...and I'm not the only one here

On Thursday morning my wife and I were boarding a 7am U.S. Airways flight from Fort Lauderdale to Reagan National in Washington, DC. As we waited in the gate area, I was once again struck by the bad behavior demonstrated by so many air travelers. The price-based economy airline culture has created a race-to-the-bottom Walmartization of the airline industry that’s essentially bred a generation of travelers who are willing to pay $5 dollars for a latte but seem content to be herded like cattle when boarding an airplane. This deteriorating environment seems to has fostered a condition where an increasing number of folks essentially ignore all instruction, and behave as though they were the only people on the face of the planet.

If you listen to the pre-boarding announcement, the airline is pretty clear about how the process should work. However regardless of the repeated instruction, folks seem determined to disregard the directions and scurry like sheep to toward the gate regardless of their boarding zone. Additionally, though warned repeatedly throughout the airport and several times during the pre-board announcement that FAA rules restrict travelers to one carryon and one personal item, legions of flyers brazenly overlook the instruction as though they’re somehow entitled to board like the Beverly Hillbillies.

Due to our allegiance to U.S. Airways, we were privileged to board early and were thus treated to witness the lunacy of the entire boarding fisaco. As people piled on the plane toting multiple pieces of luggage, oversized duffel bags, dirty pillows, Himalayan backpacks, totes, shopping bags, garment bags, and roller boards the size of a 67 Chrysler, folks stood in frustration as periodic passengers would spend about five minutes stuffing crap into the overhead, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were blocking the path to literally dozens of fellow passengers. Essentially, their message was, “this flight is for me and screw you if you’re behind me.” As the chaos continued, the clearly frustrated flight crew made repeated announcements about the need to be on time, and implored folks to board quickly, because many fellow passengers had tight connections in DC. At the tail-end of the announcement, the flight attendant repeatedly pleaded…“please be mindful of others.” There was an almost condescending tone in her voice, as though she was speaking to a room of poorly behaving kindergartners. Given what was going on though…it seemed perfectly appropriate.

If you’ve wasted your precious time reading any of this weekly drivel before, you already know I’m increasingly disgusted by the decline of general civility and often discouraged by what seems like an irreversible focus on one’s self at the expense of any consideration for their fellow human beings. While unpolished and far from an Emily Post aficionado myself, for some reason this societal de-evolution strikes me particularly when traveling by air, perhaps because I don’t like the increasingly poor behavior I see in myself. However it must also be that the travel dynamic (the airline industry’s own baggage fee policies have not helped) is so conducive to self-focus that it provides the perfect environment for bad behavior. It stands to reason though that this regrettable descent is really not restricted to air travel, and that the refusal of increasing numbers of individuals to recognize their obligation to their fellow brethren manifests itself in any number of growing venues. It probably happens everywhere, and when I think about the struggles I have in my own life, I can’t help but wonder how much grief could be avoided if I simply remembered to “be mindful of others.”

As I grow older, there are often few things in life that seem like absolute truths. However one that seems to stand the test of time for me is the proverbial golden rule.  Studying up on the concept, it appears that every major religion, and even atheism, have some tenet that stresses the importance of treating others the way you yourself would prefer to be treated. Sadly, there is no question that I apply this decree less now at fifty than I did when I was twenty. Not sure why that is really…but there is no question it’s true.  However, when I look back on my own life, regardless of the circumstance, it’s vividly clear my best days occur when I recognize there are other people around that are affected by my actions. 

Whether I’m boarding a plane, changing lanes on the beltway, getting in line at the grocery store, failing to communicate with a colleague or about to send a snarky email, it’s easy to rationalize such behavior by focusing on my immediate wants and needs. However, the increasingly fewer times when I devote just a few seconds thinking about what I’m about to do and whether or not I’d want it done to me, I thankfully make a different choice. Now, sometimes I actually do the total opposite. Every once in a while I really do go off on somebody…and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t feel good too. But the satisfaction is usually quite temporary, and I’m usually reminded in short order why it’s not usually the best approach. It really is a pretty simple time-tested principle, and our homes, our workplace, and our world would all be a whole lot better if we were all just a little more mindful of others.

If you see me today, don’t hesitate to remind me to keep that in mind.

There’s a Target TV commercial where a bunch fluorescent clad maniacs are running around like crack addicts on crystal meth. The tune that plays during the ad is a jazzy version of a French children’s song that should make you smile. It’s Friday, so have a great day and wonderful well-deserved weekend.

This should make you smile

...and I really have to get out more

It was an epic day in Southern California heading east on the 126 from Ventura County over to Santa Clarita and the Golden State Freeway (The 5). It had rained several days before and the mountains to the north and east were still sporting a fresh coat of snow. To add to the scene, a burgeoning high-pressure system forced a gentle eastern Santa Ana breeze to blow through the canyon giving the air a crystal-clear look and feel. The sky was cloudless and bright blue…and the glistening palm trees swayed in the warming offshore wind.

