...and I need to get out more

The other day I took a rare stroll on a couple of floors of the building where I work to thank several folks that have poured their hearts and souls into some of the organization’s important work of late. It didn’t take a whole lot of time, and though it happens way too infrequently, the practice of walking around and popping my head into a colleague’s office or cubicle is just something I enjoy.

Sadly, though warned by wise mentors long ago not to chain myself to the desk or to rely too much on electronic communication, the occasions where I actually leave my office to visit people face-to-face in their workspaces are far too sporadic.  However each time I do, it’s a vivid reminder of the importance of people and the truly good work that so many of them do. It’s also a clear indication of how their collective efforts are directly connected to any credit that ultimately comes my way…and that recognition causes me to remember one of the first instances where I truly gained an appreciation for how all their efforts are connected to my good fortune.

When I first started running work in the construction trade as a union IBEW electrician in California, I was consummate micro-manager. I remember running a fairly large theater project at Cal-State Northridge in the San Fernando Valley. I would spend hours and hours laying out color-coated tasks that were essentially idiot proof…so that all those on my crew would have to do is follow along in the mindless work.  I remember one day laying out some work for a seasoned journeyman wireman named Tom. He was a great guy, and as I explained all the work I’d done to ensure that we simply had to connect the red life-safety system boxes and the blue power boxes and the orange lighting junction boxes…I looked up and caught him smiling. I asked him what was so funny…and distinctly remember him saying “nothing.”

After being pressed a bit he confessed that he felt that while my idiot-proof layout system was impressive, it wasn’t particularly challenging for a skilled veteran like him. I remember standing there listening to this cat twice my age diplomatically imply that he was just as capable laying out the work as I was…and that I could just give him the blueprints and move onto more important planning work. I remember asking him “so you think you can lay out all this work?” and being stunned when he arrogantly replied “why don’t you just let me give it a try?” So, disgusted, I remember thinking if this guy wants to crash-and-burn and learn a lesson…I’ll gladly get out of the way.

I remember returning later in the day, horrified (but feeling validated) at the idiotic way Tom had approached the work. He was standing on a ladder…installing some conduit below the decking in a manner that was completely opposite of the way I’d laid out. I tried to keep my cool, but it was so antithetical to what I’d suggested…it really was quite an insult. I remember asking him why the heck he’d done it that way…and as he calmly explained, my horror intensified as I realized that his way…actually made more sense. To add insult to injury, it was also clear his way was markedly more efficient.  Though somewhat humiliating, I immediately gave Tom a longer leash, and it wasn’t long before his talents and those of many other competent electricians were building that complicated theater…and making me look like an all-star foreman.  

The transformation wasn’t immediate, but ever since that day, I’ve strived to be the quintessential macro manager (not sure that’s a word…but presumed it’s the opposite of micro). Interestingly, by delegating work to others that are not only competent, but in many cases far more so than me, I’ve been able to float along and climb up the ladder on the coattails of their hard work. At every turn,  the people I work with have been smarter than me…and by giving them a lot of latitude…it usually worked out very well for me.

Because I’m a very slow learner, there are still too many times when I forget these valuable lessons. Even now, there are days when I attempt to do too much and when that happens, it usually backfires. However, those times when I do just get out of the way, it is always amazing how so many good people put it all together. The last couple of weeks served as yet another reminder of this successful blueprint. While it’s fresh in my mind, I’m going to try to spend less time at my desk, and more time with the people that do the real work…even if it’s just to stroll by to thank them for all they do.

Believe it or not...I've actually won a Karaoke contest or two with this tune. I didn't sing it like this though...and it didn't sound near this good. Set aside 3 minutes and 50 seconds to enjoy some chill time before the insanity of the day. Have a great weekend...and I apologize for the annoying Grooveshark video advertisement.

Enjoy this musical gem

...so don't sweat the small stuff

So…I’ve been writing this in a blog format online for a while now, and though it started kind of slow with virtually no real following…that lack of initial interest has actually tailed off to the point where the only page clicks these days are from my own IP address. According to the stats page, there have been approximately 3,374 pageviews since inception, and about 3,365 of them have been from my computer. To be honest, things got so bad a few months ago that I promised to stop writing it. Unfortunately I made the threat to quit on this blog so nobody really saw it. As often happens with me though, the complete disinterest and total lack of response buoyed me to carry on…if for no other reason than I would have an exclusive site to visit my own work.

According to the experts, the most important ingredient necessary to drive folks to a blog is good content. The idea is if you write well, or if the subject matter is interesting, people will feel compelled to visit, come back and ultimately promote your site. Knowing that wasn’t an option for me, I looked at a couple of other ways to supposedly draw folks to the page.

