Snow, Cleverness and Sweethearts

Standing in the drifting snow, my cracked plastic shovel in hand I take a few deep breaths. Waves of pain radiate along my spine just north of the belt. The pair of herniated disks howl like veteran death metal vocalists whose voices exude physical pain. Seconds before I resume the digging the blaze orange truck rounds the corner and buries the end of my driveway in a wave of snow any surfing professional would admire. The added snow isn't the concern but the packing effect of the repeated passings of the plow. Each run up the street adds a new level of difficulty to my chore. Just what my back and cracked shovel needed.
 

I wondered if the drivers of the plows use the same technique when cruising by their own home or those of their friends and family? Is there any other technique available? 

I can buy a plane ticket, rent a car and book a hotel room via the internet on my phone but there's no other snow removal technology in this country that doesn't result in burying driveways. Isn't it ironic that the plows are making the roads passable and the places the cars are parked impassable? 

I remember living in New York City where street parking in the same zip code as your apartment is comparable to hitting a scratch ticket for $1000. The plows would absolutely bury cars beyond any hope of freeing them. The owners who could simply took public transportation. The parking spots would be locked up for days until the snow melted enough to motivate the owner. 

I remember looking out the window at my landlord, Jack digging out the space in front of the walk up to the house. The plows had made a berm three feet high down the entire street. His car was double-parked down the street at his mother-in-law's house. He finished shoveling and walked off to get his car when someone driving along the street decided to park there. When Jack got back he was furious and had words with the man who refused to move the car. I cracked the window to eavesdrop. The man, dressed in a suit and dress shoes told Jack that if there was anything wrong with his car when he got back from wherever he needed to go, he would call the police. Jack accepted defeat and stormed up the walk into the first floor entrance. The man walked around his car a final time though I don't know why and headed off.
 

I heard the door slam downstairs. I looked out the window and saw Jack on the sidewalk drinking a beer. It was 9am! He put the can into a snowdrift and started shoveling again. But this time Jack was shoveling the snow into the street all around, under and on top of the slickster's car. I wasn't around when he got back, but I wish to hell I could've seen it.

Retail abounds with people giving away goods at reduced prices or for nothing at all. They make these decisions for friends, family and you guessed it, other retail employees! Sometimes it's a co-worker at the same company. Other times it's the clerk from another store. There's a mutual benefit to both involved. The restaurant worker gives out free food and then gets free cd's at the media store. The grocery store employee signs an inflated invoice for the soft drink delivery driver and then gets 30% of the take. Two employees at the same store steal customer's credit card personal information to open fraud credit cards and run up thousands in illegal purchases.

Professional courtesy or just theft? No one is really getting hurt, right? A patrolmen let's an off-duty cop off for running a red light. Celebrities get meals and hotel rooms comped though they can afford it. There are probably a hundred examples of professionals or non-professionals who take care of their own. Services and good are bartered openly every day in this country. When you're the owner of the business you're empowered to make that choice. Employees, not so much. So when politicians, law enforcement, military personnel, school administrators, financial representatives and members of the media alter the way they do business or operate simply because they're dealing with a fellow member of their club, is it professional courtesy? Is it discrimination? Is it plain old dishonesty? Corruption? I say yes to all of the above. 

In 2008 Jennifer Muir, a reporter for the the Orange County Register in California exposed how thousands of state workers obtained untraceable license plates that rendered their vehicles immune to all moving violations. Visit this link to check out the story. http://www.ocregister.com/news/dmv-189719-police-confidential.html

Do you get these kind of perks at work?

Litter Apocalypse

Six people threw their garbage on the ground in my presence over the
last two weeks. I'll describe four of the situations in detail and how
I reacted to the experience. Author disclaimer: Littering is a symptom
of acedia/indolence/sloth, one of the seven deadly sins. I experience
revulsion to an extreme degree when I see people in the act of
littering or discover evidence of said offense.
Case Study 1: Drive Thru Disgrace. I pulled up to the drive thru
window of the burger joint to pay and collect my bagged artery
blockage. I noticed the mini-van in front of me had been asked to
"pull ahead", presumably because they ordered more pseudo-food than
could be stored under the radiation lamps at any one time. I
successfully paid without dropping my change (Yes!) and received my
order. The mini-van still idled in front of me but there was space
aplenty for me to squeeze around. That's when the passenger's hand
emerged from an open window and tossed a grease-laden wrapper to the
paved driveway. The stained paper landed softly on the faded yellow
lines of the drive thru boundary. I slowly curled around the minivan,
unable to believe what I witnessed. The passenger, a sixty-ish man
with white hair and bad teeth observed me looking at him with disdain
and mouthed the question "What?". I drove on, unable to think of any
response to the perp.
Case Study 2: Fast Lane Launch. Riding along at 75mph in the center
lane of the highway, I heard it approach only at the last second. The
interior of my car reverberated with loud music until the roar of the
passing pick-up truck got my attention. It sounded like the monster
trucks I cheered for as a kid, watching them crush junk cars. Remember
Bigfoot? The truck swerved into my lane and then quickly
course-corrected. The driver must have been distracted by his
passenger who proceeded to open window and toss a fountain soda cup in
my direction. The cup hit the nose of my car. Lid and straw lifted
straight up, suspended in the wind for a moment like a graceful kite
and then was swept past the car. The cup disappeared under the car
after impact. The ice and remaining liquid detonated in a burst
resembling an array of peacock feathers, flat across the bottom and
objects lancing out in all directions. A clear liquid covered my
windshield. The truck accelerated away. I drove on in disbelief.
Case Study 3: No Excuse. I'm sitting in my car, parked in a space on
the street taking a conference call. In the Dunkin Donuts parking lot
across the street, a grey Chevy Impala with a spoiler pulls into a
spot close to the coffee shop entrance. A man wearing glasses, cap and
a plum Members Only jackets emerges from the driver's side and drops a
plastic bag tied off at the top. He looks about suspiciously and kicks
the bag under his car. He heads into D&D, passing a large trash
receptacle in the process. A moment later he emerges carrying the
rectangular box used for the purchase of a dozen donuts. He puts the
box in his trunk and drives off. My name is announced to respond to a
question on my conference call. I stumble through the answer sounding
unprepared due to my frustration with the "bag-kicker".
Case Study 4: Enough Is Enough. I pulled into the CVS parking lot and
leaned into the cold wind. The temperature dropped rapidly now that
the December sun had disappeared.  I spied a man in his early thirties
exit the drug store very rapidly. He was tall, maybe 6'4" with red
hair visible under a trucker cap. He was carrying a plastic shopping
bag as he hustled to his SUV parked in one of the closest spaces to
the door. He opened the door, removed what he bought and threw the
plastic bag on the ground. Red got in and turned on the interior
light, turning his attention to something I couldn't see in his lap. I
instantly made a course correction and made for his SUV. I picked up
the plastic bag before the wind whisked it away and knocked on Red's
window. His face registered a bit of surprise but he lowered the
window. Without hesitation I calmly said, "You dropped this." and
handed him the bag. I walked around the front of his truck feeling
both satisfied and confused.
I keep asking myself why people feel compelled to throw their garbage
on the ground. It must be a reflection of how they feel about their
environment. They hate it. Don't respect it. Or they are guilty of the
human ability to abuse something until it is utterly destroyed,
useless or extinct. Is that it? We place ourselves so far above our
environment, use what we please, discard what we will and consequences
be damned. We are guests on this planet. Not supreme beings able to
create new worlds in a week's effort. Will this implied entitlement
and self ascribed superiority over nature be our undoing? I vote yes.