As I made my way through towns like Fillmore, Piru and by passed fruit stands and the location for the old Baa, Baa Black sheep TV series (Indian Dunes Airport),  I was stuck at how pretty this part of California can be…especially on a perfect day. Willie’s Roadhouse blared on the Avis Impala’s Bose stero system, and as I cruised through orange groves, lemon orchards and Avocado trees, songs like Buck Owens’ “The keys in the mailbox come on in” and Bobby Bare’s “Tequila Shelia” serenaded me from channel 56 of the car’s XM radio.

It had been a good visit as these California trips go. The previous days were spent doing chores around my mom’s house (repairing sprinklers, cleaning rain gutters, fixing a rotted gate and cleaning up the back yard) and for some reason, I didn’t let the little things ( like the fact that we had to leave for dinner at 4:30 each afternoon) aggravate me the way they often do. I suppose it could have been the afternoon exercise…or the cigar breaks I’d take while sitting in the sun when returning from the six-mile orchard runs, but for some reason, I was just more relaxed and actually enjoyed the time. Even eating dinner in the later afternoon didn’t bother me…and I actually found myself enjoying the early meals (suppose it could have been the bottles of Pinot I was mainlining).

We ate at several of the town’s gems including the Mupu Grill and Logden’s (the café at the Santa Paula Airport). At each location we were joined by other senior friends of my mother, and they all seemed to enjoy chatting about various subjects including the evils of big government, the Keystone pipeline (no kidding…it was raised by others at every meal) and the rising cost of gasoline. Though this is hardly a deep and extensive sampling, most of the older folks I visited with also appeared to harbor a general discontent with the way things are done (or more not done) in Washington. Several of the people we dined with encouraged me to do what I could to get the leadership in the nation’s capital to wake up (boy…has my mom been lying about my position and influence). It was classic small town Americana…and though it was only miles from the Pacific Ocean, it seemed representative of the way many places in this country look…and the way at least some of its people think.

On the flight back to Philly from LAX, I gazed out the window thinking about the last couple of days in the citrus farming town of Santa Paula. We took off over Playa Del Rey…but made a big left turn over Catalina before heading over the glistening Pacific toward Long Beach and the eastern suburbs of Los Angeles. Before long we were north of the snowcapped San Gabriel and San Bernardino Mountains and the high desert town of Victorville. Soon it was Barstow, Baker, Las Vegas, the Grand Canyon, Colorado Springs, the flatlands of western Nebraska and on and on (it got pretty cloudy so I pulled down the shade and got out my laptop).

Gazing out at all the vastness reminded me of the days I used to drive from Los Angeles to North Dakota. As I’d head north on Interstate 15 and then across Wyoming on 80, the landscape was littered with small towns and charming eateries like the ones described above…all full of local folks that would sit around in overalls and baseball caps and solve the world’s problems. It’s a scene just like the one I’d experienced the last few days…but it is completely antithetical to the country’s glitzier major metropolitan cities. However when you make a cross-country flight (or better yet…if you make the actual drive)…you notice there’s a lot more of places that look like rural Santa Paula then there are cities that resemble New York or San Francisco.  

For the most part, the hardworking people that live in these flyover areas see things pretty simply. They’re certainly not always right… but they also don’t unnecessarily confuse straightforward decision making with the perpetual analysis and endless circular discussion that conspire to cause me to deliberate for weeks over an issue a bus driver, teacher, fire fighter, farmer or plumber would figure out in about 10 seconds. As always happens on these now too few occurrences, this trip outside the Beltway and the real-world time spent chatting at the main street coffee klatches was a reminder of my better days…long before the arrogance of affluent DC ivory-tower elitism clouded my North Dakota rooted better judgment. It reminded me I have to talk less and listen more. It also revealed I need to get out more…back to the people…and away from the snobbery that fools me into thinking I know what’s better for folks than they do.

While jamming south on the 405 toward LAX, this song came on courtesy of XM radio. Given my train of thought…it couldn’t have been more apropos (see…before I lived in DC…I would have just used and word like fitting). Have a wonderful weekend…and if you can, try to spend some time with the people that matter. At the end of the day…that is what will count. Most of the other hogwash that takes up our time would vaporize in a nanosecond in the face of a bad diagnosis or the realization that we had a very limited amount of time. Do the stuff that matters…do the stuff that counts…do something you enjoy with the people (and pets) that you love.

A message from the people...

