My best friend is dying.
I've known him 13 years. He knows most of the things about me that I hide from others, because they're parts of myself that I hate. None of them have ever affected his love for me. He's seen me at my best and worst. Thankfully, he's more forgiving than anyone I know. We've fought each other and cried together. He's permanently scarred me, and I'm a better person because of it. He is my dog, and I'm losing him.
Baron is one of the four beings on this earth I've called 'Best Friend,' and he epitomizes the title in dozens of ways. He is loyal and faithful and loving and gentle. He's been a caretaker, watching over our family for what has amounted to almost 54 collective years. Our children grew up with him, and he was always the first to meet each new child whenever we'd bring them home, even the ones that weren't babies.
Baron's been called the most relaxed person in our house, and I never realized how true it was until now. Through all the emotional dysfuction and marital stress and diminutive bullcrap that goes on day after day, year after year in our house, he has remained the same, and he has loved us through every long hour of it. He has an old, passionate soul, and we were lucky to have him with us for so long.
But now his body is old, too. He hasn't been up or down more than two stairs in over five years. For the last year, he's been unsure on his feet, especially on uncarpeted floors, and prone to accidents around the house. (It's embarrassing but true. If your grampa made the house smell bad, you wouldn't put him out, would you? Neither would we our dog.) Now he can't walk at all. He barely eats and even then only because we insist. He goes through spells like seizures where his left side tightens up and his jaw locks shut. His body is failing him. Though he doesn't express pain, I know he is miserable. In two days, our vet comes back to town, and will help Baron escape the prison he's trapped in.
Baron is the reason that, for the rest of my life, loyalty and friendship will always be symbolized by a yellow dog. He will be sorely missed, and deeply mourned.
I know general Biblical wisdom is that animals don't have souls, et cetera, but I think that's all divine manifest destiny talking, and Baron has been more than just an animal or a companion. In truth, we didn't own Baron any more than we own our children. He was just part of the family, and he loved and cared for us in his own ways as much as we did for him. I don't know what anyone else will call it, but he has something inside him, something that will live on, something I hope to see again.
Memories of Baron:
Right after we bought our house, we got our dog. Baron came to us from a stray rescue organization. It was cold outside as we walked from pen to pen, looking at dozens of animals of every type. I don't know how many pens there were, but when I got the pen where he was, I was done looking. We approached the fence and every dog inside ran to meet us, some wagging, some barking, all excited. Every dog but one: a beefy yellow lab mix. He stood back and watched us, and I knew I had to meet him. Soon after, we took him home. Knowing his approximate age, we assigned him a birthday of July 4th.
We don't know what his breed is, other than the yellow lab part. That seems a minority, given his body shape and short hair. I always wondered if it was pitbull because of his barrel chest and the shape of his head. He also has a curious upside-down-Y shaped ridge atop his skull that goes from the top of each eye socket to the back of his head, so Rhodesian Ridgeback has also been suggested. Whatever the case, he looked menacing in his day. His big teeth and loud bark kept would-be punks away from our house and out of our yard. Many people crossed the street when I walked him, rather than pass by us.
Baron was a runner in his younger days. We think he ran away from his first family. This is likely the same family who spent thousands of dollars on him as a puppy. He was 1½ when we got him, and his first trip to the vet revealed very faint scars on each side of his back end. An x-ray revealed that he'd had reconstructive surgery on both hips. Many times he'd see an open door or gate and run for the hills. When we'd go after him, he treated it like a game. The Wife has a fantastic story involving a slushy winter night and a Toys 'R Us shipping dock. Twice, we thought he was gone for good, but just like all the times we found him quickly, he'd simply followed his nose slowly through everyone's backyards.
I will always remember exploratory walks in the empty fields across our street after the state hospital was torn down. I will always remember telling him to stay off the loveseat all day, then coming downstairs each morning with him fast asleep at the end of it. I'll always remember when he was left alone for longer than he liked and stripped the end of the couch down to bare wood. I will always remember the look on his face after being caught--many times--eating crayons and the multi-colored poo we always found a couple days after. He still loves crayons; I caught him as recenty as a month or two ago.
I'll never forget the time he bit me, and the lesson I learned. He knew my mind that day, and he was right to come after me. He put me in my place. (Thinking about it now, that incident started with the discovery of a pile of crayon crumbs.) After I put him out of the house and wrapped my bleeding (and soon-to-be infected) arm, he and I had a talk on the deck, and I said I was sorry, and he said he was too, and we were best friends again.
Santos called him "Big Boy" and Dhiara called him her boyfriend. Both my boys have used him for a pillow, a footrest, a comforter, and a means of locomotion. My daughter hugs him and his head is bigger than hers. He graciously lets her drape him with stuffed animals and use him as a prop in her games. He loves these little creatures who came into his house well after he was an established resident, and they love him.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
My Sixth Sense
Human history is rife with examples of profound and universally accepted ignorance. It's usually not something you can hold against the people in any particular time period (unless, oddly enough, religion was part of some larger "truth"'s denial). The Ancient Greeks, for example, were perfectly content with the idea that all matter was made up of some combination of four basic elements: earth, air, fire, and water. An educated person from that culture would be able to rationally and logically explain it, and someone who didn't know better would be suitably and understandably convinced. Physicians from Mesopotamia to 19th century Europe wrote for over 2000 years about the four humours--black bile, yellow bile, phlegm, and blood--substances which composed the human body, and whose balance or imbalance caused differences in physique and mood. Before the mathematics or instruments existed to discover otherwise, the observation that the sun moved in an arc across the Terran sky led to the belief that it orbited the Earth. And as recently as 500 years ago (well AFTER aformentioned mathematics and instruments existed), many predicted with conviction Columbus's disapperance shortly after he sailed off the edge of the planet.
Of course, now these are all silly examples of a simpler time, and a simpler race. We can compare ourselves to such folk and feel proud of our advancements in art and science, in culture. Of course, we can see the truth now. We know the deal, and we'll never live in the dark again.
Right? Maybe not.
Prehistoric Man never knew about his brain. Any attempt to explain it or its function would have been lost, except to point it out as that pink fleshy thing that spills when you open the skull. But the first day he came up with the concept that adding one stone to another created a sequence, or looked into the sky and wondered what are those white dots up there? instead of taking them for granted as backdrop, or realized that collecting seeds from one fruit and leaving them in the ground yielded more fruit, he fundamentally understood something about the brain's purpose. It isn't that he could have explained what just happened, but he was definitely aware something HAD happened.
The modern state of our science and technology is admittedly astounding. It used to be, as recently as a few centuries ago, that an educated person could eventually be taught all that had been collectively learned by his or her cultural academia, and still have enough lifespan left to practice be recognized for it. We are now well past that point, and that is truly amazing.
However, I wonder if it really makes us more advanced as a species, or just gives us a greater license to justify our modern ignorance. Such advances have taken thousands of generations, and millions of thinkers who looked at the information they'd been given and realized it was insufficient, that it did a poor job of explaining something that they either observed or understood on a deeper level. For many of the early thinkers in any given era, there were no means of discovering, but like prehistoric man, they became aware of something. Their ability to even perceive a thing was a small step ahead of their peers', and a first step in what would eventually change the history of our entire species.
I believe we may be on the edge of such a discovery now. Oh, I am by no means well educated, nor am I exceptionally intelligent. But part of me has, for my entire life, been aware that something else is going on in this world, or specifically, with myself as a whole being.
Now's the part where you skip down to the next entry, if you're generous, or click the 'Next Blog' button at the top of the page if you're not. And I wouldn't blame you. But if you're at this point already, maybe you'll follow me just a little further.
We as physical beings have certain sensations that tell us what's happening around us. We use our observations--provided by our well-understood five senses--to collect these sensations, and then we reason, to the best of our ability, their causes and consequences. Take something as simple as gravity. We know it exists and how it works; we all have observed it our entire lives and taken it for granted. But it took theoretical physicists, beginning with (if you believe the myth) Isaac Newton and his apple, asking centuries of questions before it could be accurately explained. (Even now, current accepted theory doesn't give us the whole picture. Go read Hawking.)
Now take something slightly more complex: magnetism. This is another thing we've all observed our whole lives (or at least since the first time you pulled yourself to a standing position against the fridge and slid down because you grabbed one of those silly plastic fruits holding up a shopping list). This isn't, however, something we can all explain. Once observed, though, we understand and accept it. It's just always there, even if we can't measure it or create conditions to artificially induce it. We just all know that, unless it was created artificially, a magnet never ever loses its ability to stick to our fridge.
Imagine, for a moment, that magnetism was not something universally observed or understood, but you, a lonely pilgrim in your simple human journey, discovered it. Not discovered in the traditional sense of course, because in truth, it will have always existed. What would you call it, and therefore how would you explain or refer to it to people you wished to communicate it to? If you wanted to explore it, would you know how to go about it? Would you have been lucky enough to come across a cache of magnetic materials to experiment with, or something randomly lying around? If the latter, would you assume it was an isolated phenomenon, or something due to the place you found your materials, or something relating to the position of the stars and planets, or something related to your accepted divine being?
And all these what-ifs apply to something we can put our hands on, something we can see, bring someone else to and know they'll make the exact same observations, something we can photograph and measure and publish in a journal.
The discovery I think I've made...isn't so much of a discovery, because I believe it's always existed, and not just in my life, but EVERY life. It isn't something tangible, it isn't something that has a name, or something that can be measured, or photographed, or published, or shown to a person. Or even, as we're both coming to understand, written well about.
Prehistoric man discovered, by realizing he could think and reason and question, his brain. What I am exploring is something I've named my Core.
What I'm talking about is the thing inside us that is a kind of perceptory organ. It's similar to the emotional device called a heart, but has more than an emotional function. It's also similar to what has been called intuition in that it can 'listen' to things outside our normal perception. Our cores tell us when someone is sad or angry or attracted to us, and broadcasts to others when we are. Our cores give us a sense that something is wrong, and may guide us on a course of action. Our cores ache and need healing when a loved one dies. Our cores can send up red or white flags, and ring alarm bells about a stranger who may only be standing at the next slot machine. Now, some people--smart people, mind you--will say that all this is physiological, a result of pheromones and body language and brain chemicals. Those people may be right. But like prehistoric man wondering at the stars in the sky, I am wondering whether these physiological signals point falsely to what I am describing, or the thing I'm describing actually dictates that physiology, the way the brain affects the body by releasing adrenaline, or the way the body can affect the brain if we indulge in too much sour mash. And sue me for saying so, but if billions of people can believe in a greater power for no apparent reason, and be believed just because they have a name for this believe ("faith"), then I can name and describe a possibly-fictional system of the body/mind/soul*.