You Give Me Pain

"You give me pain,
But you give me pleasure,
Get out of my life.
You give me pain,
But you give me pleasure,
Don't know what I like"

The chorus to Judas Priest's "Pain and Pleasure" when taken out of context from the rest of the song transports me be back in time to 1989. It was there, in a rectangular room reeking with the smell of sweat, lined with spongy mats and wall padding that my perception of pain altered.

Four students wearing crisp white uniforms and belts of varying color aligned in a row. Behind them a row of four more nervously await instruction. I stood in the second row. New to martial arts and the rituals of class, every day in this room offered hope and anxiety.

I was not new to an underlying theme ever-present in these classes. The theme of pain. Pain was the unseen but omnipresent instructor in the room. It was feared and respected at the same time. It's ironic that pain impaired my enjoyment of football, so much so that I decided to walk away from the game. Yet here in the dojang (dojang is Korean for training hall) pain was as certain as sweat. It might not surface in the first minute of exercise but it would be arriving shortly.

If we unpack the word 'dojang' we find that 'do' means way and jang means 'a place'.  The place where one practices the way. The way of pain. This is accurate. In that room the techniques of a martial art system were taught, some philosophy shared, spirited sparring and training occurred. But the real lesson was in the pain and the wildly successful lessons bestowed upon the students came during stretching.

Stretching the body in ways it was not accustomed to move creates an immediate reaction. Pain is the result.  From the McGraw-Hill Science and Technology Encyclopedia we find this description of pain:

"Pain, especially in its acute form, is usually a reflection of a tissue-damaging or potentially tissue-damaging stimulus. There is a transmission system that conveys this information to the central nervous system. This phenomenon is called nociception. Pain is more complex than other sensory systems such as vision or hearing because it not only involves the transfer of sensory information to the nervous system, but produces suffering which then leads to aversive corrective behavior."

Aversive corrective behavior. What a beautifully scientific description of screaming, a body recoiling, curling up in a fetal position or lashing out in violence. All are common responses to pain in the dojang. At least the onset of pain. What we came to learn transcended that first sensation of pain. Beyond the next agonizing thirty seconds. It became a sauna of misery that engaged a peculiar coping mechanism.

Awash in our seas of suffering, realizing it would not be allowed to end engaged in new behavior. There were tight-faced smiles. Groans transformed into laughter. And lastly, into song. We would sing our way through the pain. One instructor, Keith brought in a small radio with a cassette tape player and during the peak of our suffering hit the button that kicked off what would become our theme song. James Brown's "I Feel Good".
 
"Wo! I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
I feel good, I knew that I wouldn't of
So good, so good, I got you
Wo! I feel nice, like sugar and spice
I feel nice, like sugar and spice
So nice, so nice, I got you"
The song played on and we all understood. Pain was our ally. It told us we weren't good enough yet. There were barriers to be broken. Plateaus to cross and peaks to ascend. We were nothing without pain, like a sailboat without wind on a calm sea. Pain would always be there for us, but we must seek it. And it was not our friend. Pain could not be embraced or empowered to the level of friend. No. More like a parent whose interests were split. Instruction. Development. Submission. Obedience.

Buddhism came into my life during this change in my ship's heading and the myriad proverbs supplied by the masters reinforced my acceptance of pain.
"One is taught in accordance with one's ability to learn."
"When the student is ready, the teacher appears."
Our instructors showed, corrected and motivated. Only pain taught. The pure lessons as transparent as water and hard as steel.

On Monday, a headache descended upon me. It was difficult to concentrate so as I left my office and walked the last fifty feet to the door my mind wandered. The moment I exited and stepped into the cold, wind-swept night I stiffened and closed my eyes. A chill breeze slammed into my neck sending waves of pain up to my brain. I staggered for a second but corrected my body and hurriedly stepped to the car. The hour and forty-five minute ride home was excruciating. Every headlight in my mirrors felt like a pinprick to the surface of my eyes. The back of my head pulsed with pain. My eyes were reduced to slits, face tight in a grimace, my entire body tense. When I made it home, I hit the couch, huddled under a blanket and could barely stand to look at the Christmas lights on our tree.

Some student of pain, eh? Curled up in a ball under a blanket, a few degrees of hurt away from sobbing. Sleep rescues me later when I tire from the effort of resisting the pain. Resisting? Yes. That's where pain gains in amplitude. The brain is telling us there's a problem and our reaction to the stimulus is what makes it seem unbearable.