Yet another ingredient to blog success is to post frequently, but I can barely scrap up the creative energy to crank out subpar content for this once-a-week Friday format, so additional writings is not really not an option either.  So (that’s the second sentence starting with so) knowing that substantive ingredients like quality work and increased frequency weren’t realistic, I wondered if a blog didn’t work like most things in life, and that maybe I could just dazzle folks with more BS instead. Much to my delight…this is apparently possible. While fundamental elements like the ones alluded to above are best, there are also tricks you can use to drive unsuspecting internet viewers to your work. Who knew?

Apparently, one of the tricks is to use words that people often search. In light of that, my infomercial rants about revolutionary products like the Oreck DualMax air purifier (you can get it at www.trydualmax.com ) or great investments like  $273 faith seeds (www.yourbreakthroughhour.com) where Dr. Todd Koontz provides the scriptural answers essential to reaping a perpetual harvest (harvest is code here for tons of U.S greenbacks). There’s a 53 minute video available on that site, and if you really want to wisely spend an hour of your life, I can’t encourage you enough to check it out. Todd makes a lot of references to “good decision making” in the video, so If you want to spite him and make a really bad one, dial Todd’s number right now (803) 578-1000) and sow a $273 dollar seed. As Todd notes in the video, the turnaround time on your financial miracle is virtually hours away. So (#3), this paragraph was totally unnecessary, except to ensure that folks who have a life’s wake of bad decisions and are attempting to turn their lives around by making yet another, will be drawn here when they search things like $273 dollar faith seeds.

Yet another great trick is to use online tools like Twitter, but after having an account longer that most people (set it up in about 2007 after hearing about it at an IBEW conference) my age, I only have three followers. To be honest I only had two until a couple of days ago, when a colleague signed up because she felt sorry for me. One of the problems could also be that I haven’t sent many tweets (did from another account I’d set up when I couldn’t remember my password), but I really can’t figure out why people would care about what I have to say. Hey…ever have something hit you like an epiphany?  Suddenly the three Twitter followers over five years is starting to explain the robust interest in this blog.

In all honesty though, there is something to the whole good content translates to more traffic argument. Though it’s been rare, there have been a few instances when certain subjects draw both visits…and feedback. Writing about fond memories of your childhood seems to work well, especially if you can paint a picture of a Formica/metal kitchen table that everyone remembers, or some traumatic story about having your bike stolen that folks seem to relate to. Recalling stories about personal humiliation on a college football field is also a hit, and few things work better than rants about trash TV.

There was however a post a few weeks that just seemed to resonate with people. Ironically, while some of the material here tries to deal with the big stuff, the content that drew the most visitors to this site was about the small stuff. The blog that week was based on the story of the old man that walked across the country, and the fact that it wasn’t the big obstacles (mountains, deserts and rivers) that he found demoralizing (Click here to read) Quite to the contrary, as he viewed those intimidating often insurmountable hurdles as challenges. It was however the sand in his shoes that almost cause him to throw in the towel, and it was this admittedly little thing, that became the most annoying over time.

Since posting that little piece, I’ve been on kind of a personal crusade to find out what it is that annoys people, or what they’d change (both at home and work) to make their life better. True to the old man and the sand story, I’ve been intrigued by the seemingly trivial nature of the responses, as for the most part is hasn’t been big requests, but rather some minor adjustment people would make. In essence, it’s the small stuff…or the little things…that make the difference. Think about what often starts fights, ends friendships, sinks marriages, causes people to quit jobs, or makes them think about quitting their quest to walk across the country, it’s not the big stuff…it’s the little things…it’s the sand.

What’s the meaning of this? Well, if your life is anything like mine of late, you’ve been inundated with what seems like almost weekly reminders of the fragility of life. Our time here is so precious, and we have a duty to honor it by not sweating the small stuff. It is the little things that make us want to give up…and it’s the little things that make a difference in our lives…and in the lives of others. This weekend, don’t sweat the small stuff, and do something seemingly little to make someone’s life (and yours) better. Be extra nice to a colleague, friend or loved one, smile at a stranger (or someone you know), set aside a piece of clothing for the homeless shelter or give some food to someone you know that’s hungry. If you have the opportunity these next few days (you will), say please and thank you. If you can, you may also want to pick up the phone and call your mom (or your dad).

Have a great weekend.

BTW...they've even screwed up Grooveshark...so you may have to watch/listen to a 10 second video before the song.

Seems like everytime you stop and turnaround...