This is closely connected to my belief in body energy. There are well documented accounts of chakras and chi and the like from numerous cultures going back (how many?) years. Has anyone besides me wondered why energy therapy is NOT part of modern medical practice? Maybe it's because we can't see it, or measure it, or quantify its magnitude or effects. I'm sure there are people out there who know some or all of the reasons, but I'm not one of them. It doesn't make body energy any less real, but it does make people look at me funny when I bring it up in conversation (which is very seldom these days.)
How the Core, my newly identified metaphysical sensory organ, relates to body energy, or anything else, is still an unanswered question. I'll never know for sure, not in this life. And even if I had some answers, they would be tiny, delicious little revelations useful and understandable only to me. But one of my biggest discoveries has already occurred: that naming this sensory thing has allowed me to move forward in exploring it, and exploration has always been the point all along.
*Just to be clear, I am not a faithless man. While I won't quote you all the biblical stories as solid fact, I think anyone who believes THIS is all there is to life is an ignorant fool. I also believe in a single god/creator/supreme being/higher power, which I suppose technically makes me agnostic. I give thanks and pray and ask for help like most people who identify themselves as religious. I hold my beliefs for many reasons, most of which come from observations made...with my core.
Of course, now these are all silly examples of a simpler time, and a simpler race. We can compare ourselves to such folk and feel proud of our advancements in art and science, in culture. Of course, we can see the truth now. We know the deal, and we'll never live in the dark again.
Right? Maybe not.
Prehistoric Man never knew about his brain. Any attempt to explain it or its function would have been lost, except to point it out as that pink fleshy thing that spills when you open the skull. But the first day he came up with the concept that adding one stone to another created a sequence, or looked into the sky and wondered what are those white dots up there? instead of taking them for granted as backdrop, or realized that collecting seeds from one fruit and leaving them in the ground yielded more fruit, he fundamentally understood something about the brain's purpose. It isn't that he could have explained what just happened, but he was definitely aware something HAD happened.
The modern state of our science and technology is admittedly astounding. It used to be, as recently as a few centuries ago, that an educated person could eventually be taught all that had been collectively learned by his or her cultural academia, and still have enough lifespan left to practice be recognized for it. We are now well past that point, and that is truly amazing.
However, I wonder if it really makes us more advanced as a species, or just gives us a greater license to justify our modern ignorance. Such advances have taken thousands of generations, and millions of thinkers who looked at the information they'd been given and realized it was insufficient, that it did a poor job of explaining something that they either observed or understood on a deeper level. For many of the early thinkers in any given era, there were no means of discovering, but like prehistoric man, they became aware of something. Their ability to even perceive a thing was a small step ahead of their peers', and a first step in what would eventually change the history of our entire species.
I believe we may be on the edge of such a discovery now. Oh, I am by no means well educated, nor am I exceptionally intelligent. But part of me has, for my entire life, been aware that something else is going on in this world, or specifically, with myself as a whole being.
Now's the part where you skip down to the next entry, if you're generous, or click the 'Next Blog' button at the top of the page if you're not. And I wouldn't blame you. But if you're at this point already, maybe you'll follow me just a little further.
We as physical beings have certain sensations that tell us what's happening around us. We use our observations--provided by our well-understood five senses--to collect these sensations, and then we reason, to the best of our ability, their causes and consequences. Take something as simple as gravity. We know it exists and how it works; we all have observed it our entire lives and taken it for granted. But it took theoretical physicists, beginning with (if you believe the myth) Isaac Newton and his apple, asking centuries of questions before it could be accurately explained. (Even now, current accepted theory doesn't give us the whole picture. Go read Hawking.)
Now take something slightly more complex: magnetism. This is another thing we've all observed our whole lives (or at least since the first time you pulled yourself to a standing position against the fridge and slid down because you grabbed one of those silly plastic fruits holding up a shopping list). This isn't, however, something we can all explain. Once observed, though, we understand and accept it. It's just always there, even if we can't measure it or create conditions to artificially induce it. We just all know that, unless it was created artificially, a magnet never ever loses its ability to stick to our fridge.
Imagine, for a moment, that magnetism was not something universally observed or understood, but you, a lonely pilgrim in your simple human journey, discovered it. Not discovered in the traditional sense of course, because in truth, it will have always existed. What would you call it, and therefore how would you explain or refer to it to people you wished to communicate it to? If you wanted to explore it, would you know how to go about it? Would you have been lucky enough to come across a cache of magnetic materials to experiment with, or something randomly lying around? If the latter, would you assume it was an isolated phenomenon, or something due to the place you found your materials, or something relating to the position of the stars and planets, or something related to your accepted divine being?
And all these what-ifs apply to something we can put our hands on, something we can see, bring someone else to and know they'll make the exact same observations, something we can photograph and measure and publish in a journal.
The discovery I think I've made...isn't so much of a discovery, because I believe it's always existed, and not just in my life, but EVERY life. It isn't something tangible, it isn't something that has a name, or something that can be measured, or photographed, or published, or shown to a person. Or even, as we're both coming to understand, written well about.
Prehistoric man discovered, by realizing he could think and reason and question, his brain. What I am exploring is something I've named my Core.
What I'm talking about is the thing inside us that is a kind of perceptory organ. It's similar to the emotional device called a heart, but has more than an emotional function. It's also similar to what has been called intuition in that it can 'listen' to things outside our normal perception. Our cores tell us when someone is sad or angry or attracted to us, and broadcasts to others when we are. Our cores give us a sense that something is wrong, and may guide us on a course of action. Our cores ache and need healing when a loved one dies. Our cores can send up red or white flags, and ring alarm bells about a stranger who may only be standing at the next slot machine. Now, some people--smart people, mind you--will say that all this is physiological, a result of pheromones and body language and brain chemicals. Those people may be right. But like prehistoric man wondering at the stars in the sky, I am wondering whether these physiological signals point falsely to what I am describing, or the thing I'm describing actually dictates that physiology, the way the brain affects the body by releasing adrenaline, or the way the body can affect the brain if we indulge in too much sour mash. And sue me for saying so, but if billions of people can believe in a greater power for no apparent reason, and be believed just because they have a name for this believe ("faith"), then I can name and describe a possibly-fictional system of the body/mind/soul*.
This is closely connected to my belief in body energy. There are well documented accounts of chakras and chi and the like from numerous cultures going back (how many?) years. Has anyone besides me wondered why energy therapy is NOT part of modern medical practice? Maybe it's because we can't see it, or measure it, or quantify its magnitude or effects. I'm sure there are people out there who know some or all of the reasons, but I'm not one of them. It doesn't make body energy any less real, but it does make people look at me funny when I bring it up in conversation (which is very seldom these days.)
How the Core, my newly identified metaphysical sensory organ, relates to body energy, or anything else, is still an unanswered question. I'll never know for sure, not in this life. And even if I had some answers, they would be tiny, delicious little revelations useful and understandable only to me. But one of my biggest discoveries has already occurred: that naming this sensory thing has allowed me to move forward in exploring it, and exploration has always been the point all along.
*Just to be clear, I am not a faithless man. While I won't quote you all the biblical stories as solid fact, I think anyone who believes THIS is all there is to life is an ignorant fool. I also believe in a single god/creator/supreme being/higher power, which I suppose technically makes me agnostic. I give thanks and pray and ask for help like most people who identify themselves as religious. I hold my beliefs for many reasons, most of which come from observations made...with my core.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Folly of Youth
Today I was reminded of one of my most egregious mistakes. It hurt.
This is one of the great errors in judgment which affects an entire life, and calls into question the validity of everything which preceded it. The sacrifices I made to commit this act have never ceased to cost me something every day since. Some days it's more noticeable than others, but I know it happens. Some measure of trust is lost, and my word isn't as good as it once was. There are moments of awkwardness when old friends realize what's changed, and then the coldness begins. The friendships I so desperately need to keep myself grounded are no longer available, and this above all else causes the most regret.
Is this selfish of me? I think it is, but I don't see any other way of explaining it. Mine, after all, is the only lens through which I'll ever view the world, or any of my own actions. And though I may mourn my losses unknown, the fact that I lack the perspective of those who I hurt or pushed away only serves to enlarge my sense of wrongdoing.
I've made partial amends, but I know I'll never have back what could have been mine. I know compared to others' crimes, mine is minuscule: nobody died, no laws were broken, nothing was stolen. But there was abuse and destruction, and I am still haunted by this regret. It's true that everyone has moved on, including me, but I still can't possibly fathom why I would ever risk so much for so little.
This is one of the great errors in judgment which affects an entire life, and calls into question the validity of everything which preceded it. The sacrifices I made to commit this act have never ceased to cost me something every day since. Some days it's more noticeable than others, but I know it happens. Some measure of trust is lost, and my word isn't as good as it once was. There are moments of awkwardness when old friends realize what's changed, and then the coldness begins. The friendships I so desperately need to keep myself grounded are no longer available, and this above all else causes the most regret.
Is this selfish of me? I think it is, but I don't see any other way of explaining it. Mine, after all, is the only lens through which I'll ever view the world, or any of my own actions. And though I may mourn my losses unknown, the fact that I lack the perspective of those who I hurt or pushed away only serves to enlarge my sense of wrongdoing.
I've made partial amends, but I know I'll never have back what could have been mine. I know compared to others' crimes, mine is minuscule: nobody died, no laws were broken, nothing was stolen. But there was abuse and destruction, and I am still haunted by this regret. It's true that everyone has moved on, including me, but I still can't possibly fathom why I would ever risk so much for so little.
Monday, September 28, 2009
As I Am
Newsflash:
I'm kind of sick of trying to make everyone happy with who and what I am. Though I thought I was doing this before, maybe I was mistaken. So let me be clear: from this moment forward, anyone who wishes for me to be involved in their lives will do so on the condition that they stop criticizing the things I do and say, the way I live, how I think, and who I am. Anyone unwilling to meet those conditions can kiss my merry ass.
Why the tirade? I'll tell you. In the last two weekends, I've been out with "the guys" on two occasions. This is unusual for me. I rarely go out on weekends, and when I do, it's almost always a family or couples event. Also, I rarely drink more than one or two adult beverages on any given outing, if I drink at all. I'm not given to excess. So on the occasion that I do overindulge, I'd like everyone to recognize that 99% of the time I'm perfectly functional and sober. Also, I think I deserve a damn break: I'm 36 years old. I'm a good man and a hard worker. If I want to get drunk with the guys every now and then, so be it. So long as I continue to earn our family's decent living, don't come home and trash the house, don't blow the car payment on booze, don't wake everyone up when I get home, don't operate under the influence, or any other such behavior that constitutes conduct unbecoming, leave me the hell alone.