The lesson of the dojang comes back to me the next morning. The moment just before sleep, the pain receded a bit. I entertained the thought of getting up if the headache was subsiding, but I was off to sleep before I could take action. The way of pain is unavoidable. Our reaction to its presence makes all the difference.

Quiet House

Blessed silence in an otherwise boisterous house. This became the subject of a tangent phone conversation with an old friend of mine. We share something that many parents of young children will recognize: the divine moment you discover you are the only human being awake in the dwelling. It’s a magical stretch. Even spiritual. I've decided to name this oasis in time the "Quiet House". QH is a treasured event for me on several levels.

The Remote. I own it during QH. I can indulge in sports, manly movies, or my favorite DVD. No requests for kid’s shows or complaints about what daddy likes is boring. Period.

The Computer. During non-QH hours my time in front of the home pc is spent satisfying requests for line drawings of super heroes and princesses. My orders are to locate the requested drawing, e.g. "Daddy, I want a picture of Juggernaut fighting Hulk", print it in the appropriate size and then provide positive reviews on the artists' work. There's also the rapid fire requests for pbskids.com and games they can't remember the names of, e.g. "Dad can you put on the game where you hit the ball and there's all those colored blocks and the guy laughs and you have to watch out for the dog off his leash and you can't draw outside the lines?" What??? That makes my brain hurt and it doesn't even sound fun.

But during QH I can check e-mail, write down my thoughts, heck, even have thoughts! It's a glorious time but it is finite. Either I succumb to sleep in the evening or in the early morning sessions, depart for work.

The Reward. The payoff moment for me is the sleep-faces of my son and daughter. Lips parted slightly, breathing deeply, awash in the peace of toddler dreams. Tiny hands clutch soft pandas, fuzzy puppies, fleece blankets. I watch them and recall how they slept during their first weeks of life. The grasping, infant fingers. Warm, sweet breath. Saliva bubbles forming and popping. Nuzzling noses pressed into the joint of my neck and shoulder. Tiny toes peeking out through a swaddling blanket. Each night moves them further in age from those first weeks in our home, but I can still close my eyes and recover those first images in the hospital. The tiny knitted caps. Mittens to prevent scratching. The smallest socks I'd ever seen.

QH. Time for reflection and clear thinking is rare. If you don't schedule it then you must be prepared to seize the moments as they appear. Silence is fleeting in the world of the parent and the employed. I suppose even if you are neither of those things there are so many gadgets or toys created to distract us, silence remains elusive.

Allow yourself to find QH. I read a book called Thinking for a Change by John Maxwell. JM writes about several different kinds of thinking available to us that are as diverse as flavors of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Depending on your need, you turn the dial to a different thinking mode.

JM writes “If you don’t like the crop you’re reaping you must change the seed you are sowing…unleash the power of focused thinking, recognize the importance of realistic thinking, question the acceptance of popular thinking, experience the satisfaction of unselfish thinking…”. There’s a bunch more and he goes into detail about how to harness each type. JM recommends you find a place and time where you can think. Uninterrupted. I recommend it.

The innocence of the sleeping child distracts me. I could watch them until, head nodding, I must join them in slumber. The QH supplies a respite from the bustle and speed of daily life. For me, I can slow it all down and walk the old paths of memory, rest on the stone bench of reflection and view the stream of thought as it murmurs its secrets if I am sufficiently still to listen.

Bumper Sticker Wars

The weathered white van never really stopped as it glided beside me at a red light. It was about to turn green, so when it did change, the van lurched ahead of me paying homage to Sir Isaac Newton. That's when I saw the bold lettering of a bumper sticker on the back window that read "TRUST JESUS".
I thought that the driver must really trust Jesus because if anyone ran the red light at the street we were crossing, he wouldn't have had any time to react. That got me thinking about Jesus bumper stickers. There are an awful lot of them out there. This one seemed pretty tame. TRUST JESUS. Ok. As far as first amendment rights go, no problem, right? The little hairs on the back of my neck didn't raise up like they usually do when someone wants to talk religion with me and they are way more interested in my beliefs than I am.
But haven't I seen some other messages out there that did make me react either in mild revulsion or outright laughter? I'm pretty sure I have. So I went on a week long mission of cataloging all the religious bumper stickers I could find.

In Connecticut, I drove through (on secondary roads not highway) Naugatuck, Waterbury, Prospect, Cheshire, Winsted, Colebrook, Union, and Woodstock.

In New York I drove through Troy, Albany and Clifton Park.

In Massachusetts I drove in Springfield, Otis, Southwick, Holyoke, Chicopee, Worcester, Auburn, Dudley and Webster. All these miles were work-related but I was poised to read every bumper sticker I could get close enough to decipher.

What I discovered intrigued me. I realized that there were numerous Jesus-related messages out there but an equally vast number of Christian religion stickers as well. And for every five religious stickers I saw, there would be one that mocked or was anti-religion/Jesus. I struggled a bit with this 20% rebellion because I didn't understand the need for a public statement against organized religion. I moved my research to bumper sticker web sites and the 20% rebellion swelled to a fair fight. For every "Jesus is my co-pilot" sticker for sale, I found the anti-venom for it. Here are some examples:

"Jesus, save me from your followers." "Jesus loves you but everyone else thinks you're a moron." "Jesus enters through the heart. Stop shoving him down my throat."

I started to get the picture. There was a war being fought between Jesus-lovers and Jesus-haters. I didn't understand why the chosen battlefield was a bumper sticker, but if they were trying to raise awareness and gain more followers to their cause, I could see the point. It would be more fun if they lined up like a 19th century conflict and had an organized battle. One can dream...