...and every day...we lose a little more style

The popular AMC’s Television series Mad Men effectively depicts both the good and the bad of the 1950s and early 60s era. However the show’s dapper lead character Don Draper, has at least contributed to a romanticizing of period’s style and fashion. Thin ties, elegant dresses, felt hats, tailored suits, Lucy Strikes and Martini shakers dominate each episode, and you can’t help but watch the show without noticing you don’t see any more in the real world  what you see each week on the show. This past weekend was a perfectly good example.

Last Friday,  (Good Friday), my wife and I were sitting at the bar of nice restaurant here in town when three kids that looked like they could have just as well been wearing Pampers walked in sporting swaddling clothes and flip-flops and took the remaining open stools to our immediate right. The bartender checked their respective IDs, and I heard him say “1991…yep…you’re good.” Apparently if you were born sometime last week before April 13^th, 1991, it’s OK to drink alcohol. I wasn’t really listening when the kids ordered, but the cocktails prepared by the bartender (who also looked to be about 12), were some sort of fluorescent colored concoctions that looked better suited for the crowd at Chuck e Cheese. The toddlers finished their Shirley Temples in about two minutes…and slithered out the door to continue their adolescent adventure…no doubt three Red Bulls with a shot of Hawaiian Punch and a splash of lime-flavored rum (with cinnamon on the rim).

My wife asked what they had ordered, and the bartender named each drink (none of which we’d ever heard of) and described the largely sweet contents of each cocktail. Two of them were rimmed with sugar and cinnamon. The bartender went to explain that the drinks were actually pretty popular with young people, and I can’t help but think Mad Men’s Don Draper would have walked out simply on principle.

After this experience I got up on Saturday feeling old and limped down to the couch and begin the day. I really should have brushed my teeth, but my back hurt and I was tired, so I just grabbed a Maple Leaf cookie instead. I flipped open the laptop and googled the top 10 drinks, and quickly found out there are a hundred such lists containing many concoctions I’ve never heard of…including a Caribbean Breeze, Ruby Relaxer and a Fruit Tingle. I then searched for the top ten songs…and that list was even worse. I’m not making this up…I was zero for ten. It’s not like they even sounded vaguely familiar either. They are the top ten songs…and I don’t know one of them…and only recognize about two of the so-called “artists.”

1.     Some like you – Adele (Heard the name…but couldn’t pick her out of a lineup. I can guarantee I’ve never heard the song)

2.     Call me maybe – Carly Ray Jepsen (Call me stupid, but I don’t have a clue about the song of Carly Ray)

3.     Part of me – Katy Perry (Nope…no part of me has ever heard of the song or the singer)

4.     Rolling in the deep – Adele (How could two of the top 4 be from someone I don’t recognize?)

5.     Set Fire to the rain – Adele (This can’t be happening)

6.     Somebody that I used to know – Gotye (Nobody I ever knew or know now. Never heard of her/him/it…NEVER)

7.     Boyfriend – Justin Bieber (Finally…I have heard of her)

8.     What makes you beautiful – One Direction (Presuming it’s a group…but I don’t know…don’t recognize the song of the singer/group)

9.     We are young – Fun (I am not young…and I don’t know the song or the group. Really now…could Fun honestly be their name?)

10.  Take Care – Drake (Unless it’s the hotel in Chicago…I’m drawing a blank here. Don’t know the song…and have no idea is a him or a her)

I then searched for the top 10 movies. This wasn’t quite as bad…but still…most of the top flicks were news to me.

1.     Hunger Games (A couple of teenage colleagues mentioned this recently…but until then, I’d never heard of it)

2.     Wrath of the Titans (“Remember the Titans” maybe…but unless this is the sequel, this means nothing)

3.     Mirror Mirror (No clue No Clue)

4.     21 Jump Street (Old TV show maybe…but a movie?)

5.     Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax (Cat in a Hat yes…Lorax…no)

6.     John Carter (Again…Jimmy or Billy yes…John no)

7.     Salmon Fishing in Yemen (Never heard of it…but honestly, just by the title…you’re thinking what I’m thinking…Zzzzz)

8.     Act of Valor (Vaguely familiar…is this the SEAL flick?)

9.     A Thousand Words (I’m drawing two thousand blanks…NEVER heard of it)

10.  Journey 2: The Mysterious Island (Presuming it’s not the music group…never, ever heard of this movie or even Journey 1)

Thankfully, on Easter morning, I was back in more comfortable territory. Early on Sundays, AMC shows reruns of  Mad Men,  and on this episode, Don Draper and his wife (Betty) were at a classic old-school restaurant when the waiter came over and took their order. She asked for a vodka gimlet, and he ordered a Manhattan…straight up. Betty then proceeded to ask for “the filet of sole,” and Don followed by requesting “the lobster.” This caught my ear, for several reasons. First and foremost, the two drinks, the gimlet and Manhattan, were the exact two cocktails my mother and Dad often ordered. The classic way the Draper’s  were dressed also brought back memories, as both my father and my mother would never think of going out without their Sunday best. All this got me lamenting once again about the demise of style…and how the things I grew up loving are all fading away. There is this sense that the game is passing me by, and I can’t help but linger a bit each time I pass the Sunrise Assisted Living facility on Connecticut Ave.