And on that subject, the first of the two aforementioned weekends, I did, in fact, overindulge. It was partly by accident; I'm not as young and robust as I used to be, apparently. It was partly on purpose (see the last half of paragraph 2 above). And I did feel like hell the next day. But guess what else I did the next day? I got out of bed on time (before 7am), showered, and went on to meet every single obligation I made that day (which, taking into account I was volunteering at a meeting of ~100 exchange students, was considerable). I puked. I felt like crap. I cold sweated and I'm sure I was pale. I don't know whether anyone other than my wife could tell, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Because every single time I needed to excuse myself, I did so graciously, and I came back within a few minutes, and every moment in between those episodes I was on track, body and mind. To make my original point: nobody suffered that day because of what I did the night before EXCEPT for me, so anyone who wishes to pass judgment can, well...refer to the last sentence of paragraph 1.
The second of the two aforementioned weekends, I did not, in fact, overindulge. I made this decision consciously as both a physiological and financial matter. I volunteered to drive instead, believing I ought to contribute something to the shindig, as it was an impromptu birthday party for a buddy. Good times were had by all. Two guys got pretty plastered, as was their right. The birthday boy got to pick the bar because he's into one of the waitresses, which is also his right, and after seeing her totally understandable. As it happened, I ended up next to this woman (with my buddy on the other side). This led to the perpetuation of a certain label these guys (with whom I work) have given me, which isn't entirely respectable. I usually take it in good stride; after all, we're all just guys messing around with each other's heads. But they insist on doing this at work, where (surprise!) there are lots of other people who DON'T really know me, who DON'T really understand that ALL of us guys actually qualify for that label on more than a few occasions.
The people hearing this joking are people whose professional respect I am trying to either earn or keep. Though I already knew it to be true, it struck me today: no matter where we go, or what I do, when I'm with these guys, I will always be the one who gets this label, and no matter how much I might tone myself down, they'll always adjust their rating scales to ensure I fall into the category they've chosen. It kind of pisses me off. I have realized the only way to change this (because appealing to their mature sensibilities will only serve to get me a new label) is to be a dick about it, call a spade a spade, and basically tell them to STFU.
And so, I'm done. I'm canceling my subscription. All of y'all who want me around are just going to have to put up with me. Any of y'all that have something negative to say may at least get walked away from, or at most get told where to shove it. I've got things to do and people to take care of, and I don't have time to try and fit into your expectations of me. If being your friend means bowing to your criticism or taking your crap, go find someone else to be your friend. I'm all done. Have a nice day.
I'm kind of sick of trying to make everyone happy with who and what I am. Though I thought I was doing this before, maybe I was mistaken. So let me be clear: from this moment forward, anyone who wishes for me to be involved in their lives will do so on the condition that they stop criticizing the things I do and say, the way I live, how I think, and who I am. Anyone unwilling to meet those conditions can kiss my merry ass.
Why the tirade? I'll tell you. In the last two weekends, I've been out with "the guys" on two occasions. This is unusual for me. I rarely go out on weekends, and when I do, it's almost always a family or couples event. Also, I rarely drink more than one or two adult beverages on any given outing, if I drink at all. I'm not given to excess. So on the occasion that I do overindulge, I'd like everyone to recognize that 99% of the time I'm perfectly functional and sober. Also, I think I deserve a damn break: I'm 36 years old. I'm a good man and a hard worker. If I want to get drunk with the guys every now and then, so be it. So long as I continue to earn our family's decent living, don't come home and trash the house, don't blow the car payment on booze, don't wake everyone up when I get home, don't operate under the influence, or any other such behavior that constitutes conduct unbecoming, leave me the hell alone.
And on that subject, the first of the two aforementioned weekends, I did, in fact, overindulge. It was partly by accident; I'm not as young and robust as I used to be, apparently. It was partly on purpose (see the last half of paragraph 2 above). And I did feel like hell the next day. But guess what else I did the next day? I got out of bed on time (before 7am), showered, and went on to meet every single obligation I made that day (which, taking into account I was volunteering at a meeting of ~100 exchange students, was considerable). I puked. I felt like crap. I cold sweated and I'm sure I was pale. I don't know whether anyone other than my wife could tell, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Because every single time I needed to excuse myself, I did so graciously, and I came back within a few minutes, and every moment in between those episodes I was on track, body and mind. To make my original point: nobody suffered that day because of what I did the night before EXCEPT for me, so anyone who wishes to pass judgment can, well...refer to the last sentence of paragraph 1.
The second of the two aforementioned weekends, I did not, in fact, overindulge. I made this decision consciously as both a physiological and financial matter. I volunteered to drive instead, believing I ought to contribute something to the shindig, as it was an impromptu birthday party for a buddy. Good times were had by all. Two guys got pretty plastered, as was their right. The birthday boy got to pick the bar because he's into one of the waitresses, which is also his right, and after seeing her totally understandable. As it happened, I ended up next to this woman (with my buddy on the other side). This led to the perpetuation of a certain label these guys (with whom I work) have given me, which isn't entirely respectable. I usually take it in good stride; after all, we're all just guys messing around with each other's heads. But they insist on doing this at work, where (surprise!) there are lots of other people who DON'T really know me, who DON'T really understand that ALL of us guys actually qualify for that label on more than a few occasions.
The people hearing this joking are people whose professional respect I am trying to either earn or keep. Though I already knew it to be true, it struck me today: no matter where we go, or what I do, when I'm with these guys, I will always be the one who gets this label, and no matter how much I might tone myself down, they'll always adjust their rating scales to ensure I fall into the category they've chosen. It kind of pisses me off. I have realized the only way to change this (because appealing to their mature sensibilities will only serve to get me a new label) is to be a dick about it, call a spade a spade, and basically tell them to STFU.
And so, I'm done. I'm canceling my subscription. All of y'all who want me around are just going to have to put up with me. Any of y'all that have something negative to say may at least get walked away from, or at most get told where to shove it. I've got things to do and people to take care of, and I don't have time to try and fit into your expectations of me. If being your friend means bowing to your criticism or taking your crap, go find someone else to be your friend. I'm all done. Have a nice day.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Circle K
A coworker noticed my serious nature and inquired whether I was in a funk. I replied that no, I was in fact in a groove, getting lots done, but as a result realizing the daunting amount of work ahead of me this week. Does this mean I'm in a funky groove?
* * * * *
Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.
I looked back over my writing a week or so ago, and it was apparent then I'd skipped more than a few significant events in the past months. I've let more than a few affecting news stories go uncommented on. I've let more than a handful of emotional benchmarks slip through my fingers. I've let many a family event go by unrelated. I've changed a bit, and documented none of it.
This is a problem for me. It's a problem because my memory is terrible, and also because normal means of documenting daily life are erratically or completely ignored in our lifestyle. Paper journaling, that classical, elegant predecessor to blogging, is simply out of the question. Pictures are taken mostly of (or by) children, mostly at events which are more important to us than them, and are almost universally forgotten about until the memory card is full. (And then, as is probably the case in most households, promptly forgotten about AGAIN until the computer's hard drive crashes, which prompts lots of regret and moaning about lost digital images that hadn't been looked upon for longer than it took to offload them from the camera.)
* * * * *
Yes, the Circle K reference, which I thought was so funny, and might appeal to other children of the 80's to whom Bill and Ted's excellent adventures were such a milestone, was written yesterday. The train of thought got lost in a work day, and when I picked up on it today, it was gone.
I mention this only because it's a perfect example of the emotional benchmarks I said I've missed so many of. Here it was yesterday, I felt I had something to say (really, there was much more coming), sat down to say it, and then *poof* it was gone, in a puff of orange smoke.
As I said, this is a problem for me. I told a friend who also blogs recreationally that writing is critical. To not get out those thoughts or words or feelings in their time of validity is to lose an essential part of yourself to the maelstrom of day to day life, from which nothing escapes unless there's an overdue dollar amount attached to it. And unlike more concrete aspects of thought (like those overdue dollar amounts for instance), you can't put your need to write aside and remember where you were emotionally or intellectually that day when you finally have the time to record it. You don't get much of a backlog; the Muse will only wait so long.
These thoughts make up who I am. How I express them, consciously and otherwise, through my words and actions, creates a kind of user interface for everyone in the world with whom I interact. My children will know me each day by how I love and discipline them, by my expectations and disappointments. My coworkers will know me eacy day by my expertise, curiosity, and professionalism (or lack thereof on any count). My friends will know me each day by my opinions, my sense of humor, and our shared experiences. My wife will know me each day by how I express my love for her, and how I care for our marriage.
I am known--and judged--by everyone around me in so many different ways, and by so many words and actions, simply by how I express what's inside.
So, what IS inside?
Some days I think I know, but what's known really is only valid in any given context or situation. Most days, I'm only going on program, following a mental to-do list or maintaining a routine of tasks because they're familiar or necessary or both. In this way, those exterior words and actions are there for all to see, expressing the stuff inside me which I am taking no trouble to either monitor or maintain. This seems counterintuitive.
In any conversation with myself, all that stuff inside is the whole point. Of everything. Even when I'm only "on program," as far as I'm concerned all those things I spend my entire day doing are specifically for the benefit of those around me, and are a direct result of the interior desire to provide for them. Maybe that comes out through my actions, or maybe it just looks like I'm running myself ragged, but either way I do it not only because I must, but because I want to--not only for them, but for myself.
So anyway, my whole purpose in ever thinking about about the insides are to make sure I keep getting better. It's important to me that I am a good, productive person, and it's important to me that I become more so as I age. The ONLY way I'll ever be able to benchmark any such progress is by taking some kind of snapshot of what's inside from time to time, and comparing it to other such snapshots.
This is just a very long way of saying that unless I blog (or otherwise write) those thoughts or emotions or events that strike me on occasion, I'm only shooting myself in the foot: I have no way of knowing whether I'm making any progress in my personal development. So I better get on the stick.
And on the subject of lost trains of thought, there it goes. But what I managed to get out in my short expressive window was, I think, pretty good. It helped me, anyway. And if that's not good enough, I respectfully suggest you hit that "next blog" button at the top of your screen. After all, this isn't here for you; this is my own gift to myself.
* * * * *
Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.
I looked back over my writing a week or so ago, and it was apparent then I'd skipped more than a few significant events in the past months. I've let more than a few affecting news stories go uncommented on. I've let more than a handful of emotional benchmarks slip through my fingers. I've let many a family event go by unrelated. I've changed a bit, and documented none of it.
This is a problem for me. It's a problem because my memory is terrible, and also because normal means of documenting daily life are erratically or completely ignored in our lifestyle. Paper journaling, that classical, elegant predecessor to blogging, is simply out of the question. Pictures are taken mostly of (or by) children, mostly at events which are more important to us than them, and are almost universally forgotten about until the memory card is full. (And then, as is probably the case in most households, promptly forgotten about AGAIN until the computer's hard drive crashes, which prompts lots of regret and moaning about lost digital images that hadn't been looked upon for longer than it took to offload them from the camera.)