As always...sorry for the bad grammar...typos...and poor spelling

...and I wish I was more like my dad

A couple of weeks ago, there was a story posted here about getting jacked for my brand new Ross 3-speed bike at knife-point when I was just a young slug. It was a traumatic experience for a kid that grew up in the “Father Knows Best” setting of West Los Angeles. Aside from the harrowing episode of having my prized wheels ripped off, I recall being cognizant of the economic impact of the crime on our middle class family.

My father, who was a union electrician and sole income-earner of our “Leave it to Beaver” household, made good money thanks to the benefits of collective bargaining…but a new bicycle with all the bells and whistles was still a stretch for my depression era father...and my recollection was that it had cost my parents something in the neighborhood of $80.00. That was big money in the late 60s…and though he was happy I wasn’t hurt in the incident…I know it couldn’t have been easy for him to see that purchase just disappear.

Several weeks later…sometime in January, I returned home to find a brand new forest green Schwinn 10-speed. This bike was even nicer that the one that had been stolen, and I couldn’t believe the generosity of my parents who once again sacrificed on my behalf. This new sled was a beauty…and it wasn’t long before my stolen 3-speed was a distant memory in my handle-bar mounted mirror.

Shortly after getting that bike, I got a paper route delivering the Los Angeles Harold Examine at the two 28-story Century Towers adjacent to the Hillcrest Country Club (where Milton Berle and George Burns played cards daily). I also had to ride up the center of the Hello Dolly set each day at Twentieth Century FOX studios, where I delivered five copies of the paper to the guard stand every day.

The coveted route was an afternoon gig Monday through Saturday, but on Sundays I would have to ride up Pico boulevard in the pitch dark to deliver the morning paper. I received a couple of tickets for riding without a light from a couple of LA motorcycle cops who were quintessential a-holes, so my father decided to install and generator light on the rear of my bike (the rotating tire in the back cause the light to glow).

I remember coming into the garage one weekend afternoon, and my dad had an odd expression on his face. He also looked a bit bruised up…and he went on to explain what had just happened. You see, shortly after installing the light, my dad took the Schwinn out for a test drive on our Ester Ave street. He rode up-and-down the pavement a few times looking back periodically to make sure the generator was working properly. As he attempted to head up our driveway…he inadvertently missed the mark and hit the curb instead. He proceeded to fly over the handlebars and land on the green parkway…but the bike hit the concrete so hard that the frame actually broke.

This was unbelievable… another brand new bike and appeared to be ruined. We took the bike up to Rancho Park Schwinn on Pico…and the crew-cutted store manager Russ (weird how you remember stuff like that)…said he’d try to weld the broken frame. I could tell my dad felt terrible…so I tried to act as though it was no big deal. A couple of days later we went to pick up the bike, and though they had done a pretty good job, you could certainly tell it had a pretty bad blemish. Again…I knew I was fortunate to have the bike (this one cost over $100)…so I tried to act as though everything was fine.

Well…a couple of days later, I returned home after school to find a brand new (Silver…tried to change the luck I guess) Schwinn 10 speed. The damaged bike was still in the garage…and my dad went on to explain Russ had made him a good deal on the second replacement Schwinn. When I asked him why he’d purchased yet another one…he responded  by saying that he could tell by the expression on my face that I was disappointed when I saw the repair on the broken frame.

Well, I kept that silver bike for the next 10 years…and literally rode it into the ground. The damaged green rig became my father’s bicycle…and some forty years later…it’s still hanging in the garage of their Santa Paula, California home. He rode it well into his 80s before passing away a few days shy of his 90th birthday.

What’s the point of all this? Well, if you think I know…I'll make you a great deal on a vintage 10-speed bike with two rotted flat tires and a damaged frame. I guess it’s just that I miss my dad…and that I wished I’d been nicer to him during certain formidable years of my life.

Whatever you’re doing this weekend...try to have some fun. If it works…spend some time with the people you love. If you can…you may even want to visit…or at least call your dad.

Have a great weekend. BTW…there was NO time to check misspellings and typos today (I don’t catch ‘em even when I do), so I do apologize.