The deeper I looked I found variations of the original theme. I made labels and starting adding the slogans under each one like Hypocritical Republicans for Jesus, Anti-Muslim, Anti-Semites, Christian Elitism, Darwin Elitism, Science Over Religion, Anti-Obama, Social Catch-All and Humor for Humor's Sake. The Pro-Jesus and Anti-Jesus factions outnumbered the other factions 10-1. But the use of Jesus or the messiah idea to support or denigrate a particular group was fascinating. Some people might have been offended, some could care less. But for me, a had a specific reaction for each one. More samples.

"I found Jesus. He was in my trunk when I got back from Tijuana." Whatever they were trying to do with that one, it's flat out funny.
"Jesus is my pool boy." This one seemed cheap to me. Try harder.
"Jesus would slap the shit out of you." That one will get your attention! Kudos to the author.
"1 cross + 3 nails = 4 given" Very clever. Thumbs up.
"I sold my soul to the highest bidder. Jesus Christ." Another top entry. Well done!
"My family values: Science and the Arts." Tell us how you really feel.
"CH_ _CH. What's missing? UR" Very effective, I think.
"If going to church makes you a christian, does going to the garage make you a car?" An oldie but a goodie.

The slogans I really struggled with had to do with driving. I don't see the correlation between bad driving and religious beliefs. Take a look.

"Are you following Jesus this close?" So, tailgaters are Christian, huh?
"How would Jesus drive?" Same idea as the last one.
"I bet Jesus would've used his turn signal." Really? I thought he got rid of all his worldly possessions.
"Jesus is my car insurance." Good luck defending that one when all your assets are seized to pay someone's hospital bills.

Some slogans were just brutal to read. "Science flies you to the moon. Religion flies you into buildings." "Jesus saves you from thinking for yourself." "I love Jesus but in a gay way." Someone was trying a little to hard to offend.

These made me laugh out loud. "Forget about Jesus. Jump start your life - have sex!" "Beware of God" "Jesus saves, passes to Moses. He shoots, he scores!" "Jesus is coming, look busy!" "Jesus. The bailout you can count on." "Go Jesus! It's yer birthday!" I salute the creativity within those entries!

In summary, Jesus is a polarizing figure. In this country, when the name is mentioned or seen in print there's a pause. We immediately filter for intent. Is this an attack on Christianity? Is it proselytizing? It's the religious equivalent to the fight or flight syndrome. We hover on the edge, ready to leap in the appropriate direction.

I've always bought into the advice of sales master Tom Hopkins who said that in the workplace, there's no room for greed, jealousy or gossip. I've always tried to emulate that advice and pass it on to the best of my ability. Religion should be part of that advice. Maybe politics to a certain extent. Akin to bringing up Jesus, engaging in gossip or asking someone's political affiliation can produce an instant reaction. It just might be more than you bargained for.

The staff at The First Draught has much more to offer on this topic. I'll have to continue in the next blog. My kids are begging to be fed and I'm required by law to do so. I can't wait to expand more on Darwin, Republicans, elitism and political correctness. Until next blog, then. Cheers.

Nine Year Itch

Occasionally I latch onto a recurring train of thought. It's very deja-vu like. A warmth of familiarity wraps itself around my mind and I'm amazed how the details can come back so sharp and tangible. The feeling appeared tonight while driving home. I faced a two hour commute after 6 pm in a driving rain accompanied by high wind, ground fog and dozens of eighteen wheelers spraying water over the roof of my car as I passed.

Yes. As I passed the hulks in my little Malibu. This is when the familiar feeling caught my attention and I sat up a little straighter. An audible "Oh" probably slipped from my lips though I don't remember that. My awareness of what was happening came on in a rush. I processed the details: high wind and slashing rain. Gouts of water sprayed by big trucks. Malibu nearly pressed to Jersey barrier. Ground water pooling under left tires, materializing out of the dark. Rolling fog obscuring tail lights and painted lines on asphalt. Speedometer reads 80.

80? Yes. Things slowed down then and I could actually see the revolutions of the tumbling fog-pillows. I eased off the gas as sheets of water sprayed by trucks hung in the air before colliding with my windshield. Brake lights flashed in too-slow patterns on the vehicles I passed. The song "Drifters" by Paul Rodgers playing on my iPod immediately gained clarity. I heard the phrases "highway of my life" and "shadow on the wind" and I connected with them.

For the last nine years and four months my role for my employers has been a field manager. Rather than being tied to one location I have been responsible for many locations. Sometimes the number was 10. Then it was 36. This year it's 57. I proudly display my road warrior tag. I should get a license plate frame that says road warrior and has a picture of Mad Max. Four hundred miles in a week is what I call travel-lite. Sometimes I pile up fifteen hundred miles or more in five days.

The realization is that I am at home on the road. I am desensitized to the rigors of life in a car. An unintended consequence is supreme confidence in most situations. Example, lost in a city with no GPS, map or cell phone? Fine. Where's the sun? Cloudy, huh? No worries. Just start following other people. They're probably going to a highway or other populated area. Middle of the night? Even better. Lot's of police cars idling, watching for drunks or killing time until the next call sets them in motion. Find an officer and ask him for guidance. There's a ton of other cues and clues, too. Commuter train blows by. Head in the direction is going or where it came from. Train stations are located in centralized locations, easily accessible for travelers. I could go on all day.

I just know I am in charge in the car. I don't want to ride. Passenger seats are not for me. I'd rather walk than sit in the passenger seat of a Porsche or any other thrilling sports car you can name. Gimme the wheel. Plug in my iPod. Crack the windows. Slug my coffee. The other drivers all seem inferior. They make all the wrong decisions. Why? because they're in my way. Stop looking at your phone or unwrapping your Whopper. If driving is the second or third most important thing you're doing when you're behind the wheel, you don't get it. Yes, I have updated Facebook while driving before. I rarely ever do that anymore. But I can because I'm such a better driver than you. I choose not to because I need to keep an eye on all the other inferior drivers.