* * * * *
Yes, the Circle K reference, which I thought was so funny, and might appeal to other children of the 80's to whom Bill and Ted's excellent adventures were such a milestone, was written yesterday. The train of thought got lost in a work day, and when I picked up on it today, it was gone.
I mention this only because it's a perfect example of the emotional benchmarks I said I've missed so many of. Here it was yesterday, I felt I had something to say (really, there was much more coming), sat down to say it, and then *poof* it was gone, in a puff of orange smoke.
As I said, this is a problem for me. I told a friend who also blogs recreationally that writing is critical. To not get out those thoughts or words or feelings in their time of validity is to lose an essential part of yourself to the maelstrom of day to day life, from which nothing escapes unless there's an overdue dollar amount attached to it. And unlike more concrete aspects of thought (like those overdue dollar amounts for instance), you can't put your need to write aside and remember where you were emotionally or intellectually that day when you finally have the time to record it. You don't get much of a backlog; the Muse will only wait so long.
These thoughts make up who I am. How I express them, consciously and otherwise, through my words and actions, creates a kind of user interface for everyone in the world with whom I interact. My children will know me each day by how I love and discipline them, by my expectations and disappointments. My coworkers will know me eacy day by my expertise, curiosity, and professionalism (or lack thereof on any count). My friends will know me each day by my opinions, my sense of humor, and our shared experiences. My wife will know me each day by how I express my love for her, and how I care for our marriage.
I am known--and judged--by everyone around me in so many different ways, and by so many words and actions, simply by how I express what's inside.
So, what IS inside?
Some days I think I know, but what's known really is only valid in any given context or situation. Most days, I'm only going on program, following a mental to-do list or maintaining a routine of tasks because they're familiar or necessary or both. In this way, those exterior words and actions are there for all to see, expressing the stuff inside me which I am taking no trouble to either monitor or maintain. This seems counterintuitive.
In any conversation with myself, all that stuff inside is the whole point. Of everything. Even when I'm only "on program," as far as I'm concerned all those things I spend my entire day doing are specifically for the benefit of those around me, and are a direct result of the interior desire to provide for them. Maybe that comes out through my actions, or maybe it just looks like I'm running myself ragged, but either way I do it not only because I must, but because I want to--not only for them, but for myself.
So anyway, my whole purpose in ever thinking about about the insides are to make sure I keep getting better. It's important to me that I am a good, productive person, and it's important to me that I become more so as I age. The ONLY way I'll ever be able to benchmark any such progress is by taking some kind of snapshot of what's inside from time to time, and comparing it to other such snapshots.
This is just a very long way of saying that unless I blog (or otherwise write) those thoughts or emotions or events that strike me on occasion, I'm only shooting myself in the foot: I have no way of knowing whether I'm making any progress in my personal development. So I better get on the stick.
And on the subject of lost trains of thought, there it goes. But what I managed to get out in my short expressive window was, I think, pretty good. It helped me, anyway. And if that's not good enough, I respectfully suggest you hit that "next blog" button at the top of your screen. After all, this isn't here for you; this is my own gift to myself.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
FYI
Just to let everyone know, sometimes dads need relief from talkative kids, too. And their cell phone bills. And the crap they dish out as they perpetually try to deceive their moms...er, parents. I'm just saying.
Seriously, am I the only one who notices this??
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
March Forth
Today I turn thirty-six.
That doesn't really mean anything, aside from a new driver's license and probably some gray hairs, but considering how the last few weeks have been going, it's as good a time as any for some serious reflection.
I've done a fair amount of introspecting in this blog, from childhood and parenting, my Divine purpose, my chemical nature, and even my personal drains. I don't consider any of these insights to be revelations of any type. In fact, I barely consider them more than shadows flickering about on my cave wall. I'm struggling to understand myself on a daily basis most of the time, and no amount of flowery prose will ever make it any easier. All I really hope for in my writing is a way to talk myself through a given situation. If I become better as a result, that's usually just a happy side effect.
This year might be different. Of course, it might not, just like any other year that didn't make a damn bit of difference (except the aforementioned gray hairs). But I've got something scary on the horizon. I suppose one benefit of the very crappy economy is that I'm rethinking much of how I've become accustomed to living, what I take for granted, and what might happen if any of the blessings I've been given were taken away.
I'm not just talking about my job. One year ago, I was still mourning the death of my father as my wife watched her mother fade away. Just in the last month, I've had to face a situation I never wanted to be in, where I was forced to decide between two terrible outcomes: one long and slow, the other harsh and immediate. As the year thaws and new prospects begin to bud, I anticipate finding myself in a worse-than-usual self-induced pity party with respect to all the areas of my life in which I've disappointed my much younger, hungry-for-life self.
Of course, I've not been that person in a very long time. And I must remember that when I was that person, I was also a person riddled with the wounds of dysfunction and codependance. I'm not finished battling those demons (maybe I never will be) but I'm healthy enough now to know what I want, and who I am, and who I want to be. I'm playing a different game now, with more chips on this side of the table and fewer on that, and now some key cards are in the hole never to recovered, but I'm much more prepared to win than I ever was when that nerdy, lanky kid looked out into the world and saw no boundaries. That poor child: he also saw no steps along the road or any mechanism for success. He fell off a cliff long before he noticed it was even there.
I'm not that kid anymore, for better or worse, but I still look out into the future and dream, knowing the journey from here is a bit more limited than it was from way back there, but there's still a long way I can travel. And inside, I know it's not about how many years I have left on this earth: it's about how much I'm willing to make it work. Looking around all my circles, I have found people accomplished at both ends of the success spectrum: those who have set and achieved major life goals in less time than I spent trying to pass Calculus II, and those who decided early in their lives what they weren't capable of, and stopped right between the good-enough living and the couch.
I wonder, if anyone looks at me in that light, where they see me. I look at myself and don't even know for sure. I have days when I'm solidly one or the other, for sure, but all my slacker days are well earned by hard labor, and all my superstar days are just that--days. I know I'm capable of going beyond a handful of fantastic 24 hour periods, and I know in the end I won't be satisfied with less than my best.
I used to think I underachieved because I fear failure. While it's a pretty big factor, the real reason is the opposite: I fear success. And conversely, failure is comfortable and easy. Not settling for failure means stepping into unfamiliar territory, putting your neck on the block, exausting yourself with no end in sight for rewards that are as yet untangible. I know that's not the whole story, but it's the part I tell myself right before I sit down with two hours left in a day and the mental list I carry around is put away until tomorrow. "Why put off...when you..." Oh, shut up.
And then one day, you wake up and you're 36, and you realize you've done that for a few too many days lately, a few thousand days in fact. Not that you haven't anything to show for it, the good things in life still come, and you're not a complete doof. There are three beautiful kids I get to squeeze when I come home each day, that pretty lady who has put up with me for so long and still likes to kiss me, the faithful yellow dog who sticks with me no matter how awful I become. There's the bathroom I tiled, the pantry I built, the piles of firewood I split and stacked with my own two hands, and the closet I adapted for my vertically-challenged 6-year old daughter. All these things are solid reminders that I am a good person, a decent man, and not a complete failure. All these people love me whether I make the grade at work or finish my degree. Sadly, these aren't the only things that matter, not if I want to live in a house, or drive a car, or feed my family, or be insured, or retire one day. That's just now how the world works.
I can do better. And what I realize more and more is that I owe it to more than just myself. And so today, March 4th, I open my eyes to what I need to do. I still feel like that lanky kid sometimes, staring off into the unknown, not knowing how to proceed, but I have gained some wisdom up to this point, and to let it go to waste would be to decide yet one more day can pass on the couch, in the comfort of my own failure. And I just can't let that happen. SCW
That doesn't really mean anything, aside from a new driver's license and probably some gray hairs, but considering how the last few weeks have been going, it's as good a time as any for some serious reflection.
I've done a fair amount of introspecting in this blog, from childhood and parenting, my Divine purpose, my chemical nature, and even my personal drains. I don't consider any of these insights to be revelations of any type. In fact, I barely consider them more than shadows flickering about on my cave wall. I'm struggling to understand myself on a daily basis most of the time, and no amount of flowery prose will ever make it any easier. All I really hope for in my writing is a way to talk myself through a given situation. If I become better as a result, that's usually just a happy side effect.
This year might be different. Of course, it might not, just like any other year that didn't make a damn bit of difference (except the aforementioned gray hairs). But I've got something scary on the horizon. I suppose one benefit of the very crappy economy is that I'm rethinking much of how I've become accustomed to living, what I take for granted, and what might happen if any of the blessings I've been given were taken away.
I'm not just talking about my job. One year ago, I was still mourning the death of my father as my wife watched her mother fade away. Just in the last month, I've had to face a situation I never wanted to be in, where I was forced to decide between two terrible outcomes: one long and slow, the other harsh and immediate. As the year thaws and new prospects begin to bud, I anticipate finding myself in a worse-than-usual self-induced pity party with respect to all the areas of my life in which I've disappointed my much younger, hungry-for-life self.
Of course, I've not been that person in a very long time. And I must remember that when I was that person, I was also a person riddled with the wounds of dysfunction and codependance. I'm not finished battling those demons (maybe I never will be) but I'm healthy enough now to know what I want, and who I am, and who I want to be. I'm playing a different game now, with more chips on this side of the table and fewer on that, and now some key cards are in the hole never to recovered, but I'm much more prepared to win than I ever was when that nerdy, lanky kid looked out into the world and saw no boundaries. That poor child: he also saw no steps along the road or any mechanism for success. He fell off a cliff long before he noticed it was even there.
I'm not that kid anymore, for better or worse, but I still look out into the future and dream, knowing the journey from here is a bit more limited than it was from way back there, but there's still a long way I can travel. And inside, I know it's not about how many years I have left on this earth: it's about how much I'm willing to make it work. Looking around all my circles, I have found people accomplished at both ends of the success spectrum: those who have set and achieved major life goals in less time than I spent trying to pass Calculus II, and those who decided early in their lives what they weren't capable of, and stopped right between the good-enough living and the couch.
I wonder, if anyone looks at me in that light, where they see me. I look at myself and don't even know for sure. I have days when I'm solidly one or the other, for sure, but all my slacker days are well earned by hard labor, and all my superstar days are just that--days. I know I'm capable of going beyond a handful of fantastic 24 hour periods, and I know in the end I won't be satisfied with less than my best.
I used to think I underachieved because I fear failure. While it's a pretty big factor, the real reason is the opposite: I fear success. And conversely, failure is comfortable and easy. Not settling for failure means stepping into unfamiliar territory, putting your neck on the block, exausting yourself with no end in sight for rewards that are as yet untangible. I know that's not the whole story, but it's the part I tell myself right before I sit down with two hours left in a day and the mental list I carry around is put away until tomorrow. "Why put off...when you..." Oh, shut up.