Keep your eye on the road

...and you don't need to waste money on Insanity

Well normally I wouldn’t return to a subject like this so quickly, but I was flipping through the channels early yesterday when I spotted evangelist Dr. Todd Coontz on BET.  This time he was in a talk show setting, and he was encouraging folks to build their faith by sowing a $273 (seemed like an odd amount) “recovery seed” and then he quoted several books of the bible including Deuteronomy and Mathew. It was pretty dramatic, and God even asked Todd (I couldn’t hear God but Todd could) to stop the program and “pray over seven.” He wasn’t sure why, but I suspect when God asks you to stop the TV show and pray…you do it. He noted that God was about to bestow “favor” on 1,000 callers as long as they were willing to obey God’s (via Todd) seed sowing instructions. I know a lot of people would have been skeptical, but Todd is so good he appears on several programs including Inspiration Camp Ministries and Rockwealth.org. You see, the seed you sow determines your eventual windfall harvest…so even if you can’t be one of the “breakthrough” 1,000 initial callers, call the prayer center when you can and “come into a covenant” with god. You get three things if you do this…recovery, restoration…and he was talking so fast I didn’t catch the third. I was a little cynical, but then Todd quoted Oral Roberts. Not sure about you, but when the guy that spotted (and spoke to) the 900 foot Jesus signs on…I start dialing (Oral raps with the very big Jesus). You can call about your seed planting at 1-866-304-30304 or charge it on the web at www.YourBreakthroughHour.com.  Sow your $273 see and expect a miracle in your health, your family and your Finances.

On WDCAHD, Joyce Meyer was talking about prosperity through faith too.  You can reach her at 1-800-727-9673 or via  www.joycemeyer.org  too.  You can get a CD on enjoying relationships for “$25 or more.” If you’ve sowing any breakthrough seeds…you may as well live large and pay Joyce more than the $50 for the CD (I suspect she needs the money too…most not know about $273 seeds). She’s also selling a book called “Love Out Loud.”  I didn’t catch how much the book cost…but if you’ve been doing enough planting…do you honestly think it matters?

On another channel Bishop Harry Jackson was offering a Hope Connection that was the equivalent of a spiritual renovation. Bishop Harry had is wife of 35 years on the show and they were talking about “red flags” for relationships that are in trouble. Apparently, if you have a lot of disagreements with no resolution…you shouldn’t get married. And they claim you can’t learn anything from infomercials…I soooo didn’t know that.  You see, relationships are like a “four-legged chair.” You need to be able to 1) communicate,  2) have financial stability 3) feel sexual attraction 4) have a shared philosophy on parenting and 5) have a strong faith. You have to have at least three of those four legs to survive. Thankfully, the ability to count doesn’t seem to be a requirement to marital bliss, as both pastor Harry and his wife Michele seemed unsure about just how many ingredients you need to be successful.   You can catch Harry at the Hope Christian Church in Beltsville or on the web at www.thehopeconnection.com.

Up a couple of channels Dr. Todd Coontz was on another program called Financial Solutions with Dr. Todd Coontz. Once again, Dr. Coontz was making the connection between your ability to follow instructions to send money to him, and inevitable prosperity. Essentially, you have the choice to live a life of fear or a life of faith. Miraculously, Todd was again stopped by God to pray over “7” who were watching the program. Don’t know about you, but this is the second time this morning that Todd has talked about the number 7. Not sure what you need for a sign, but I’m dialing 1-888-400-7625 right now. You can plant a $273 seed (see above) at this phone number too. If you don’t believe me, you can read about why you do this in the book of Deuteronomy chapter 27 verse 3. Uh…anybody else notice the miraculous connection here…$273 dollars and it’s validated in the King James Bible in Chapter 27 verse 3? 1-888-400-7625. If you do this, three things will happen. One, all losses will stop. Two, Satan (Boo…I hate her) will return everything he has taken from you. And three, you will experience full restoration (that was the third).

If you’ve been so busy praying and farming for your financial health that you’ve ignored all the blemishes on your face, you can pick up the Proactiv Solution Skin Care on QVC for 2 easy paymens of $25.92. There were two people on the show (one was a doctor) and they were using really big words to convey how Proactive could get rid of the bacteria that causes acne. This was an actual 3-prong system (a little less than the five-legged chair…but nonetheless impressive), and it was markedly more scientific than my “squeeze and apply tea tree oil” approach. As  I watched, I noticed you actually receive four things (including a refining mask) so if you’re sporting a crop of zits this morning, call 1-800-345-1515. You have to use code A-223051 and you get “auto-delivery.” You may also be able to pick it up on www.QVC.com.

You can save time and money one channel up by learning about products available on www.Who.KnewBooks.com or by calling 800-589-4019. There are two books available for $29.95 where the author shows you literally millions of things you didn’t know. If you don’t want pets to jump on the furniture, you can cover it with tin foil and it will repel the animal (This was a bit bogus, because it took me literally two hours to get my cat wrapped in the aluminum foil). You can keep your razors from rusting by storing them in olive oil (BTW…this has another remarkable unintended payoff…remind me to invite you over for pasta). You can keep your red wine by storing in plastic bottles (or just finish the bottle when you open it like I do), and you can get gum off the carpet with beer.  If you put syrup on cardboard, you can get rid of wasps. Amonia gets rid of itching and pain if you get stung by bugs. If you put a fabric softener sheet in the air filter in your central AC system, it will make your entire home smell like Bounce.

