed me in the wake of one of these postings with a brief message. The note was innocuous enough, but it included a telling observation at the end that went something like this…“and it seems to fit with your whole the country is going to hell in a hand basket theme.”

As someone whose father routinely touted Norman Vincent Peele and championed the power of positive thinking, this razor sharp allegation of a perpetually negative tone was more than a bit tough to hear. However as with most things that accurately strike a nerve, there was more than a little fire behind the smoke. After reflecting on it a bit, it is sadly true that too much of my time is spent lamenting the sense that all the signposts I choose to see suggest the end is indeed near.

Out of deference to my father and with a general understanding in people’s preference for a rosier outlook, I cringe at the notion that I’m perceived as a doomsayer…especially when that assessment comes from someone I admire. It was also troubling considering most of my former jobs demanded the ability to inspire, and that to the degree I thought I had any natural aptitude, the talent to fire folks up was a self-identified strong suit. Even as an assistant high-school defensive coordinator, I often got the pre-game speech nod (then again, I do recall going 0-11 one year).  

Deep down, I want to believe things are better than they used to be, and that the myriad of tangible positive improvements that have occurred just over the course of my lifetime far out-weigh all the perceived less desirable changes. I want to trust we’re evolving, however it’s hard to do when it  seems like the preponderance of negative evidence is gusting in my face like a catagory 5 hurricane. There are still times when I think we’re moving forward…but those waning moments are usually vanquished when I’m confronted with an experience like the one that took place early this past Sunday morning.

If you’ve ever worked, or volunteered, or perhaps even spent the night in a big inner-city lockup (and I’m not admitting to anything here), you know that the challenges of such an environment are only exacerbated by the craziness that comes with street-life on an urban Saturday night. No time is ideal to be in jail…but the wee hours of a predawn Sunday are special, and all the worst vices of metropolitan life conspire to make any observer feel as though the world is hurling at light-speed toward hades. Inebriation, drug use, violence, promiscuity, vulgarity, and the general consequence of poor judgment, crescendo in such a way that even the most Pollyanna among us can’t help but muster doubts about our chances in the days ahead.

The scene manifests itself in a variety of unpleasant ways, ranging from incoherent profane sentences, poor hygiene, wardrobe plucked from an alley dumpster, and an overflowing display of general depravity. When you witness all these things in the holding area of the precinct slammer it’s bad enough…but when you’re surrounded by all it on an early Sunday morning while sitting in the A Gates of the C Terminal of Las Vegas’s McCarron Airport, well…it’s hard to convince yourself we’re really making progress.

Despite years of subpar education, a low IQ and generally poor writing skills, I don’t have the talent to adequately paint the scene created as bleary-eyed and hung over passengers gathered in the false dawn for a 6:35 a.m. fight to Phoenix.  Between the wrinkled camo cargo shorts, blood-shot eyes, mindless conversation, breath that reeked of an alcoholic stew, flip-flop foot-ware, cheap fedora/bowler hats and all the double-fisted morning-after revelers carrying a variety of Strip hotel laundry bags that doubled as carry-on luggage, this conglomeration of miscreants confidently teamed to create an atmosphere that would make any urban drunk tank seem like high tea at the Waldorf Astoria.

I put on my reading glasses in hopes of escaping in the poetic magic of author James Lee Burke, but as the number of degenerates intensified just before boarding…the dismal fate of the country indeed seemed inevitable. Mercifully, the gate agent announced that the flight was about to board, so ever hopeful, I sprinted to the head of the blue preferred status lane in hopes of separating myself from the multitudes of unwashed.

While standing there contemplating what I’d do with the remaining days before the world implodes, I caught the glimpse of several young people that were allowed to pre-board in appreciation for their service to the country. Their clean-cut youthful faces were full of hope, and as they passed in full uniform with an old-school decorum and humility that I’d thought was lost to another era, I couldn’t help but think that maybe everything would be OK. Once on the plane, another younger passenger impressively offered his first class seat to one of the servicemen (I thought of doing that with my upgraded ticket…but as I glanced back to steerage…I just couldn’t muster up the will to spend an entire 60 minutes back there). As I sat and watched many of the young people walk by, I suddenly noticed many seemingly good people that had escaped my attention while focusing only on the bad in the terminal area. Over the course of the following week, several people have coincidently sent along pictures and stories of their highly achieving children that further illustrate things are better than I’ve perceived.   

What’s the point of all this? Well, it’s not easy coming up with content early on a Friday morning so I’m not sure there is one. It might just be a desperate stab at conjuring up subject matter, but it may also suggest that my friend’s assessment of my continually negative tone was not only timely, but also dead on.  I remember a high-level colleague at my old job telling me I was one of the “most positive persons” he knew. Nobody says that to me anymore.