And then one day, you wake up and you're 36, and you realize you've done that for a few too many days lately, a few thousand days in fact. Not that you haven't anything to show for it, the good things in life still come, and you're not a complete doof. There are three beautiful kids I get to squeeze when I come home each day, that pretty lady who has put up with me for so long and still likes to kiss me, the faithful yellow dog who sticks with me no matter how awful I become. There's the bathroom I tiled, the pantry I built, the piles of firewood I split and stacked with my own two hands, and the closet I adapted for my vertically-challenged 6-year old daughter. All these things are solid reminders that I am a good person, a decent man, and not a complete failure. All these people love me whether I make the grade at work or finish my degree. Sadly, these aren't the only things that matter, not if I want to live in a house, or drive a car, or feed my family, or be insured, or retire one day. That's just now how the world works.
I can do better. And what I realize more and more is that I owe it to more than just myself. And so today, March 4th, I open my eyes to what I need to do. I still feel like that lanky kid sometimes, staring off into the unknown, not knowing how to proceed, but I have gained some wisdom up to this point, and to let it go to waste would be to decide yet one more day can pass on the couch, in the comfort of my own failure. And I just can't let that happen. SCW
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Parenting Takes Balls
Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
--Dr. Suess
As parents, we do a lot for our children. Obviously. I know that by about my third day as a new father, I had realized practically everything I would be doing from then on, forever, would be done, in one context or another, for my children.
Lots of things are done deliberately: bathing, feeding, changing diapers, soothing boo-boos, administering discipline, helping with homework, begrudgingly handing over the credit card for that Homecoming dress she has to have--you get the idea. But it takes some deep thought to realize just how much of parenting is done behind the scenes. You need only watch your five year old repeat your exact words and reaction to spilling dinner on the kitchen floor ONCE to realize this is true. If you haven't been through this, trust me when I say this is not a pleasant realization.
Once it hits, though, you get to the bread and butter of being a parent: your job, ultimately, is to raise this tiny human into an adult, a productive, responsible, successful, (wealthy?) adult. (If our own adult lives are any clue, we are also raising our children to move out and never call us except when they need something or every 3rd Sunday when they remember to invite us over for dinner. Which, by the way, starts in twenty minutes.) And if our own childhoods are any clue, the majority of the tools used to form these ideal future versions of our kids are not the obvious ones, like making sure they brush their teeth before bed, or finish their homework before playing World of Warcraft. In fact, the most enduring actions parents take occur between those deliberate, business-of-family-and-parenting moments.
We miss most of these moments, and if we catch them at all, usually we only realize it after they've passed. I stopped trying to keep track of most of them long ago. Instead (unless I want to make myself crazy), I try to focus on what we at work call key performance indicators, or KPI's. I watch the kids' reactions to too much homework, or punishment, or being told no. I listen to them in their room when they're supposed to be in bed, at the games they play or how they treat each other when they think no one's paying attention. I know most of what they're learning from me comes from the example I set in my own reactions, how I treat their mother, how I speak to people on the phone or strangers in public. I know much of how they learn to live their lives will come from how they see me living mine. Which is kind of scary to me.
My wife and I do try, as every parent does, to steer this colossal effort toward what we think might result in success. There are certain experiences we each think are important to provide to our kids with something we consider valuable. Even though, say, starting the kids on an allowance to teach them financial responsibility qualifies as one such effort, the others, and possibly the most valuable, come in another form: a family tradition of one sort or another.
One of these traditions comes up regularly Christmas time: the tree. It is our tradition, or has been most of these last ten years, to lug the biggest box in the house up the basement stairs sometime after Thanksgiving and assemble a 6' tall construct of green ribbon and twisted metal
that kind of resembles a pine tree when it's all done. Each year we do this, and each year we invariably mumble about how next year we'll get a real tree, even though we know full well this requires a family trip out in the cold to the impromptu tree farm beside Kmart, competing child's favorites (and the inevitable complement: the appearance of favoritism), haggling with a guy who has not shaven for days only to pay God knows how many score of dollars for something that will only end up on the curb in four weeks or less, all the while hoping you weren't taken advantage of. Not to mention all the damn needles on the carpet in January. Yes, we decide to do this each year because we want to provide our kids with fond memories of a special time. How this passes as meaningful I can't say, but both The Wife and I do hold it close to our hearts. Maybe we think having a "fake" Christmas tree means we're somehow "faking" Christmas. Who's to say our kids don't consider the sight of the giant box on my shoulders just as joyful as seeing a real tree get tied to the top of the car for the trip home used to for me?
Every person has these meaningful events: KPI's that mean we've reached some kind of milestone of happiness or success. We learned them as children from the people who shaped our lives, and we try our hardest to pass them on to those whose lives we hope to shape. In a way, these events are like baseballs thrown forward in time by people who hope we'll be able to pick them up and throw them forward for our own kids. Like when Dad lets you cut the last half inch of the chosen tree at the tree farm, even though the saw is as long as your entire arm, and kneeling down puts you chin-deep in dirty, stepped-in snow; or when Mom lets you help make the apple pie everyone can't wait for, even though you already broke one dish and get flour all over the floor in the process; or when Grampa lets you sit in his lap and read his paper to him, despite the fact that he can do it himself in a fraction of the time, and there are only fifteen minutes until dinner.
Some of these baseballs are real; others are imagined, learned from TV or watching how an envied friend's family interacts with each other. But real or otherwise, these baseballs are of immense perceived importance to us as parents, and regardless of their source, we treat them as timeless and hope our kids will believe things have always been done this way. We do this because we want them to do the same things with their kids later on, and that will somehow validate our success as parents.
After losing my dad, I looked around and saw more baseballs laying around than I ever realized were there, and most were already in my hands ready for launch. Some, like the Christmas tree thing, have always been kept close at hand, but never thrown, or not thrown often, for one reason or another. I know that my kids probably won't ever consider a real Christmas tree an essential part of a "real" Christmas, whether that's okay with me or not. But I can only hope that thus far, I've made good choices, deliberate and otherwise, on which balls I have been able to throw, and that I've thrown them often enough to land one in a place each of my kids will be able to find it when they need to, and that it will give them some kind of happiness when they do.
Because as a parent, no matter what their age, your children's happiness is KPI Number One.
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
--Dr. Suess
As parents, we do a lot for our children. Obviously. I know that by about my third day as a new father, I had realized practically everything I would be doing from then on, forever, would be done, in one context or another, for my children.
Lots of things are done deliberately: bathing, feeding, changing diapers, soothing boo-boos, administering discipline, helping with homework, begrudgingly handing over the credit card for that Homecoming dress she has to have--you get the idea. But it takes some deep thought to realize just how much of parenting is done behind the scenes. You need only watch your five year old repeat your exact words and reaction to spilling dinner on the kitchen floor ONCE to realize this is true. If you haven't been through this, trust me when I say this is not a pleasant realization.
Once it hits, though, you get to the bread and butter of being a parent: your job, ultimately, is to raise this tiny human into an adult, a productive, responsible, successful, (wealthy?) adult. (If our own adult lives are any clue, we are also raising our children to move out and never call us except when they need something or every 3rd Sunday when they remember to invite us over for dinner. Which, by the way, starts in twenty minutes.) And if our own childhoods are any clue, the majority of the tools used to form these ideal future versions of our kids are not the obvious ones, like making sure they brush their teeth before bed, or finish their homework before playing World of Warcraft. In fact, the most enduring actions parents take occur between those deliberate, business-of-family-and-parenting moments.
We miss most of these moments, and if we catch them at all, usually we only realize it after they've passed. I stopped trying to keep track of most of them long ago. Instead (unless I want to make myself crazy), I try to focus on what we at work call key performance indicators, or KPI's. I watch the kids' reactions to too much homework, or punishment, or being told no. I listen to them in their room when they're supposed to be in bed, at the games they play or how they treat each other when they think no one's paying attention. I know most of what they're learning from me comes from the example I set in my own reactions, how I treat their mother, how I speak to people on the phone or strangers in public. I know much of how they learn to live their lives will come from how they see me living mine. Which is kind of scary to me.
My wife and I do try, as every parent does, to steer this colossal effort toward what we think might result in success. There are certain experiences we each think are important to provide to our kids with something we consider valuable. Even though, say, starting the kids on an allowance to teach them financial responsibility qualifies as one such effort, the others, and possibly the most valuable, come in another form: a family tradition of one sort or another.
One of these traditions comes up regularly Christmas time: the tree. It is our tradition, or has been most of these last ten years, to lug the biggest box in the house up the basement stairs sometime after Thanksgiving and assemble a 6' tall construct of green ribbon and twisted metal
that kind of resembles a pine tree when it's all done. Each year we do this, and each year we invariably mumble about how next year we'll get a real tree, even though we know full well this requires a family trip out in the cold to the impromptu tree farm beside Kmart, competing child's favorites (and the inevitable complement: the appearance of favoritism), haggling with a guy who has not shaven for days only to pay God knows how many score of dollars for something that will only end up on the curb in four weeks or less, all the while hoping you weren't taken advantage of. Not to mention all the damn needles on the carpet in January. Yes, we decide to do this each year because we want to provide our kids with fond memories of a special time. How this passes as meaningful I can't say, but both The Wife and I do hold it close to our hearts. Maybe we think having a "fake" Christmas tree means we're somehow "faking" Christmas. Who's to say our kids don't consider the sight of the giant box on my shoulders just as joyful as seeing a real tree get tied to the top of the car for the trip home used to for me?
Every person has these meaningful events: KPI's that mean we've reached some kind of milestone of happiness or success. We learned them as children from the people who shaped our lives, and we try our hardest to pass them on to those whose lives we hope to shape. In a way, these events are like baseballs thrown forward in time by people who hope we'll be able to pick them up and throw them forward for our own kids. Like when Dad lets you cut the last half inch of the chosen tree at the tree farm, even though the saw is as long as your entire arm, and kneeling down puts you chin-deep in dirty, stepped-in snow; or when Mom lets you help make the apple pie everyone can't wait for, even though you already broke one dish and get flour all over the floor in the process; or when Grampa lets you sit in his lap and read his paper to him, despite the fact that he can do it himself in a fraction of the time, and there are only fifteen minutes until dinner.
Some of these baseballs are real; others are imagined, learned from TV or watching how an envied friend's family interacts with each other. But real or otherwise, these baseballs are of immense perceived importance to us as parents, and regardless of their source, we treat them as timeless and hope our kids will believe things have always been done this way. We do this because we want them to do the same things with their kids later on, and that will somehow validate our success as parents.
After losing my dad, I looked around and saw more baseballs laying around than I ever realized were there, and most were already in my hands ready for launch. Some, like the Christmas tree thing, have always been kept close at hand, but never thrown, or not thrown often, for one reason or another. I know that my kids probably won't ever consider a real Christmas tree an essential part of a "real" Christmas, whether that's okay with me or not. But I can only hope that thus far, I've made good choices, deliberate and otherwise, on which balls I have been able to throw, and that I've thrown them often enough to land one in a place each of my kids will be able to find it when they need to, and that it will give them some kind of happiness when they do.