At www.Ninja1100.com (or 1-800-420-1978) you can get a turbo-charged 1100 watt Ninja Kitchen System. It’s a combo blender, juicer, ice-cream maker, and food processor. No other appliance applies the three features of 1100 watt power, a technological sensing system and their patented five-blade blending system.  The Ninja actually has a side benefit, in that it makes entertaining easy. As you might imagine,  you could pay over $1500 for the four machines it would take to do what the 1100 NKS can do. If you’re among the first 500 callers, you get a free cookbook and free shipping. They’ll also double the warranty to two years, and you’re guaranteed to be satisfied for 60 days.  Perhaps most amazingly, you get all this for 5…no make it 4…easy payments of $39.95. If you sowed a $273 break-through seed, forty bucks is literally the equivalent of a pre-seed nickel.

Automotive expert Chris Jacobs, the star of the Learning channel’s hit automotive show (you’ve heard of it…you just don’t remember), is doing an infomercial for Car MD. This is an amazing system that will literally save you thousands. If you’ve ever been ripped off by a mechanic, the 16-pin device can be plugged into your vehicle’s onboard computer, and it will immediately diagnose what is wrong with your ailing sled. You run the diagnostic (even using the word diagnostic makes me feel better) on your car and then plug it into any computer and it immediately prints out what is wrong with your car! In essence, you will never be ripped off again. According to Chris, it’s like you have thousands of the country’s best mechanics at your disposal telling you instantly what is wrong with your car. Admittedly I was a bit skeptical, but this show was packed with teary-eyed testimonials from incredibly sincere people that have saved thousands. You can get this amazing product at www.carMD.com or by calling 1-800-320-4116. Call now…it’s like a personal doctor for your car that easily connects to any car on the road (made after 1996). You’ll never have to worry about getting stuck with a lemon again. They didn’t really explain this, but I’m guessing you can use it on the car lot and it will spit out some code that equates to lemon. It’s a “world class, awarding winning device.” You get over $150 in free accessories if you order now… for three easy payments of $39.95. It’s like getting it for free…and here you were laughing at my $273 restoration seeds.

If you’ve ever wasted any time exercising, you can order the amazing Flex Belt at www.flexbelt.com. This may sound like a scam, but you can use the flex belt to give you washboard-like abs while you sit if your office. There was an actress named Lisa that used to be on Melrose Place. They never really showed her abs, but she certainly could have been a credible spokesperson for botox as she looked as though she’s used the belt on her lips. The belt provides 150 flex contractions in each ½ hour session. This will take your strength and toning program to a whole new level. It also comes with some new gel pads (not sure what they do). If you use the product for 60 days and are unpleased, you can return it risk-free and receive every penny of your money back. Once again, I was a bit skeptical that I could get a surfer’s stomach while eating M&Ms and watching infomercials…but thanks to my break through seeds, I have a windfall coming so what the hell. By the way…not that you needed additional reasons to call…but the flex belt is the first product of its kind ever approved by the FDA. It comes with an on-board computer that provides 10 ab programs.

If you’d rather sweat and piss away time doing old-school exercises, Chuck Norris and Christy Brinkley are pitching the total gym for $14.95. Unless you’re feeling flush from your looming  $273 faith seed windfall, I’m not sure why you’d waste money on a gym when you could just wear the flex belt. But if you’re interested…you can pick it up at www.totalgym.com.

If you’re really a glutton for punishment and resistant to flex belt cutting-edge technology, you can literally kill yourself with Inanity’s 60-day program. The program’s host Shaun T must have a flex belt because he is ripped. If you think about it though, there’s no sense wearing the belt and eating bon bons  when you can order these CDs for 10 times the price and workout 45-minutes a day using “max-interval-training.” This is a workout where you are “drenched with sweat” and all the people on the show talked a lot about perspiration. If you order Insanity…you are going to see insane results. Shaun T will take you from good to great. There’s also a huge side benefit…because once you’ve done Insanity…every other workout will seem easy…even the flex belt workout. Take the Insanity challenge at www.beachbody.com.

You can get four training tools from the Brazilian Butt Lift that will also fix your ab problem. Like the others, it will also transform your butt in 60 days for four easy payments of $19.95. If you call in the next 20 minutes, you get $20 off. This product seemed to be somewhere between the Flex belt and Insanity. For one thing, the folks didn’t seem to be working near as hard as Shaun T’s crowd…they more or less danced a lot. More importantly…I just like saying Brazilian Butt Lift. There were a bunch of supermodels that were touting the benefits of the butt lift. I was thinking it was a sham, but then they had testimonials from folks with sagging butts…and the before-and-after pictures clearly showed lifted, perkier butts. You can work out with the show’s guru “Leandro” by calling 1-800-672-0723. Why wait…start your total booty transformation now. You’ll lose 6 pounds and 6 inches in six days. Won’t work for me though…they didn’t claim they could do anything for guys with no butts.