So the recurring feeling is time awareness deal where I see it all happenng slowly. My confidence soars. I slide by all the other cars like they're slowing to a stop. It just feels right. I secretly hope Petty's "Running Down A Dream" will come up next on the iPod. It's the perfect driving song. Instead, it's Mark Knopfler's "The Car Was The One". Hmm. Even better.

Market Muscle

The deluge of black Friday marketing washes over us all, drenching us in a numbing torrent of sensory attacks. Everywhere one turns, there's no relief from the onslaught of advertising. Though I write this on Sunday, tomorrow looms like bastion of hope: cyber Monday. More on what Monday represents later.

Having worked in retail for the last 18 years, black Friday still continues to amaze me.
Q: What does it cost to get up early, to fight crowds, to suffer anxiety and to complain endlessly about the whole ordeal?
A: Apparently very little. For the opportunity to save a few dollars, people across the country subject themselves to physical, emotional and mental punishment, true torture. There's no other way to describe it. Some boast about getting up at 2 am to rush to wait in line and then fight the crowds to seize their prizes. But what do you really win? 20% off an item that is already marked up 150%? Maybe 250%? I'll gladly pay more to shop when I want to. It's the least I can offer to the child who made the product in an Asian sweat shop.

My brother made a comment that he would rather pay 20% more to shop his own terms. Bravo, bro. I like to save money like anyone else, but this black Friday madness is more like a staged reality show than real savings. It's more about the publicity a store stands to receive than offering consumers value. Camera crews and photographers wait amidst the shoppers, preparing to capture the misery for the upcoming newscast. People recently camped out in front of a Wal-Mart for a week to be first in line. Wal-Mart? Really?

I could see if the Mercedes dealership, Tiffany or the Louvre was having a midnight madness sale. But Kohl's, Target and JCPenney? I don't get it. All these holiday observations including the advertising, the fervor, the anxiety, the spending, the dread of seeing relatives you'd never think of calling any other time of the year. It all adds up to something. The sum is bollocks. That's bullshit for you colonists.

The spirit of hope and salvation promised by Christ's birth is mocked by the pagan ritual that has replaced the church's original intentions.

Religion disclaimer: I am by no means endorsing Christianity nor do I attend church on a regular basis. I think any objective observer would concur that the holiday has become about rewarding children for being children despite their often atrocious behavior. It's become a time for families to reunite and not always peaceably. It's become more about the best presents than the remembrance of His presence among us. You may or may not believe that the son of God came to live among humankind for the salvation of our souls.

But does any belief, insert your choice here, merit the insanity that Christmas is today? I admit to writing this in the most hypocritical fashion. You see, today I got on a ladder and strung lights across the front of my house and did some online holiday shopping. I'm no different than anyone else. I'm fully immersed in the lunacy. I just haven't figured out a way to present my arguements to my 4 and 6 year old.

Cyber Monday. No crowds. Me and a computer. Free shipping. This is the wise man's black Friday. Thank you web gods. When is your holiday?

Holiday Speed Trap

I just can't find a reputable study that can affirm my theory on time and the holidays. After refining my data over the last several years, it's time to go public with my findings. My hope is that people of science, theology, mathematics or anyone else dedicated to the high art of discovery will join me on my quest to validate the Holiday Speed Trap.

When Thanksgiving Day passes, the rest of the year just slips through your fingers. Days snap by like cards shuffled by an expert dealer. We are constantly reminded how many shopping days remain until Christmas. We step out of the protective shells of our homes into the holiday rush, swept out to a merry sea on currents of the loudest advertising campaigns imaginable. Adrift and rudderless, we are buffeted this way and that by tv, internet, radio and print ads. Each medium sprouting tentacles, sticky with mucous, greedily searching for your credit cards and cash.

Our senses, stunned by this psychic attack, expose our vulnerabilities. The lures dangle before us, spinning and flashy and made with a rainbow of color. Barbed hooks expertly masked, designed to painlessly separate us from our money. This super-bait impacts millions of people every year resulting in perhaps, one of the oddest of phenomena known to man.
People buy the most incredibly, nonsensical items when all their good sense at any other time of the year would send them laughing in the opposite direction. Need proof?

Examine the wardrobe dysfunction. A holiday sweater observed at any other time of year could easily be confused with a Jackson Pollock experiment that used only red, green and white paints.

Food. I may be in the minority but when I see cranberry sauce on a white plate the ridges of the aluminum can are embossed into its jiggly flesh, I can't equate that to something yummy. It reminds of something one would be forced to eat in space or at the front during war. Fruitcake. No explanation needed.
Decorative items. Animated Santa's singing and shaking their butts. Again, no explanation necessary. Lights splayed in distasteful strands of holiday mockery. Millions of living trees butchered, transported, decorated with humiliating baubles and then thrown aside like yesterday's garbage.

I listen to the Harvard Business Review's podcasts. Yes, I'm in the car approximately 4-6 hours per day. You can find them at hbr.org or on iTunes. i heard that when Michelle Obama appears on the Today show or makes similar high-profile appearances, the companies who produce her clothing experience a 2% - 3% lift in their stock price. J Crew and DSW went up 2% after a recent appearance where she mentions where she shops. The First Lady creates 5x the value of endorser Tom Brady. Pretty amazing. Mrs. Obama has a wide scope of appeal and her wardrobe is more casual than some former first ladies.

Imagine if you could influence the people you come in contact with each day to do something 2% better just because you said they should. Then imagine if you visited those same people a couple time a month. Maybe once a week. That thing they're doing would get a hell of a lot better, right?

Ok. So ask your self this: who visits you every couple weeks to make you better? No one? Really? Well if that's really your answer then you better do something about it. When you cease growth you begin death. It's the creeping down-escalator to oblivion.

Back to the holiday speed thing. There's no doubt that the Earth's axis tilts in a such a way that we slide into Christmas and New Year's faster than we ought to. Then we hit February, the shortest and most boring month of the year. Beware of the speed trap. It will suck you in, sap your strength and then strand you in February.

The Introspection Assumption

Think of a time when you came up short on a promise. It doesn't matter if it was a project at work or a promise to a friend. The result which you agreed to deliver didn't happen.