Because as a parent, no matter what their age, your children's happiness is KPI Number One.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Newsflash: Dogs Experience Complex Emotions!
Oh, come on. It didn't take PhD'd researchers or a funded univerity study to figure this out. Anyone who's ever loved a dog or grown up in a house with one could have told these scientists exactly what they needed to know.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
64
Today is my dad's birthday. He would have been 64 if his lung cancer and chemotherapy hadn't killed him in January. One year ago today, all of us trucked up to the hospital to see him. He was having diet issues and was going through radiation treatments at the time, so he was a pretty bony version of himself, but himself just the same. He crabbed at my mom and talked about how one of the nurses was stealing his pain meds (he turned out to be right though). He was glad to see the kids, though they wore on his patience eventually and asked a lot of questions about his IV and the bag at the end of his bed. We brought a cake, and the nurses had given him a mylar balloon that floated from the head of his hospital bed. I think we sang; I even think we lit a candle for him to blow out, but I can't be certain anymore. I took pictures with my cell phone that are still there. I don't look at them often.
I spend a lot of time wondering how my life now would be different if he was still here: questions I'd ask him, things I'd want his help with, conversations we'd have, what Thanksgiving and Christmas will be like. I hate admitting it, but some things are easier without him, or rather, without the problems that made his life hell. Though I've put many of my thoughts to rest about how he'll spend eternity, and how he's free of his many pains, and just exactly what all this life and death business means, my confusion still lingers. And I am still angry that he was taken away.
At work, I am quiet today. Nobody knows what's on my mind, and though I'd normally share it with a few close buds I have, I'm not interested. I need to mull over this; I need to be in this fog for a while. I need to remember what it's like to think of my dad and worry about him. I need to think of what I'd say to him if we were going over there tonight for dinner, which is what we'd be doing if he'd never gotten sick, or survived.
Today, I am acting like that's what happened, except that he isn't physically here. Only my mom's working, and I'm doing dinner at my house, and rather than having family over, it'll be our normal friends we have over for dinner. I don't really like that, but it's how things turned out. That, and all the immediate family members that I don't live with are inaccessible. So tonight, with whomever is there, we'll eat the famous barbeque pork loin. I don't know if there will be cake, mostly because I don't know if that would make our guests uncomfortable or not. And hopefully, as with me, my dad will be on all our minds, though I'm not getting my hopes up.
Of course, it doesn't really matter anyway; he's enough on my mind today for a whole house full of people.
I spend a lot of time wondering how my life now would be different if he was still here: questions I'd ask him, things I'd want his help with, conversations we'd have, what Thanksgiving and Christmas will be like. I hate admitting it, but some things are easier without him, or rather, without the problems that made his life hell. Though I've put many of my thoughts to rest about how he'll spend eternity, and how he's free of his many pains, and just exactly what all this life and death business means, my confusion still lingers. And I am still angry that he was taken away.
At work, I am quiet today. Nobody knows what's on my mind, and though I'd normally share it with a few close buds I have, I'm not interested. I need to mull over this; I need to be in this fog for a while. I need to remember what it's like to think of my dad and worry about him. I need to think of what I'd say to him if we were going over there tonight for dinner, which is what we'd be doing if he'd never gotten sick, or survived.
Today, I am acting like that's what happened, except that he isn't physically here. Only my mom's working, and I'm doing dinner at my house, and rather than having family over, it'll be our normal friends we have over for dinner. I don't really like that, but it's how things turned out. That, and all the immediate family members that I don't live with are inaccessible. So tonight, with whomever is there, we'll eat the famous barbeque pork loin. I don't know if there will be cake, mostly because I don't know if that would make our guests uncomfortable or not. And hopefully, as with me, my dad will be on all our minds, though I'm not getting my hopes up.
Of course, it doesn't really matter anyway; he's enough on my mind today for a whole house full of people.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
My Two Cents for the Day
I won't elaborate on the news story; it's grim. While reading a Detroit Free Press article online, however, I ran across this sentence:
I used to work a lot with kids in middle and high school, and I'd see their writing. Anyone who's starting at any level of writing will probably automatically begin by writing the words they'd otherwise speak, but we're supposed to get over that by eighth grade or so. (If you read anything decent on a regular basis, you'll know it much earlier. ) I used to think that since these kids were young, or inexperienced at writing, that the writing they were doing would at least rise to basic rules of the language. If these journalists' work is any indication, I was sorely wrong.
Once, I believed I was just being too harsh (or worse, uppity) in my criticism of what passed for acceptable public writing, and in my judgment that in my lifetime I've seen the English language increasingly abused in ways for which Mrs. King at Pontiac Northern would have beaten me. Now I'm pretty sure I've been hitting the nail on the head the whole time.
I'm not trying to be a stick in the mud, and I know that languages evolve just like species do, but it's my opinion that the lack of attention to basic rules of grammar and spelling constitute not evolution, but degradation of the English language. If our college-educated journalists can't get an apostrophe correct, we're in serious intellectual trouble.
- Police still don’t know who the gun belonged to or how the boys’ got a hold of it. But the weapon has been retrieved.
I used to work a lot with kids in middle and high school, and I'd see their writing. Anyone who's starting at any level of writing will probably automatically begin by writing the words they'd otherwise speak, but we're supposed to get over that by eighth grade or so. (If you read anything decent on a regular basis, you'll know it much earlier. ) I used to think that since these kids were young, or inexperienced at writing, that the writing they were doing would at least rise to basic rules of the language. If these journalists' work is any indication, I was sorely wrong.
Once, I believed I was just being too harsh (or worse, uppity) in my criticism of what passed for acceptable public writing, and in my judgment that in my lifetime I've seen the English language increasingly abused in ways for which Mrs. King at Pontiac Northern would have beaten me. Now I'm pretty sure I've been hitting the nail on the head the whole time.
I'm not trying to be a stick in the mud, and I know that languages evolve just like species do, but it's my opinion that the lack of attention to basic rules of grammar and spelling constitute not evolution, but degradation of the English language. If our college-educated journalists can't get an apostrophe correct, we're in serious intellectual trouble.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
The Clearing of the Drains
A couple nights ago, I spent my meager handful of weekday evening hours not helping kids with homework, or cleaning up after dinner, or walking my beautiful dog, or even playing my computer game. I spent it in the basement clearing out the floor drain.
As it happened, this drain is emptied into by the washer tub, and had apparently clogged with lint or something. That's what it looked like--whatever. Said lint had, over time, conducted much or the rotting mess of sewage in the street sewer into my sub-floor pipes, which not-so-delightfully appeared on my basement floor one night after the washer emptied. Because I'm cheap, I vetoed calling the plumber at 10:30 pm and simply plugged the drain, believing whole-heartedly in my ability to clear out a little (or a lot of) pocket lint in a pipe tomorrow as opposed to spending three digits for someone else to do it right now.
(I should point out here that I do not, in fact, have veto power on anything in my house. My lovely wife simply allows me to believe that I do in some cases [bless her], and despite her insistence that it wasn't worth the trouble, gave me a chance to prove that I could fix this problem.)
I don't recommend this. Ever. I understand the intricacies of the trap under the sink, and I can install new faucets and change gaskets and o-rings, but I am not a plumber. I don't have plumber's tools, unless a hacksaw counts. I don't know what goes on under the house, and I sure don't know what happens after the stuff leaves my property.
Needless to say, I spent many of my precious evening hours in frustration just trying to find the problem, getting myself pretty gross in the process. Finally, I gave up and told the Wife to call somebody--anybody, I didn't care--but I was done. Then she turned the tables on me, and said that I'd have to call, seeing as how I already knew what I'd tried, etc. (This is one of her tactics to get me to not be so stubborn next time.) Faced with exposure and having to explain my failure to another man, I sucked it in and gave it another shot. This time, I knew I would have to invest a little and get the right tool for the job. As luck would have it, $30 at Home Depot and fifteen minutes did the trick. Go figure.
I know this is a spectacularly boring story. Fortunately, the story isn't the point. Looking back on the ridiculousness of it all, the cause of the clog, the potential prevention, the nasty chronic effect, the trouble it caused, the frustration in trying to deal with it, and the eventual resolution, makes for a pretty fair representation of much of what goes wrong in Life. It doesn't take a close examination to realize that I have a great many drains I need to mind, a fair few that have been clogged a good long time, and some that are creating quite the smelly mess.
Though I'm no stranger to emotional struggle, for a majority of my life I've wondered why it has to be so hard, and what, if anything, I can do to short-circuit the tough parts. More importantly, I am desperate for any scraps of wisdom that may teach my children to be less affected by their own issues later. In our culture, in our world, a certain amount of BS is inevitable, it's true, but most of it probably isn't necessary to get along on a daily basis. I've come to understand that my life will be defined by how I meet these challenges, and the tools I can pass along to help other people do the same.
The current state of my life is a good indicator that I'm not doing a very good job.
I've tried lots of things to handle my stuff, including sucking it up and pretending it's not there. Fortunately, I've been blessed with the stubbornness to keep trying, and the resourcefulness to try different things, with varying results. What I've found is, it's not a bad thing to be a hack, trying new stuff just because it might work (because sometimes it does), but being resourceful is only of use when you understand the limits of your resources, and when you know when to trade some inventive investigation for reasonably-priced peace of mind.
I wonder, if with my basement drain, how many times I will give up. I wonder which of those times I'll be able to toughen up and get back on the horse, and keep fighting. I wonder what simple changes I can make now to prevent trouble later, and I wonder what tool I'm lacking that, if it were simply in my possession, would make life as easy as $30 and fifteen minutes. I wonder if I'm the only one who struggles with these questions.
Mostly, I worry that I will not be able to figure it out in time to teach my children, and that they will be caught in the same vicious circle.
As it happened, this drain is emptied into by the washer tub, and had apparently clogged with lint or something. That's what it looked like--whatever. Said lint had, over time, conducted much or the rotting mess of sewage in the street sewer into my sub-floor pipes, which not-so-delightfully appeared on my basement floor one night after the washer emptied. Because I'm cheap, I vetoed calling the plumber at 10:30 pm and simply plugged the drain, believing whole-heartedly in my ability to clear out a little (or a lot of) pocket lint in a pipe tomorrow as opposed to spending three digits for someone else to do it right now.
(I should point out here that I do not, in fact, have veto power on anything in my house. My lovely wife simply allows me to believe that I do in some cases [bless her], and despite her insistence that it wasn't worth the trouble, gave me a chance to prove that I could fix this problem.)
I don't recommend this. Ever. I understand the intricacies of the trap under the sink, and I can install new faucets and change gaskets and o-rings, but I am not a plumber. I don't have plumber's tools, unless a hacksaw counts. I don't know what goes on under the house, and I sure don't know what happens after the stuff leaves my property.