If my dad were alive, he’d tell me I have a duty to be more optimistic. He always tried to see the bright side, so  I’m going to see if I can’t be more positive. Instead of focusing on the perceived bad, I’m going to search for the undeniable good. I’m going to really try…remaining hopeful this new approach takes root over the long haul.

Have a great long weekend. If you are fortunate enough to find yourself out-and-about enjoying the benefits of living in a free country, try to take a minute to reflect on the reason for the extra day off.

As always, sorry for all the misspellings, poor grammar and typos. I apologize too for the goofy timing of the “It’s Friday” emails, as many of them (generated by the blog program) have been going out on Saturday. Not sure how to fix it, but maybe a positive attitude will help.

Gather round me while I testify...

...and I was thinking you could be better at...

About two weeks ago, one of my best friends sent along an email with a link to an article which appeared on the website “The Art of Manliness.”  I’ve mentioned that internet destination here before (actually turned this friend onto it), as well as the embarrassing truth that it was my wife that suggested to me about a year ago that I needed to regularly visit the site. This most recent link from my buddy was to a post entitled “15 tips to better listening” (click here to read) and the electronic message he included read simply “thought you might appreciate this.” It’s funny, I thought my buddy would appreciate some instruction too…so I did a couple google searches and sent back a cut-and-pasted article entitled “How to be a better friend by avoiding the urge to send insulting emails.”

Well…despite the offence...I read the article...and while I hate to admit it, it was pretty good. There were a host of suggestions that were quite helpful, and several recognizable sins (including number 15 which warned of the pitfalls when pretending to listen or faking interest), of which I am frequently culpable. As often happens when I go to that web address, this visit to improve my poor listening skills also enabled me to stumble across a related article on the paramount importance of eye contact. Given this is yet another area where I’m woefully below average (truly…that’s an understatement), I was especially grateful for the well-written piece regarding how one might improve in this critical area of visual communication.

While the email and listening link were helpful, I’m still tripping on my friend’s email message and the suggestion that I would enjoy receiving it. Like most human beings that lie about craving constructive criticism, I don’t really dig having my need to improve in some area pointed out to me by others. Perhaps the sting of the corrective link could have been tempered with a different accompanying message…maybe something like “here’s a link to something you don’t need to read” or “I’m passing this along guessing you authored this great piece.” However, even when tempered with such softening, I think I’d still rather get a link to a different kind of story.

You see, without even a whole lot of effort, I can think of a myriad of article links on a host of different subjects that would have been far more flattering to receive. Even in the pre-dawn fog of a Friday morning and just off the top of my head…I can think of about 10 titles that would have been more apropos. They could have included any number of the fitting suggestions listed below.

·        3 clear signs you’re already a great listener

·        7 reasons why people want to be like YOU

·        5 tips to make others comfortable with your justifiable confidence

·        10 tips on making the most of your infectious charisma

·        10 reasons why god had you in mind when he invented mirrors

·        8 reasons your blog is great even though nobody reads it

·        5 easy ways to match your wardrobe to your rugged good looks

·        20 reasons why your chiseled frame doesn’t need Insanity or PBX 90

·        11 reasons why your increasingly gray hair really does look distinguished

·        5 insights into why your soft midsection is even hotter than a toned six pack

I understand the desire to pass along seemingly helpful information because there are any number of website articles I’d like to pass onto a host of folks that I think could be useful. Once again, without even thinking, I can conjure up more than a few people that could benefit greatly from any one of the following posts:

·        10 reasons why ear-hair should be mowed…or at least combed

·        1 helpful hint regarding the intended function of the top button of your dress shirt

·        8 reasons why combing your hair isn’t selling out to the 1%

·        5 basic benefits of owning and using an ironing board (and an iron)

·        6 reasons why eventually…you really do have to live within your means

·        1 important rule why being on time matters

·        10 rearons you shouldn't let the fact you're the only one reading this blog bother you
·        1,000 ways the ready, aim, aim, aim, aim approach results in devastating paralysis

So…while it’s tempting to pass along those helpful links to some good folks I know (including me), something tells me those on the receiving end wouldn’t really “appreciate” getting them. What’s the lesson here? If you’re drawn to send your friends or colleagues a link to an instructional site regarding some skill on which you think they can improve, fight that urge. (Sure…you might be thinking that you’ve seen self-help links posted on this very blog at least twice a month…including more than one about listening…but nobody sent me a link to a story about the importance of leading by example ((or accepting personal responsibility))…so really…I can’t really be blamed). For every perceived flaw you’ve identified in others, they’ve likely stumbled across more than a few legitimate shortcomings in you. Save your constructive criticism for the mirror…at least until you no longer recognize that blemish-free image that’s staring back at you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah…I know what you’re thinking…but once again…do as I say, not as...    