Now…here’s the deal. If you’re really thinking this through, you really don’t need to waste your time or money on any on this stuff because God has used Peter Popoff throughout his entire life (Peter’s…not Gods) to rid people of problems and propel them into prosperity. Peter started his show with his “precious” wife Elizabeth by noting they have traveled the world anointing “hundreds of thousands” of people. Within two seconds, Peter was pitching his miracle spring water (MSW). Peter explained that God has anointed him to heal the blind. The audience was filled with people holding their hands over their heads…many of them were crying. When Peter would say “amen,” the crowd would respond with an enthusiastic “amen.”  Peter announced that the “shackles would come off and the chains would be broken.” This was going to be the year of “supernatural divine debt cancellation.” Peter had emotional tesimonials from people cured of cocaine addiciton, paralysis, pain from five car accidents, stiffness and swelling (Peter even tossed one lady’s cane up on the stage…and the once cane-dependent woman started to dance). Several folks testified to experiences where miracle spring water was used to bring people back to life. Then, peter interviewed a woman that used miricale spring water to erase $96,000 in IRS debt.

Now…let’s just stop there. To some of you skeptics…this is going to sound stupid. I mean seriously, I suspect we can all see using the miracle spring water to heal blindness (use it like eye drops), to cure paralysis, and to bring people back to life, but the IRS?. To be honest, I don’t doubt that a couple of slugs of water cure your addition to alcohol or even bring you back from the dead. But seriously…the IRS?

Well, I don’t know what to tell you…but the stuff works. I sprinkled a little MSW on my 1040 long form, and my accountant still hasn’t called. I poured a little on the MasterCard bill I received for the $1,000 faith seeds I purchased from Todd Coontz several months ago…and yep…I still haven’t paid him (Mastercard still seems confused but my debt to Todd was divinely canceled). I poured a little MSW on my 1988 Hamilton Beach Blender and you guessed it, I now have a the equivalent of a Ninja 1100. I put a dab on each of my 10 Insanity CDs, and they turned into a flex belt. Because this is a family blog, I won’t even tell you what happened when I doused my butt in MSW…but just call me J-Lo.

I know what you’re thinking...so here it is…1-800-925-7785 or  www.peterpopoff.org.

Have a great week.  

Come and get it... 

...so don't let the sand get in your shoes

"It's not the work that kills men; it's worry." "It's not the revolution that destroys machinery, it's the friction."

At first, I wasn't entirely sure about the connection of the quotes to the free electronic iBook entitled The Art of Public Speaking I was reading during a return trip from Florida. Initially, the link between the lines and the chapter topic emphasizing naturalness (cadence, pitch, etc…) when speaking didn’t seem obvious. Essentially, the authors of the1915 book (Joseph Berg Esenwein and Dale Carnegie) were making the case against monotony, and arguing that mundane repetition is the enemy of genuineness. While it seemed like an odd reference, the more I thought about the quotes the more they resonated...and I found myself thinking about my own work life and the root of most causes of most of my job-related frustration.

You see, though I often find myself lamenting the actual work, it's really not the job that usually gets old; it's the unnecessary headwind. The ominous nature of most daily tasks are formidable enough to tempt a smarter person to throw in the towel, but like most people, I'm actually excited by the toughest of challenges. It is however the little things...the unending resistance, the annoying pushback, the aversion to even the smallest change...the friction, that too often has me perusing the Internet for retirement properties in south Florida. 

While thinking about this, I was reminded of an old story I'd read some time ago from a textbook on Public Administration. It was entitled something like "The Sand in My Shoes," and it was about an old man that walked across the United States from coast-to- coast. As you might imagine the long trek took him forever, and when he arrived on the west coast looking haggard and tired, he was asked by waiting reporters if he was ever tempted to give up when faced with crossing vast deserts and climbing over tall mountains. The old man surprised the reporters by noting that he viewed those formidable obstacles as challenges, and that he really had little problem mustering the needed will to conquer the monumental roadblocks.

"So," the reporter followed up, "you never thought about quitting?" "Oh yes" the old man replied, "I thought about it every day." "But you just stated you were motivated by the toughest of challenges...if you could cross deserts and mountains, why ever did you think of calling it quits?" "It was the sand" the old man said..."it was the sand in my shoes. After a while...it got very, very annoying."