Needless to say, I spent many of my precious evening hours in frustration just trying to find the problem, getting myself pretty gross in the process. Finally, I gave up and told the Wife to call somebody--anybody, I didn't care--but I was done. Then she turned the tables on me, and said that I'd have to call, seeing as how I already knew what I'd tried, etc. (This is one of her tactics to get me to not be so stubborn next time.) Faced with exposure and having to explain my failure to another man, I sucked it in and gave it another shot. This time, I knew I would have to invest a little and get the right tool for the job. As luck would have it, $30 at Home Depot and fifteen minutes did the trick. Go figure.
I know this is a spectacularly boring story. Fortunately, the story isn't the point. Looking back on the ridiculousness of it all, the cause of the clog, the potential prevention, the nasty chronic effect, the trouble it caused, the frustration in trying to deal with it, and the eventual resolution, makes for a pretty fair representation of much of what goes wrong in Life. It doesn't take a close examination to realize that I have a great many drains I need to mind, a fair few that have been clogged a good long time, and some that are creating quite the smelly mess.
Though I'm no stranger to emotional struggle, for a majority of my life I've wondered why it has to be so hard, and what, if anything, I can do to short-circuit the tough parts. More importantly, I am desperate for any scraps of wisdom that may teach my children to be less affected by their own issues later. In our culture, in our world, a certain amount of BS is inevitable, it's true, but most of it probably isn't necessary to get along on a daily basis. I've come to understand that my life will be defined by how I meet these challenges, and the tools I can pass along to help other people do the same.
The current state of my life is a good indicator that I'm not doing a very good job.
I've tried lots of things to handle my stuff, including sucking it up and pretending it's not there. Fortunately, I've been blessed with the stubbornness to keep trying, and the resourcefulness to try different things, with varying results. What I've found is, it's not a bad thing to be a hack, trying new stuff just because it might work (because sometimes it does), but being resourceful is only of use when you understand the limits of your resources, and when you know when to trade some inventive investigation for reasonably-priced peace of mind.
I wonder, if with my basement drain, how many times I will give up. I wonder which of those times I'll be able to toughen up and get back on the horse, and keep fighting. I wonder what simple changes I can make now to prevent trouble later, and I wonder what tool I'm lacking that, if it were simply in my possession, would make life as easy as $30 and fifteen minutes. I wonder if I'm the only one who struggles with these questions.
Mostly, I worry that I will not be able to figure it out in time to teach my children, and that they will be caught in the same vicious circle.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
On (the) Race
So here we are: America has voted decisively for the first black president. Yes, it's an historic moment, both in the smaller sense of our current politics, the economic crisis, and the wars in the Middle East; and also in the big picture, with the country still racially divided nearly 150 years after the Emancipation Proclamation. It's probably true what they were saying last night on CNN, that most people who were watching the results come in moment to moment will remember the election for their whole lifetime, that they may even remember where they were and what they were doing the moment it was announced that Barack Obama had gained the 270 electoral votes required to win. I'm still not sure the moment ranks up there with the Kennedy assassination, or the Challenger explosion, or 9/11/01, but I could be wrong.
If I am wrong, it's probably because I'm white. My problem in understanding what's driven people so furiously over the last year and a half leading up to this election is the same thing that causes my very intense curiosity over racial issues. The trouble with this curiosity is that there is no seeing both sides.
It doesn't always work this way; usually there's some way you can get a handle on both points of view. If we were talking about poverty, for instance, it would be completely different. Obviously, the world is biased toward the rich. The "haves" routinely give each other favors such as professional courtesy with the sole purpose of helping each other maintain their "have" status (if anyone can afford giant doctor or lawyer bills, it's other doctors and lawyers). In areas where "haves" are concentrated, anything that remotely reeks of "have not" is treated with disdain and mistrust. Though I drive an eight year old vehicle, I'm thankful it's a popular model. If I still drove one of my old beaters, you can be sure people would call the police when I drove through their neighborhoods to pick up my kids from their friends' houses. As it is, people look at me funny when I do my own auto maintenance in the driveway or cut my own grass.
But anyway, no matter which side you're on (as a "have" or a "have not"), you can always fake being on the other side if you know what you're doing. Also, it's very possible to legitimately switch sides (though decidedly more difficult to go in one direction as opposed to the other.) In either case, it's possible to understand how both of these groups think, how they act and maintain their families, what values they teach their children, and how they talk to each other. It's possible to get right into their culture and figure them out, even if (in the event you happen to come from the other side) it's not always possible to assimilate completely.
Take other issues that divide people and you can almost always get the same effect. Even with gender, every man and woman probably has some person of the opposite sex in his/her life that can clue them in to how that group thinks and operates. Historically, women have even used men's names and gained world fame without the world being the wiser until after the fact.
But with race, you can't do that. With race, it's different.
Sure, in general, most open-minded people probably have friends or even relatives of the "opposite" race (for the sake of argument, I'm going with white and black here) that they can have serious discussions of varying depth with. But these discussions typically only go so far. The nature of prejudice is so ingrained into family upbringing and supported by popular culture, you can be offensive without even realizing it, and so most people are generally afraid to go too deep in their discussions, and maybe they even avoid the topic altogether. In fact, it's considered polite to simply pretend that there are no differences between you and your "opposite"ly colored friends.
I suspect that the only real discussions about race occur between same-race people, though I can't even be certain about that. As a Caucasion (where that term comes from I have no idea; I have no relatives from anywhere NEAR the Caucusus), I can say with absolute certainly that most American white people don't discuss race AT ALL with each other, unless it's done privately at the family level. This isn't to say that these people don't have opinions; on the contrary, most people's opinions on race are very strong, and not always socially acceptable. But the thing is you never know how the other person feels, and so expressing your opinion to a stranger, whether it be some subtle remark or a full-out n-word, could either get you an invitation to a club or drop-kicked in the face. Unless you're the grand dragon of the local KKK chapter, most white people simply won't take that chance.
My observation has been that American blacks don't have these inhibitions. It seems to be okay to be in a store, workplace, classroom, or fast-food line and discuss race in good or bad terms and not have anyone get offended, as long as it's not mixed company. In my discussions with the few black people who have been comfortable enough to talk with me about it, it also seems a fair assumption that many blacks share roughly the same views on race. If this is true with whites, we'll never know because we're so afraid to open our mouths to each other.
Maybe I'm naïve in my surprise that this presidential election fell solidly along racial lines, with Obama getting 96% of the black vote. But as the analyst on CNN said last night, he also got a majority of the vote for most American minorities and the middle-class. I'm definitely NOT surprised that Obama was the favored candidate of Americans who have probably not felt very represented by rich old white men. Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that in black neighborhoods across America, there was celebration last night. Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that one of my more crass coworkers congratulated my black friend as if she'd won the election herself. And maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that many conversations in the lab between whites cease when my friend walks in.
Maybe it shouldn't be surprising, but to me it is, because we went for months in this campaign cycle without race even being discussed (see above where white people are afraid to discuss race in public). Forgive my Forrest Gump ignorance, but it doesn't make any damn sense to me that an issue that clearly has so much hold over public opinion, that so obviously binds people together or drives them apart, that was one of the single biggest factors in this election, should be such a taboo subject. If the election had gone the other way, would American blacks have felt just as strongly in the confirmation of prejudice as they felt about the celebrations? Would American whites have breathed a collective (but silent) sigh, regardless of the threat another Republican in the White House might represent? How can we ever hope to succeed as a nation without eventually calling out the elephant in the living room?
I suppose my feelings at this moment, after the election but before we can assess our new leader's performance, are two-fold: I'm proud to be an American at this moment in history, and I'm embarrassed that it's such a big deal.
I hope Barack Obama's election as President of the United States represents a new and permanent change in America, but that would be a miracle. At the very least, I hope it will open some much needed dialogue and, if not heal, help folks at least understand some old wounds without making new ones. At the most, I hope Obama's term(s) as President are as historic as his campaign; I hope he can deliver on all the promises he's sold us; I hope he is as quick on his feet as he is at the podium; and I hope that whomever wrote his speeches helps him write his policies. The change we stand to see in our nation--in our neighbors, our coworkers, our families, and maybe even in ourselves--is extraordinary, and the implications of the next four years will impact Americans for generations. Now that the election is over, that much is guaranteed.
Because I've only ever been on one side of American race problem, and will only ever be able to see one side, it's impossible for me to do more than hope at this point. Except by talking and listening. If we could all start doing a little of those things a bit more with each other, we'd all be better off in a lot more ways than we realize.
God bless America.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Best Man's Guide to Bachelor Party Planning
It was a blast, a shindig, a hoot and a half. My brother's bachelor party was by average measures a success, meaning that everyone who stuck around had a good time. We did lose two guys along the way, but I think that had more to do with priority differences than party plans. Overall, I was happy with the results, and more importantly, so was my brother.I hereby admit, however, that it could have been more spectacular. To that end, I've made a handy guide for future Best Men in their own efforts, using both things I learned along the way and my blinding 20/20 hindsight. I did try to keep it down to ten items, but I just couldn't cut any content. Top ten lists are overrated anyway.
Enjoy.
* * * * *
Best Man's Guide to Bachelor Party Planning
1. Plan Ahead: Whatever the plan, know it and communicate it in enough time that everyone has enough notice to both show up and afford it. A month lead (or two paychecks) time is a good start.
2. Make at least one part of it classy: Even if you're planning a raunchfest, at least have dinner somewhere he can bring his soon-to-be wife later on. It's just good taste, and if nothing else provides the guys with a segment of the evening they can be completely truthful about.
3. Delegate: Make the other groomsmen do parts of the job, especially if they have a passion or expertise that fits. If a guy plays in a band, or knows someone who does, make him plan the bar leg for instance. Also, see rule 9: Police the party.
4. Share the cost: It's not tacky to ask for guys to pay not only their own way, but part of the groom's. You shouldn't be footing the whole bill just because you're the best man, and the groom should have to pay exactly zero all night. Be up front about this with the guys and they'll not only appreciate the effort you're making, they'll all have a better time.
5. Designate drivers: Volunteers are preferable. If nobody steps up, you're the first DD of the night (like it or not). The bachelor gets shotgun, always. Also see rule 6.
6. Stay cogent: Even if you're not a DD, you can't afford to get sloshed. You've got a lot to keep track of, and you owe it to the groom to make this the best night you can. Drinking yourself into oblivion is a good way to lose track of this responsibility.
7. Know what the girls are doing: Not necessarily to match or one-up the bachelorette party, but at least give something comparable. If they're wearing custom matching bar shirts with "Bride" and "Bridesmaid" sequined to the chest, the least you can do is make souvenir beer koozies. Anything less will only make comparing stories later a lame reflection on you.