So…last Saturday I drove my mom down Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Paula, CA to the First United Church of Santa Monica, CA to a memorial service for the pastor that served in that parish for 23 years. His name was Don Shelby, and I have written about him here before. I wish I had the talent to adequately convey his extraordinary impact on that church, the surrounding community and to my early life…but any attempt I make here would fall far short of what is deserved. He was a giant of a man, and the packed Saturday service was worthy of his widespread influence.

The entire time I attended that church, from the time I was about 10 until I was around 29, I always sat in the balcony. For this service, we sat on the front right-hand side, and when the processional hymn (A Mighty Fortress is Our God) began to play on the sanctuary’s massive pipe organ, it sounded as though we were sitting in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The Postlude at the conclusion of the service was played  by UCLA’s Dr. Christoph Bull. There are hundreds of renditions of the number, and that best of those has been known to move folks to tears. Normally, I don’t make the plea that you listen to the music, but if you close your eyes…this tune can change your life. Take a couple of minutes to truly listen, and of you’d like to see what it takes to play something like this, you can watch and listen to the YouTube link too (it’s actually a better version).

Have a great weekend.

Tocatta

The Basilica in Newark, NJ

...and this is a test of the emergency broadcast system

Chances are if you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you’ve probably already heard about my unconventional Sunday afternoon workouts. On this cherished day of rest before the hell of the workweek, I typically have a pretty solid routine.  I usually get up early, have some coffee and work a bit on the computer. Then, I go for a long run with my wife, before coming home to make breakfast (it’s the one meal I cook every week). After that…I settle in to do some chores before knocking off about 2pm to do my Sunday afternoon workout.

The most important part of the ritual is tuning in public radio station WPFW and DJ Donnie McKethan on the American made Meritone Hi-Fi stereo my dad bought me in the late 1960s (it’s still set up in the garage). McKethan hosts a show each week on Sundays from 2pm -4pm  called the “American Song Book” where he plays a myriad of standards that you don’t normally hear on the radio anymore. For two hours, the DJ spins classics by people like the Mills Brothers, Nat King Cole, Ella, Johnny Hartman Julie London and of course, Francis Albert Sinatra.

Meriton Stereo System

While listening, I usually knock out a couple of sets on the speed bag, do a few chin-ups on the pull-up bar and jump a little rope. While that may not sound that unconventional, I work in these exercises between sets of cigar puffs and sips of red wine. Actually, it's been a couple of months since I included the wine component (switched to non-alcoholic beer instead)...but when I do...it is pretty cool.

While there are a lot of things to like about the American Songbook Sunday show, the best thing about it is the variety of old-school songs and artists that are no longer in the mainstream. To be honest, the preponderance of the artists featured on the show are no longer alive. It is the quintessential throw back, and while listening between sets of the speed bag and smoke rings, I often find myself thinking about the way things used to be…and the litany of things that are no longer here.

When I was a kid, the TV Guide was a big deal. It would come with the newspaper on Sundays as I recall, and it would always be a big deal to pull it out of the inserts and look ahead to see what would be on during the week. They’d list all the upcoming movies too…and actually provide short descriptions of the shows. You would actually look at the menu of shows, make a selection, and then sit there for the duration of the program without getting up and changing the channel. Not sure what happened to the TV Guide or how folks know what’s on now…actually, I just sit with the remote and wildly flip channels to see what can grab my attention for any given 30 seconds.

The phone book used to be a fairly big deal too. There was hardly a day when you wouldn’t pull it out to get the number of a restaurant, or to look for the number of a good plumber. You could actually use it to look up the number of a friend too, and it seemed like you would get these magical books (both white and yellow) delivered about once a month. Can’t remember the last time I even saw phone book…but when I did, I think it was used to prop up a computer monitor or something...not as a source of providing phone numbers. Come to think of it…I’m not sure a whole lot of people have an actual land-line phone anymore. These were a staple in my youth, and I can actually vaguely remember partly lines and a time when the numbers began with names…like Richmond 9 - 5171  or Beachwood 4 -5789 or Pennsylvania 6-5000. The phones back then had an added feature…you actually had to dial them.

8 track tapes were the bomb for a while…and so were the quadraphonic stereo systems that played them. The 1972 Olds Regency Ninety Eight my parents owned had one of those early killer decks…and I used to sit in the back seat on the black velour upholstery and listen as the crystal clear music turned that vehicle into a virtual sound studio. Sometimes there were clicks in the middle of songs as the tape trasitioned to the next track...but that was little price to pay. The 8 tracks were replaced by cassettes which had a much longer run…I’m not 100% sure, but  I think my last vehicle may have even still had the option of playing cassettes.

Milk actually used to be delivered by a cat dressed in white (he usually had a hat on too) and it was in glass bottles. It was always a trip to come home and see those bottles of ice-cold milk sitting in a metal crate on the steps of the back porch. I hear they're are making a comeback...but I certainly haven't seen a milkman delivering milk anytime recently. I guess if people are willing to stand in line to buy food at inflated prices from a roach coach...anything is possible.