A little later on Easter morning, the otherwise glorious day and my now seemingly trivial thoughts were instantly transformed by the shocking news of a colleague, mentor and friend’s untimely passing. Some of you that read this regularly will know who it is, but at least for this public venue, the identity of the person for those that do not strikes me as neither useful or particularly  appropriate. He did however epitomize style, and when he walked into any room, he carried with him a cache of class that would make Don Draper feel like first-year cub apprentice. The best part of him to me though was the way he treated people like me…and I can only hope to emulate his mastery of that skill in some very small way.  His passing was yet another reminder of the fragility of life, and how the most special of people can be zapped from this earth in a literal instant, in ways that at least to me, will never be explainable or fair. Never.

Anyone that knew him well will miss him for a long time…but like most of these teachable wake up calls, the glaring lessons of such loss will stick with me for way too short of time. For a few weeks, I’ll probably remember to greet folks with a warm hello and to treat them a little better too. For about a week or so, the importance of family, friends, balance and life outside of work will be in the forefront of my mind. There will even be a couple of days, where I fantasize about what else I could or should be doing, but that will fade quickly…and it won’t be long before I’ve flipped the priority pyramid back upside down.

Have a great weekend…and if you can…try to take a few moments to do the things that matter most. Live, laugh, love and dance like nobody is watching. With just one bad phone call, text message, or diagnosis, much of the stuff we too often stress about will become instantly unimportant.

A few months back, a couple of us were at one of the nicer old-school restaurants in town  when my friend asked the owner if I could play the piano the next time the regular guy took a break. I wrote about here shortly after it happened, and at least to me, it was magical. One of the songs I played was this one…and when I finished and walked back to the bar…he smiled and said “Autumn Leaves…now that’s one of my favorites.”

For style...

...well...it's actually Thursday but..

…tomorrow is Good Friday*

Though my early years were spent attending Hollywood Presbyterian church in Hollywood, California, we later moved to the First United Methodist Church in Santa Monica. Donald Shelby was the pastor for most of my time in that flock, and man could he deliver a sermon. We’d get printed copies of his messages the following week, and I often would go home and try to recite the sermons...just like pastor Shelby. He actually thought I might be a good candidate for the seminary. So while he could mesmerize the flock with his homilies, he was not too good at identifying future men of the cloth. Like those before him, he also had a profound influence on my early life…especially as a teenager. In addition to my parents, I suspect he as much as anyone was largely responsible for keeping on the straight-and-narrow when many of my peers seemed to be struggling.

For much of the time while attending that church, I served in the acolyte/crucifer corps. We didn’t have anything like that at the Hollywood church, and was neat to be involved in the services in what I thought at the time was such an important way. The duty was always interesting and fun, and as the son of a proud WWII and Korean War Vet, my no-nonsense father always ensured I squared off my turns and performed the assigned tasks with the utmost of decorum and reverence. The Maunday Thursday service is a big deal for any acolyte, but for the Crucifer, the role is truly center stage. While serving as an acolyte I’d always hoped I’d get the opportunity to be a crucifer at that important service on the eve of Good Friday, and the second year I became a crucifer, I got the nod.

At the special evening service, the crucifer was to carry the Christ candle. It would be placed on a table in the middle of the chancel, and remain lit for the entire service. About halfway through the service, the crucifer would also coordinate the Communion. He (it was later opened to young women too) would stand there in the center of the chancel, decked out in the red and white robe, ensuring that the trays were good and ready each time the serving clergy returned for another supply. Later in the service, the all lights in the sanctuary would be dimmed down to total darkness, and the only remaining light would be from 12 candles (six on each side of the chancel) representing the disciples and their denials, and the one Christ candle carried in by the crucifer. As Pastor Shelby would read the Easter story, one of the twelve candles would be extinguished after each denial of Christ. Near the end of the story, there would be only two candles remaining. Then…in almost total darkness, Shelby would read the following:

"Truly I say to you that this very night, before a cock crows, you shall deny Me three times . . .Then he began to curse and swear, "I do not know the man!" And immediately a cock crowed. And Peter remembered the word which Jesus had said, "Before a cock crows, you will deny Me three times." And he went out and wept bitterly."