Like the man, most of us are wired in such a way that we're happy...maybe even eager to do the toughest work. For us, it's not the size of the challenge or the frenzied pace of the work that destroys us....it's the friction. It's not the work that kills us, it's the worry. It's not the mountains or the deserts that tempt us to throw in the towel… it's the annoying sand in our shoes.

“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 (picture books), pushups, red wine, trash TV, cigars, jumping rope, my speed bag, bourbon, copious amounts of red wine 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 keeping an eye on the big things that matter most. Too often, I fear that my focus on minutia at work is the grain of sand in some valued colleague's shoe. I sure hope that isn't the case, because the job is hard enough without the perpetual friction that can bring folks down.

This week, another baby boomer passed away way too early. I wasn’t really a big fan, but every time I hear this music I find myself smiling. I also heard the episode of the Brady Bunch where he appeared (took Marcia to the prom) was the most rerun show of all time. Don’t know if it’s true…but it was reported on CNBC’s Squawk Box, so there must be some fire behind the smoke.

Have a great weekend and try not to worry. Whether it’s family, friends, a chilled straight up Manhattan, hiking, pets, a relaxing dinner, books, exercise or wine (try running with a bota bag...and burn one when you're done), do something that brings some genuine chill to your life.

Now matter how they tossed the dice...it had to be

The Album (Just click “Play All”)

and I still miss my new Ross 3-Speed

It was a genuine thing of beauty…forest green paint with bright chrome wheels and handle bars that exceeded my wildest expectations for a new bike. It was Christmas Eve 1969, and after being coaxed outside for a game of catch by my beloved uncle Ted, I returned inside to the living room of our West Los Angeles home to find a brand new, sparkling Ross 3-speed bicycle parked right next to the fireplace. There are not a lot of vivid holiday images stored in my memory banks, but the picture of that glistening new 3-speed is etched in my brain with crystal-clear clarity.

It had to be a pretty heavy lift at the time for my electrician father and stay-at-home mom. With a car payment, house note, and the intermittent construction work at the time, I can’t imagine the purchase was particularly easy for my conservative Depression era parents. As I rolled the bike outside and hopped on for the inaugural ride, I remember my father telling me to take good care of my new prized possession. As I careened up and down Esther Ave that night (this was long before helmets or even illuminated bicycle lights), I remember thinking life couldn’t possibly get any better.

A couple of weeks later I was riding my new wheels back from my friend Stanley Carmack’s house who lived in Cheviot Hills about two-miles from our place in Rancho Park (at that time, an eight year-old could travel 2 miles to a friend’s house alone on a bike…I still think that’s true but that’s a whole other subject). Just as I passed the bridge that went over the old railroad tracks into the east end of Palms Park, I notice two shady young teenagers walking toward the middle of Northvale Ave. I probably should have turned around, but I proceeded ahead and as I came upon the two, one of them held up is hand and indicated I should stop.

Not really knowing any better, I slowed to a halt to see what the two needed. When I did, the eldest of the two (I’m guessing they were about 16) put his hand on my handlebars and asked me where I lived. Not thinking, I said simply “oh…a ways away from here” and with that he instructed me to get off the bike. The other teenager looked scared, but he moved behind me and grabbed onto the bike rack to prevent me from pulling backward. The kid again told me to get off the bike, but I said I would not. The thug then jerked the handlebars and implored me to get off. He held an object I had not seen before to my stomach, and as he pushed a button, a platinum colored blade swung out. I’m guessing it wasn’t more than a four inches long, but at age 8, it looked to me like a machete.

Well, to be honest, I pretty much froze. I thought about my possible courses of action, but at the end-of-the-day, all I could figure out to do was reluctantly hop off the bike and give it up. I remember the kid climbing on my new bike and riding away with his accomplice sitting on the bike rack. It was a sobering experience that played out over-and-over in my young life, and for a long time, I was haunted by all of the things I could have done. I could have picked up a rock and clocked the guy in the head as he rode away, or ran to the nearest house (literally 50-feet away) to call the cops. I could have chased after them screaming and trying to draw attention to them (they really couldn’t ride too fast). However instead of doing any of those things, I ran home the entire two miles literally sobbing, and I was such a basket case when I finally arrived at the house that it took a good 20 minutes for me to convey to my mother what had transpired.

Aside from losing that beautiful new bicycle, I think I was probably pretty petrified about what my dad would likely do. He had grown up in a rough-n-tumble neighborhood with little in the way of excess, and I suppose I feared he would be disgusted with the way I handled the situation…and the fact that I didn’t fight for my prized bike. In retrospect, I think he probably was a little disappointed. He’d spent hours teaching me how to fight and how to defend myself, and I’m sure he thought there was little chance they would have actually stabbed me just to get my bicycle. To his credit though, if he felt any shame or disappointment he did not show it…not even a hint. I remember him trying to calm me down…and saying “it’s only a bicycle…you did the right thing.” 