There are a lot of lame things about this blog, but aside from the lousy righting, pour grammar and all the mispellings, one of the real charms is that the associated song usually has nothing to do with the story. In the spirit of consistency, today is no different. Enjoy...

It's probably hard to believe, but not too long ago people used to be able to hold an actual conversation without looking at their mobile device. Actually, it's bigger than that. People actually possessed the requisite skills to have a face-to-face conversation, and they could effectively convey thoughts without having to send a text instead. Not that long ago, you could walk down the street, sit on a beach, or be in some majestic setting like the Grand Canyon, and people would actually be looking around...taking it all in, instead of staring like zombies at their smartphones.

So, just about the time I’m starting to feel melancholy about all the things that are different now, the WPFW music stops and I’m instantaneously reminded that one thing hasn’t changed. For as long as I can remember, this specific sound has been EXACTLY the same. All of the sudden, the peace of the moment was interrupted by the unmistakable tone of the Emergency Broadcast System. Admit it…you know the annoying sound I mean.

The EAS sound effect

It’s odd too, because if ever there was an area for progress, this is it. Can’t they change that to a Sinatra tune or maybe even some rendition of Ave Maria? This literally has to be the same noise they played when Sputnik was orbiting. I mean really, we can do open heart surgery with a cell phone app (you know it’s coming) but we can’t upgrade this nails-on-a-chalkboard emergency alert. Sure…I know they’re trying to get people’s attention with some highly annoying noise…but seems to me they could just play Lady Gaga or Justin Bieber or about anything composed 1980.

So, while somewhat nostalgic, the never changing EAS signal was yet another reminder that not all from the past is worth hanging on to. Change is good…but I still miss that '72 Olds.

 Ruby...

...and I'm thinking about Saturday's headline

If you google the name Louis Gawthrop…you’ll soon find he is an eminent scholar and professor at the University of Baltimore’s College of Public Administration. He is also the author to more than several books, including one entitled “Public Service and Democracy: Ethical Imperatives for the 21st Century.” On top of all this, he is the son of an IBEW construction electrician from the local union in Baltimore, and as a result of this lineage, he carries a special appreciation for the challenges and opportunities facing workers and their families.

I’d heard rave reviews about him before taking his ethics class about 10 years ago as part of a Public Administration Master’s program, and wondered if he could really live up to all the advance billing. To be honest, I don’t remember the content of what he said the first day he walked into class (not surprising really…I also don’t remember what happened yesterday), but I do recall being spellbound. He literally smacked of wisdom, and was full of enthusiasm, wit and charisma. He also had a gleam in his eye that suggested he had at least some of the answers to the ethical dilemmas that plague so many of us.

His lectures were fascinating, but it wasn’t long before it was evident that he was raising more questions than answers. Frustrated by the lack of tangible guidance…I pressed him throughout the course of the class to offer more in the way of clear direction, or to point to some sort of beacon we could look to when faced with a myriad of ethical questions. He always resisted, and while he might offer some literary tidbit or piece of cryptic scripture, too often he followed my questions to him with his own questions back to me. At least to me…this really was quite unsatisfying.

I suspect he wasn’t thrilled with my constant inquiries, and finally toward the end of the quarter, he finally offered up a gem. After being asked for the twentieth time to provide some nugget of genuine insight, he stopped, sat down on the corner of the desk, smiled…and said something like this…

Well…here’s what I do. Every time I’m at some moral intersection, and faced with at least a couple of choices, I always try to remember to pause. I don’t always do it…but I try. When I do, I try to take a minute and think about my menu of options, and if I’m considering something that might be questionable (we usually recognize when it is), I try to take a couple of seconds to envision what I’m about to do, and how it would look as a headline on the front page of tomorrow’s USA Today. I really try to picture the above-the-fold bold print…and all that would read it…and whether or not it’s something I’d want publicized or be proud of when they did. When I do, I often make another choice. I don’t do it all the time…but this small practice helps me more often than not.

Wow…there it was…short, straightforward and uncomplicated. I remember it resonated the minute I heard it…and to me…it seemed like a genuine jewel. Like Dr. Lou…I don’t use it all the time, and actually, even when I do, I can still make a questionable choice. This manifests itself in a myriad of ways (like whether or not to have a fifth glass of wine when four was plenty, or if I really need to be in that vendor’s suite at the 50-yard line), and though I often still choose poorly, at least I think about the ramifications. Thankfully, those times when I truly contemplate the magnitude of the potential headline…I take a better path. I remember talking to my dad about his when I was a kid, and he said something that should have resonated more. “Son…there is no right and wrong…there are only consequences.”

Where (and when) I went to high school…this song was the bomb. Have a great weekend.

Everybody wants me to be what they want me to be...