With that, the last of the 12 candles was extinguished.

After a couple of versus…Shelby concluded the story with this these words “He rolled the stone against the door of the tomb.” That was the crucifer’s cue. He would slowly get up in hushed silence and near total darkness, and walk over and carefully raise the candle. Ever so slowly…in light provided only by that one candle…the crucifer would walk down the center aisle of the church. Ushers would be waiting and hold-open the narthex door. At the point, the congregation would be left sitting there, in complete darkness, and the organ bell would toll 33 times. At that point, the crucifer would re-enter the sanctuary carrying the still lit candle and proceed down the center aisle and then return the candle to the table on the chancel. Again, after a dramatic delay, the lights would SLOWY come up to half-bright…and the congregants would respectfully and quietly file out of the sanctuary.

But that’s not how it went down the first year they gave me the ball. When Shelby clicked off his pen light shortly before reciting “He rolled the stone against the door of the tomb,” I just sat there. I wasn’t frozen, I just reasoned it would be a bit more dramatic to wait a while. I’m not sure how long I waited, but Shelby was whispering to me to get going, and I just sat there (probably no more than thirty seconds). Then I pretty much performed the duty at described above…expect on the return. After the organ bell tolled 33 times, I waited a bit longer again (probably another 30 seconds)…and walked back into the sanctuary carrying the candle ever so slowly. When I got about two-thirds of the way down the aisle, I unexplainably stopped and just stood there. Again, after about 30 seconds, I lifted the candle fully above my head…and walked as slow as one can up the chancel steps to return the lighted Christ candle to its proper place.

In my mind, it was a flawless performance. However telling me I’d done well, Shelby approached me after the service and asked what was up with the script change. He wanted to know if my nerves had caused the initial delay, and if that was responsible for the delay before reentering the sanctuary. I told him no, and that while I was indeed nervous, I had done it that was because I just thought it would be kind of cool…and a little more dramatic. Shelby smiled, and then told me to do it that way every time. He also said the Maunday Thursday crucifer duty would be mine as long as I wanted it, and I continued to serve for the next six or so years. For the last couple of years, even during my freshman year at UCLA and after moving on to the church’s usher corps, I continued to do the Maunday service. Until moving to a ski resort in Northern California,  I continued to do it believing that somehow it was mine.  

Other than weddings, Bar or Bat Mitzvahs, funerals, concerts, or a few occasional Christmas services to make my visiting mom happy…I really don’t get into many places of worship much anymore. As a matter-of-fact, after growing up rather devote and NEVER missing a Sunday, other than playing old hymns on the piano or guitar, I’ve pretty much trended away from the whole thing. I can’t help noticing though that I’m a far worse person than when I regularly attended. Back then, I didn’t drink, I didn’t cuss, I didn’t smoke, I didn’t lie (OK…there was the whole geometry test thing…and telling my parents I’d studied…and shoplifting the candy bar from Pico Drug…and knocking off the Bank of America…just kidding), and things that would make me literally make me sick to my stomach…I now tolerate with a casual shrug of the shoulders. It’s actually worse than that really…as I suspect there are an increasing number of times when evil doesn’t even register as wrong. Not sure why that is really…but there is no question it’s true. I want to think it has something to do with becoming wiser with age (or actually recognizing that I know less than I thought), or maybe about becoming more tolerant as one evolves…but I fear it’s really something far less flattering.

So, whether you’ve left a seat open for Elijah or you’re looking forward to a Sunday holiday ham…or maybe even if you’re destine to shovel coal for eternity like me, make it a truly nice, long, restful, and well-deserved holiday weekend.

A couple of Sundays ago, my wife and I were watching Showtime’s gritty (and often vulgar) show “Shameless” (I would not have tolerated the contents of this show when I was younger), which centers around the dysfunctional family of alcoholic/drug addict Frank Gallagher…a single father of six children living in a rough area of Chicago. While he spends his days drunk and usually behaving in some unbelievably depraved manner which sets new weekly lows, his kids resist the odds and struggle to take care of themselves. At the end of a particularly tough show, the song below played out over the credits. I had never heard of the group or the tune, but for some reason, the melody and the lyrics just grabbed me. Perhaps it might do the same for you. Besides, it’s only about four and a half minutes out of your morning…and it’s not a bad way to start a Friday…or even a Maunday Thursday.   

Get on the road...

*A slightly different version of this was originally sent as an It’s Friday email (before the blog) on Thursday, April 21^th, 2011

Sorry too for the typos, misspelligns and grammar bad

...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