The inevitable questions of "Why?" and "How come?"get lobbed into your court like a slowly spinning tennis ball. Choice time. Overwhelmingly, the popular preference is to blame someone or something else. Blame falls to a cast of usual suspects: the weather, someone took ill, traffic, lack of resources, lack of time, miscommunication and, my personal favorite "I did the best I could with what I had".

The excuses (let's call them what they really are) beg that you acknowledge the fact that although the work was accepted, with or without complaint, it couldn't get done as expected because of the context of the situation. I’ll admit that acts of God and other people letting you down are things beyond our control. But did you even spend a minute of your pre-event time asking “What if?”

The 'unexpected' lays in the shadows waiting to leap in our path while we're busy fulfilling our obligations. In fact, this happens so frequently it's probably more common for events to get crazy than to run smoothly. There's always a fire drill popping up when something is due or someone is depending on your help.

Fast forward to the aftermath. You failed to do what was expected. Worse yet, you laid blame on something you couldn't control in the first place. So what could have happened differently? Planning for one. Contingency plans are part and parcel of being effective. You just can't get rattled by a couple curve balls.

 As that realization sinks in and its time to face the music, can one look inward for the answer? That's where it is, you know. I call it the introspection assumption. I assume that you will ask yourself some hard questions about your failure. And there, in your heart and mind you will find that there was something you could have done better or prepared for in advance.

There's a natural revulsion about visiting that dark place within us where truth hides waiting for discovery. When sharing what we find there means an admission of failure, we muster even greater resistance. When pride, ego and honor are threatened, we react by going on the defensive.

The required conscious step, disassembling those walls and embracing humility is a mighty task. Assuming responsibility and taking ownership make us vulnerable to scrutiny and punishment. But there’s a benefit, often an unintended consequence of embarking on the introspection assumption. Sincerity and right intention arrive. Those modifiers begin the arduous task of “placing credibility back on your side of the ledger”. A friend of mine used that line when asking for an explanation of inexplicable behavior. The person had been introspective to the point of becoming mute. The person met us halfway, but never really came clean for his error.

So what’s to be gained from traveling the inner pathways behind the veil of ego? Truth? Embarrassment? Character? Shame? Integrity? Suffering? For some, it is the Eightfold Path.

Lock-In and Locked-In

Locked-in syndrome is a terrifying prospect. It's is a condition in which you are aware and awake but cannot move or communicate verbally due to complete paralysis of nearly all voluntary muscles in the body except for the eyes. In the completely locked-in state, even your eyes are paralyzed. At first thought, locked-in syndrome sounds like something out of a Hitchcock movie. The protagonist drinks an elixir that renders him/her paralyzed while the villain buries them alive or prepares them for dinner or, you get the picture.
Seriously, it's an unimaginable state to comprehend. I get a cold and I can't function. Imagine not being able to function at all, except to move your eyes? This line of thought serves to remind you how fragile your brain, nervous system and oh yes, your psyche is.

Cognitive lock-in is something very different from the horror described above. I follow a blog about leadership, http://www.leadershipnow.com/leadingblog/ and this morning's edition got me thinking about familiarity. The blog described that when we do something out of habit, we behave automatically instead of intentionally.

Imagine that you're trying not to use foul language at work and you spill coffee on something important. You're probably going to blurt out an expletive or three until you begin to calm down and get rational. You start to think and part of the realization is, "I'm at work, surrounded by people and I'm cursing, again." If you've been counseled for your behavior in the past, I'd think you would get a break for this one. Spilling hot liquid anywhere usually results in people reacting impulsively, instinctively.

So back to the reacting intentionally part of this thought line. I admit that I spend a ton of energy on intentional action. I plan most things in my head before I proceed. Visualizing the moment, literally rehearsing how it will happen, I prepare mentally. When afforded the chance it works like a charm. I do a lot of interviews and public speaking.

This behavior comes in handy. I can't remember the last time my knees knocked in fear when speaking to a group of 250 people or engaging someone in a confrontational conversation. In my line of work that often means life-changing consequences for that individual. And I am not without empathy. Far from it, actually. It's an emotion I have to out-think on a regular basis in order to perform at my most efficient level.

Sadly, life doesn't have a "slow" button like my DVR remote that allows me to prepare my retort to a false accusation, racist or sexist comment or completely ignorant statement. So like most everybody I blurt out the first thing that appears in my mind. Whether I regret the choice, or lack of making a choice, it doesn't really matter. At least the response was honest. You can deal with the clean-up later, right? I think part of the problem, the real glitch with communication is that we over-think what might happen.

"If I say X, she's gonna ask "what about Y?" and I won't know what to say without her thinking that I'm hiding something and don't want her to know about Z." Ugh. The human brain and its complexities. If the brain is so damn complex and amazing, how come we're not any smarter? If we really only use 10% of our brain's capacity, wouldn't someone have invented a chip to cram in there and tap the remaining 90%? Maybe I'll put the blog aside until my sketches of the "Buddha chip" are complete? Where's my sketch pad?

Whistler's Wish

In 1992 David Strathairn played a character named Whistler in the movie "Sneakers". Whistler is blind and has a criminal record resulting from some disagreements with the phone company. In the movie's final scene, Whistler and his friends (Robert Redford, Sidney Poitier, Dan Aykroyd, and sadly, the last role for River Phoenix) are bargaining with a director from the NSA, James Earl Jones. They NSA covets a code-breaking device Whistler and Co. have stolen so badly, Jones promises anything they want in exchange.
Each has a very unique request. What does Whistler ask for? "I'd like peace on earth and good will toward men". Jones indignantly answers, "We're the United States government. We don't do that sort of thing!"