That was the last I ever saw of that bicycle…or those two criminals. I was hoping to hear they’d been broadsided later that day by a car on Manning Ave, or hit by the Southern Pacific freight train as they crossed the tracks on Motor Ave by the old Tootsie Roll factory, but we never heard anything. There are literally years that pass between the times I recall that story now, but when I do I try to derive some sense of peace by telling myself those two delinquents are doing hard time at Folsom with big cellmates that have leprosy. Sometimes, I fantasize that they got the chair…and that maybe when I did electrical work I wired the substation that produced the voltage that ridded the world of their pitiful existence. (For the record…I’m not bitter).

What’s the point of all this? Well, if history really is a teacher, I’m guessing there is no point. It’s probably the best I could do at 4:34am on a Friday.

Because it is Friday, start today with a song. If you take the time to listen to this tune you might even find yourself smiling…and that really isn’t such a bad way to kick off the weekend.

Your eyes have a mist...

This past Wednesday I drove some folks over for a breakfast meeting on Capitol Hill. While sitting in the vehicle and waiting for them to wrap up, I was struck once again by the incredible differences between the east and west coasts.  This manifests itself in a litany of ways that reflect both good and bad on both regions...but nothing vividly illustrates the dichotomy more than the way people with brains see fit to use their vehicle hazard lights.

Here it was morning rush hour in the middle of the week,  and more than a few folks reasoned it was perfectly fine to double park their car in a congested traffic lane while they ran (sadly...they didn't always run) into some neighborhood joint to conduct their morning business. In most cases, they were headed in to drop-off or pick-up dry cleaning, but there were also more than a few that concluded it was appropriate to hold up others while they stopped to get a four-dollar "grande" soy latte. In several cases, the hold-up lasted more than a couple of minutes.  

Now...I find this odd for a couple of reasons. You see, people in North Dakota (did they move that state to the west coast?) simply would not do this. First off, most roads are only two lanes total so if you park in one of them you're cutting off the entire flow of traffic in one direction. Second, there are hitching posts in front of many businesses so most people still just “ride” into town. However even when visiting the big city, people raised in places like Fargo and Bismarck wouldn't presume their needs are more important than all those stuck in the lane behind them. It’s basic “do unto others” stuff. Here on the other hand, in the nation’s capital, it happens all the time…and the folks doing it are often driving high-end vehicles and don't appear to have been deprived of a top-notch education…or the minimum civilities one would assume comes with such an experience.

The weird thing is such courtesy is not restricted to folks living in the Bible Belt. Even in Los Angeles (now the west coast thing is making some sense), most people wouldn't double park (unless they'd spent time in DC). Sure, they might scream an expletive at you for saying hello, or pop a cap in your right-rear quarter panel for cutting them off on THE 405, but they'd never double park and stop traffic. For one thing, people in LA inconvenienced by such rudeness would never stand for such crap...that's why we carry (a 9mm) when we drive. I don’t really carry a gun anymore, but I do keep a pair of 9” diagonal pliers from my days as an electrician. If you double-park in front of me, expect to find your valve stems decorating the pavement when you walk out of Starbucks. That of course presumes I’m bigger (or can run faster) than you and have at least assessed that I can pull it off without getting my butt kicked.

Oddly, this self-centered bad behavior isn’t restricted to those double-parking automobiles. It’s the same principle deployed by some environmental Nazis that choose to take up a lane during the evening rush-hour as they slowly pedal up 16^th Street at 2 miles per hour blocking everyone behind them. Essentially, the message is “Screw you, my bike ride home is more important than the hundreds of you stuck behind me. Besides…you’re all idling now, your gas guzzling engines are running more and your commute is now much longer. Can’t you see…I’m saving the environment.”

So...here's the deal. If you have find yourself thinking you’re more important that every other inhabitant on the planet, fight the urge to double-park. Do your societal duty and park a couple of blocks away and walk over to take care of your errands…that way, on the few emergencies where you may have to double-park, you might have enough energy to actually jog in to pick up your chai. When you do hustle in…you’ll at least mitigate your depraved behavior by conveying to the rest of the world that you’re aware that you think you’re god and everyone else matters less than you.

OK…this is pretty cool. Aside from my paltry writing skills, the plummeting popularity of this blog also suggests my song choices need help too. Rather just one song, this quasi time machine of music will take you to a site that will play the best 20 hits of any year below. Pick a year, wait a few seconds, and the Juke Box will show you the 20 hits to select from. As best as I can tell, the music keeps playing and playing with just an occasional station identification (upchucky.com). Hope you like it..it may take a minute or two to load (I tried to check every link and I think they’re all good). Have a wonderful weekend.

 

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