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882) wrote a poem in 1863, during the Civil War titled "Christmas Bells". In the 1870's the verse became the basis for a song, made famous over the years by performers such as Elvis Presley, Sarah McLachlan, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte, The Carpenters and Johnny Cash.
I respect the power of holiday music. I am by no means a sentimental sort who anxiously awaits Thanksgiving to pass so I can plaster my home with holiday decor.  But the music of the season is different. The combination of the encroaching holiday, the onset of winter and the joy of children transform my psyche. Christmas Bells, when set to music went by a different label, "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day". This imagery in the song coupled with the historical period when the poem was originally composed offer a deeper meaning. Here's the poem in it's original form:

Christmas Bells

    I heard the bells on Christmas Day
    Their old, familiar carols play,
        And wild and sweet
        The words repeat
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
   
And thought how, as the day had come,
    The belfries of all Christendom
        Had rolled along
        The unbroken song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
   
Till ringing, singing on its way,
    The world revolved from night to day,
        A voice, a chime,
        A chant sublime
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
   
Then from each black, accursed mouth
    The cannon thundered in the South,
        And with the sound
        The carols drowned
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
   
It was as if an earthquake rent
    The hearth-stones of a continent,
        And made forlorn
        The households born
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
   
And in despair I bowed my head;
    "There is no peace on earth," I said;
        "For hate is strong,
        And mocks the song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
   
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
    "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
        The Wrong shall fail,
        The Right prevail,
    With peace on earth, good-will to men."

Raised in the Roman Catholic faith, the last verse has power over me. I don't portend to be a religious person, succumbing to the exercises prescribed by the church. Religious in a "how I live my life and treat others" way, well then I could be considered a devout man. That verse holds greater power than that of an anxious child waiting in line to see department store Santa Claus and a host of other holiday scenes we see repeated every year.

"The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men." In 21st century America, it's difficult to imagine the strain of the Civil War on the country. Especially during times of expected celebration. How many babies birthed, weddings and holidays passed under that shadow of war? War pitting American versus American in the cities and fields of the country still stained with the blood of the Revolution. 

I think of my own contribution toward peace on earth and good will to men. What does that mean for me? Do I "mock the song"? When I hear the bells tolling from the churches I pass, I'll be asking that question of myself.

  

Charging...

The ebb and flow of things. I study this act of motion in all things. Often I slow myself down long enough to capture that ebb and flow. People walking on a crowded street. It looks all random and haphazard at first glance. But if you study it, there's a rhythm, a pattern to it all. Have you ever seen the movie August Rush? A young prodigy hears music in all things. The sounds of the city are a symphony to him. For me, visually, the movements of the city are the same. But not just cities. Dear no.

Trees. Water. Clouds. Especially clouds. I could stare at clouds all day watching for the patterns, the trends. Shapes morphing from one fantastic sketch to the next. I have spent a few, though not enough afternoons sitting on the grass with my children staring up at the clouds. We pick out shapes we see. We comment on the jet stream of airplanes. We wonder who's in those planes and where are they flying. My daughter thinks every plane is headed to Disney and my son thinks they're all headed to the north pole.
They don't have the patience for the patterns, though. I do. I watch them always. I look for the patterns on the highway. Shopping. In meetings. Meetings are great places for patterns. Wait for someone to yawn in a meeting. Or check a phone for messages. A chain reaction hops like a frog around the room, working outward from the initiating behavior like the epicenter of a disturbance in a calm body of water. Ripples of reaction occur in an ever-widening ring from that point of creation.

Speech. Patterns abound here. People altering their mode of talking to adapt to the group. Volume. Pitch. Tone. Vocabulary. All trends and patterns. Motion. All these changes and adaptations suggest motion. So while I may sit completely still saying nothing, my environment is a riot of motion. A hurricane of activity, though all anyone else may see is a slow moving stream, smoke from a chimney, a flight of birds, eggs on a griddle or rain on the car roof.  Ebb and flow.

Brand Recognition

There are moments in time that flash into existence, burning a permanent brand upon the brain. These moments, these bursts of action, speech, emotion or thought shape us. They may not be visited often but when a trigger causes us to brush past, the brand glows anew. Bright and pulsing, as fresh as the day it was thrust upon you, they shout down the corridors of your mind, "Feel!"

Hurtling back in time, you cease to exist in the present moment. Instead the memory plays itself over again. Engaged in the sensations of the event there's a tangible, authentic texture to it all.
And then it ceases to be. You are back in real time. The present. Static clicks briefly in your ears. Pins-and-needles numbness freezes your fingertips momentarily until hot blood pumps back into the cold digits.

The usual questions spill forth. Why? How could it feel so real? Contemplation on answers to these wonderings is wasteful. But, you ask, what ought I be thinking? Reflecting upon?
Consider the context of your present situation. How is it similar to the branded recall event? What parallels can be drawn connecting two strands of time along the web of conscious thought.

Close your eyes and creep the halls of your sub-conscious mind. Run your hand along the smooth walls of memory feeling for the brands. You caress the raised edges of that splinter of time, that grain of sand on the beach of infinity and electricity sparks in the cerebral cortex. Neurotransmitters fire blasts of memory-laden beams of energy and lo, you re-live your memories.

Today a glowing brand pressed into the clean walls of my brain, there for me to recall at opportune moments or, involuntarily. The sigil steams as the hot iron pulls away, hanging in the air as if to admire its handiwork. Satisfied with the product of its craft, the branding iron is gone.

All that remains is a man running, firing two shots from his pistol at the pursuing police. Those shouting law officers, moving in a line shoulder to uniformed shoulder, pistols drawn. Commands left disobeyed, the officers fire systemically ten to twelve times.  The fool goes down, dropping his handgun. Outclassed, outwitted and in pain, he begs. Sympathy flees. Mercy turns its back.  Justice rolls up its sleeves and applies the wrist restraints. Onlookers gasp, hands to mouth. Squad cars continue to respond until the area is swarming with paramilitary presence enough to overwhelm any odds.

I remember to start breathing again and drive on. The brand falls into shadow, its alcove in the halls of memory sealed with webs of time. Webs that only can be removed by the sub-conscious spiders of recollection.

Upper Respiratory Death Match

As usual, when the winter months draw close, I am beset by upper respiratory woe. Sinus draining, post nasal drip caustically scoring my throat, ears ache, glands swell. It all makes for fun times. What could be more fun than a sore throat, mucus pooling in your face and no sleep? Not much, you say?

Well you're wrong! To the rescue come two titans of the over-the-counter remedy kingdom. These two heavy-weights bring an impressive record to the arena.

First up is hydrogen peroxide. Gargling with hydrogen peroxide not only sounds dangerous, but it tastes dangerous, too! Ever lick the tops of a 9 volt battery as a kid? Can you close your eyes and remember the taste? This is nothing like that, but it's so different than anything you regularly slurp, you'll really be alive with panic! Anyway, it's supposed to disinfect the bacteria loitering at the top of your throat where the viscous post nasal drip splash-lands. The neat thing about gargling this stuff is the foaming, pasty residue left behind on your tongue! You can use a half-mouthwash/half hydrogen peroxide mix, but that's for pansies.

HP's partner is equally fearsome: the neti pot. Filled with steaming hot saline, this charming blue pot has a curved spout you insert in your nose. Just tip your head to one side, and scalding saline fills your sinus cavity creating the sensation of drowning. Once the hot liquid fights past the blockage, it exits from your opposite nostril! No, really! You don't have to abuse cocaine or anything. It just comes right out the other side.
Now here's the best part. You'll want to alternate from side to side, but when you remove the spout to switch all hell breaks loose - literally. I'll spare you the details, but I'll say this: there's some nasty organisms residing in your sinuses. But they're no match for mighty neti pot and it's saline spout of destruction!

You're probably wondering, "How could I pick a favorite amongst these two masters of bacterial liquidation?" You're right, it isn't an easy choice. If I was stranded on a desert island and could only have one, the choice is clear - neti pot carries the day. Not only is it effective in its work, but the whole novelty of pouring liquid in one nostril and exiting the other just never gets old.

If you'd like to see it done without making a committment, take a look at this fellow.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQm7YpxgOnA

In the battle for sinus congestion supremacy, nasal irrigation is the champion. But every hero has a side kick, right? Sorry hydrogen peroxide. I love you, but you'll always be Robin to me. Never Batman.

Gathering Gigawatts

That first post brought out a lot of negative energy. Though fun to write, I don’t think I could publish a rant for very long. How about once in a while?

The thing that’s propelled me to blog is my need to practice. You see, I’ve been writing for a very long time and always wanted to publish my fiction. I listen to a podcast called “Writing Excuses”. How ironic that I listen to the cast, even take notes on their wisdom, yet continue to cling to my own excuses about why I’m not writing.

It all comes down to time and value. The guys at WE summed it up saying that if you say you don’t have time to do something, you’re making a value statement. You simply value x over y. In my case, I’ve put together a list of things higher in priority than writing. Pretty simple to fix, right?

Sir Isaac Newton said a body in motion tends to stay in motion and a body at rest tends to stay at rest. I’m in motion again. This is similar to stopping smoking. It’s more a head game than anyone will admit to. Why? Because you sound weak if you say “I know I should quit smoking since I know it will kill me. But the nicotine is too powerful!” I heard an elderly woman in a grocery store say to her even more elderly mother, “Put that back, Mom. You know you shouldn’t eat that. You do have control over what you put in your mouth, you know.”

Genius. I truly admired that woman in the moment. Not for standing up to her mummified-looking, dusty mother, but for the naked truth in her statement. It’s all about choices and will.

I have these characters I’ve been living with for years. They appeared when I was a teenager and over the years have grown. Their unique personalities became deep and intriguing. I really like them. I’ve never been pleased with the plots I’ve stirred them into. I made these terrible tasting omelets despite using quality ingredients. Then I realized one ingredient that was consistently outdated. My writing. So, I’ll hone my chops here and eventually deliver the plots, storylines and conflict my characters deserve! You heard it here first.

Numero Uno

Holy moly! My first blog post. Ok. Got that out of my system. The truth is, I've always felt constrained by the character limits of FB status updates. And when I write a note, no one ever reads them. So I'll give blogging a shot.
First order of business are my ground rules. There shall be no editing aside from a quick glance for grammar and spelling f-ups. I'm going for a stream-of-consciousness style here. And that's it for ground rules.
Today's topic. Hmmm. I'm still searching for what I'll call these. I'm too young to call it "Rob's Wisdom". I'm not that savvy to label anything "advice". How about mixing an old nickname with a dash of humility?
Buddha's Counsel: Today's counsel pokes a finger at complaining. I knew it wouldn't be long before I tried to pin this unenviable character flaw to the ground. Iam subjected to a large amount of complaining each day. This is not to be confused with hearing complaints. There are many whiny people I tune out because I don't know them, don't want to know them or don't want to get sucked into their trivial problems at that moment. So the counsel? Two choices.
Choice A is ignore the complainer and shove off as fast as your legs can carry you. Don't look back either. That's like falling down when the horror movie killer is following you. Doom.
Choice B is tell them to give it up. Find a solution. Complaining does not fix problems, it induces ear aches, promotes upset stomachs and chases away all humans in a thirty foot radius. I know because when I slip up and complain I can visually see the other person tuning me out. There's actual pain arcing across their face as I lay out my gripes. If I'm sharp enough to catch it, I'll quickly change the subject. But sometimes I just keep venting and suddenly, people are making excuses to get the hell away from me.
How come I can spot other people complaining, even preparing to complain as proficiently as a sleeping dog hears its master jingle car keys, and suddenly is up sprinting to the door? It's because its uncomfortable, down right agonizing to have someone else drop their annoyances on you like one of those fishing nets that have the weights tied all around the outer edge. You have to fight for your very sanity, maybe even your life just to stop hearing that blathering.
Did I mention that I can be somewhat facetious and even just a little sarcastic at times? I'm outta fuel. Enough for the first leg.