8. Take pictures: lots of them, digital ones, so you can delete them when you're sober. Chances are you'll probably get lots of keepers along the way.
9. Police the party: if anyone looks like they might be trouble, be ready to either confront them or put them out without making a scene. Don't let anyone get out of hand, especially where strippers and waitresses are involved. Don't let the bachelor do anything that might sabotage the wedding should a story, video, or picture fall into the wrong hands. If a man can't rely on his friends to keep him out of trouble, he needs new friends. Again, see rule 3: big guys get cop duty.
10. Watch the bachelor: Keep track of how much he's had to eat and how many drinks, and know the signs that he's done for the night. When he's near critical mass, cut him off and move him to the pool table so he stays on his feet and you can watch him more closely. Also, keep water and paper towel in the car, in case you end up missing the signs.
11. Have the toast and coffee ready: wherever the bachelor's going to crash, in case he gets really drunk. Maybe plan to end the party at an all night diner. Have a trash can near the bedside, too, and make sure he's well cared for 'til morning.
Monday, September 15, 2008
43 Minutes: Farewell, Mr. Wright
Richard William Wright, 28 July 1943 - 15 September2008, rest in peace.
I cannot underestimate the effect of Pink Floyd's 1973 album, The Dark Side of the Moon, on my life. Of course by the time I listened to it, twelve or so years after it was released, it was old news, but still on the Billboard 200. It was the first or second piece of music I ever purchased (on cassette, of course) and I've never given it up. In fact, to maintain ownership, I've had to buy nearly a dozen more copies, and make sure I keep at least two on hand at all times.To me, the centerpiece of this album is The Great Gig in the Sky. I *got* this song right away, even though it has no proper lyrics. It moved into and through me in a way I'd never felt music do, in a way few other songs can even now. The piano and vocals, the bass and drums all went together in a kind of perfection that musicians rarely achieve. I've loved this song forever; only recently did I discover it was written by Richard Wright.
I first heard and learned about Pink Floyd on a radio show when I was experimenting with my cassette recorder. It was either on WRIF 101.1FM or WLLZ 98.7FM. I still have that tape somewhere, I hope. I listened to it so often I can still hear the host's voice whenever I hear the original band members' and David Gilmour's names. I heard "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," "Run Like Hell," "The Great Gig in the Sky," "Dogs," "Fearless," and "Learning to Fly." I think this may have been just after A Momentary Lapse of Reason was released, because it and The Wall were my subsequent two music purchases, then followed by the compilation album Great Dance Songs, which of course led to Meddle and Wish You Were Here being added as allowances added up.
Pink Floyd was my first musical love. It was and still is a beautiful marriage. I have been a particular fan of David Gilmour, calling him rock's most underrated guitarist, and anti-fan of Roger Waters, who I perceived for a long time as the cause of the band's breakup, but I wasn't any different than any other fan. I knew all their names, none of their faces, and would listen to anything I could get my ears on.
Even though I didn't take the time to get to know Rick Wright's individual work, or buy or borrow his solo projects, I will still mourn his death by listening to Gig and other Pink Floyd works of greatness. This man and his partners put my existence into a context without which I would not be the same person. I am not alone; I am not unique; Pink Floyd's music has touched millions of souls, and they all are sad today.
Goodbye, cruel world.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Blessed Are The Children
We sat watching the rain today on the porch, and she said to me, "Daddy, did you know we're connected to all the places in the world?" And she explained to me how the air and the rain bound us to everything else they touched.
And I wondered at her, and agreed, "Yes, the sky and the trees and earth," still in amazement. But she already understood, knew intuitively of that which she spoke, as if it were a simple Truth of Life, and she imparted it to me as patiently as a docent.
These are moments I am thankful for. These are moments that prove to me the divinity of children, the pureness of the gifts they represent, and the ways which they can change us, and the world through us.
Today I was given a Gift. Oh, let every man see this in his child, and then, in himself.
And I wondered at her, and agreed, "Yes, the sky and the trees and earth," still in amazement. But she already understood, knew intuitively of that which she spoke, as if it were a simple Truth of Life, and she imparted it to me as patiently as a docent.
These are moments I am thankful for. These are moments that prove to me the divinity of children, the pureness of the gifts they represent, and the ways which they can change us, and the world through us.
Today I was given a Gift. Oh, let every man see this in his child, and then, in himself.
Friday, September 12, 2008
9/11 Observance?
Anyone who knows me, or has read the last handful of blog posts here (see the Independence '08 series below) knows I'm a pretty big America geek. Mine is an old fashioned patriotism, built from raw materials given to me by fascination with my dad's old Army uniforms, his stories of being in Panama, and some handed-down values he taught me about accountability and looking out for the little guys. I found an outlet for and honed my patriotism during many years as a cadet and senior officer in Civil Air Patrol, and even today strive to teach these red, white, and blue values to my own kids, at least by example.
Admittedly, I missed many a mark most hard-core patriots claim. I've never served in the military or done municipal service. I didn't volunteer for any cleanup missions after Katrina. I don't know all my elected officials' names without looking them up. I don't watch Congress the way a decent taxpayer should. I don't even own a flag pin for my lapel.
Despite my patriotic shortcomings, what feeling I do have is pure, and it focuses mainly on the symbols that represent my nation's ideals. The foremost of these is the flag of the United States of America. Having spoken to many non-Americans on this matter, I know Americans fly more flags than residents of most European countries. Across the pond, it's considered presumptuous to put, say, a German flag on a pole in front of business, or hang it on your porch at home. And if you do, the bigger the flag, the gaudier people think it is. Sometimes, it's considered more acceptable to fly an American flag than that of your home country. It's a matter of pride, then, to drive down Woodward Avenue, or bike through the neighborhood, and see Old Glory displayed (usually properly) so commonly.
Another of our most basic symbols as a nation is our National Anthem. Last year, when Regina started ice hockey, she was amazed that it was played at the beginning of each game, especially at the high school level, and even as a guest to this country, was more than once appalled at the behavior of some of her teammates while it played. I always stand for this, and being accustomed to saluting during the Anthem has made the hand-over-heart gesture a giant no-brainer. I make my children stand, and whining carries no weight when it's time to show respect, even in the podunk little ice arena, even at a high school game, even when only thirteen parents bothered to show up for both teams. (I also happen to be a HUGE sucker for Taps. The first three notes alone make me well up. But that is another entry.)
So imagine, dear Reader, now that you have a big enough piece of me for context, my feelings yesterday when I attended Nicolai's JV football game, on September 11th, seven years after the terrorist attacks that claimed the lives of over 3000 ordinary Americans and changed the world forever, and I found the flag loosely hung on a defective pole, and though game and school officials were nearby, had to tighten the lanyard to keep the flag from falling. Now imagine how I might have felt when the National Anthem didn't precede the kickoff. I have to admit, though it doesn't excuse the school or the athletic program from these digressions, the game started late; I'm sure they were eager to get going. Also, I found out the National Anthem isn't usually played at JV games (ashamedly, I'm usually just late enough to each game to miss this fact.) But still.
Truth be told, if I hadn't poked my head into the announcer's booth pre-game, I'd just be sitting here stewing about it. But I did poke my head in there, and I asked what I thought was a stupid question: Will there be a moment of silence before the National Anthem is played? I got some "uhhhh"s and blank stares. The moment of silence was questionable; clearly, nobody had thought of this. But the Anthem seemed to be a given. The kid in the booth even said jokingly to me, regarding the playing of the Anthem, "What do you think this is, China?"
Well kid, I'm beginning to have my doubts.
What with the Olympics just behind us, and it being the year of Michael Phelps and all, how can we miss such a basic observance of national pride? And let's not forget that, oh yeah, it's September 11th, Patriot Day. I am ashamed for the school and the officials who didn't have to foresight or respect to see this coming. I'm embarrassed that we missed this important moment in front of a visiting team. I'm angry that my inquiry was ignored. I'm saddened by the apparent lack of what I consider to be a basic quality of character, especially in our community where so many have so much. And I'm appalled that patriotism is only in fashion during times of crisis, or posturing, or opining about our favorite candidates.
So I've sent a letter to the Superintendent, again. And the principal, and the Athletic Director. And we'll see what happens from there. Hopefully, it's enough to ensure that this heinous lapse of judgment isn't repeated again, on September 11th, 2009.
Admittedly, I missed many a mark most hard-core patriots claim. I've never served in the military or done municipal service. I didn't volunteer for any cleanup missions after Katrina. I don't know all my elected officials' names without looking them up. I don't watch Congress the way a decent taxpayer should. I don't even own a flag pin for my lapel.
Despite my patriotic shortcomings, what feeling I do have is pure, and it focuses mainly on the symbols that represent my nation's ideals. The foremost of these is the flag of the United States of America. Having spoken to many non-Americans on this matter, I know Americans fly more flags than residents of most European countries. Across the pond, it's considered presumptuous to put, say, a German flag on a pole in front of business, or hang it on your porch at home. And if you do, the bigger the flag, the gaudier people think it is. Sometimes, it's considered more acceptable to fly an American flag than that of your home country. It's a matter of pride, then, to drive down Woodward Avenue, or bike through the neighborhood, and see Old Glory displayed (usually properly) so commonly.
Another of our most basic symbols as a nation is our National Anthem. Last year, when Regina started ice hockey, she was amazed that it was played at the beginning of each game, especially at the high school level, and even as a guest to this country, was more than once appalled at the behavior of some of her teammates while it played. I always stand for this, and being accustomed to saluting during the Anthem has made the hand-over-heart gesture a giant no-brainer. I make my children stand, and whining carries no weight when it's time to show respect, even in the podunk little ice arena, even at a high school game, even when only thirteen parents bothered to show up for both teams. (I also happen to be a HUGE sucker for Taps. The first three notes alone make me well up. But that is another entry.)
So imagine, dear Reader, now that you have a big enough piece of me for context, my feelings yesterday when I attended Nicolai's JV football game, on September 11th, seven years after the terrorist attacks that claimed the lives of over 3000 ordinary Americans and changed the world forever, and I found the flag loosely hung on a defective pole, and though game and school officials were nearby, had to tighten the lanyard to keep the flag from falling. Now imagine how I might have felt when the National Anthem didn't precede the kickoff. I have to admit, though it doesn't excuse the school or the athletic program from these digressions, the game started late; I'm sure they were eager to get going. Also, I found out the National Anthem isn't usually played at JV games (ashamedly, I'm usually just late enough to each game to miss this fact.) But still.
Truth be told, if I hadn't poked my head into the announcer's booth pre-game, I'd just be sitting here stewing about it. But I did poke my head in there, and I asked what I thought was a stupid question: Will there be a moment of silence before the National Anthem is played? I got some "uhhhh"s and blank stares. The moment of silence was questionable; clearly, nobody had thought of this. But the Anthem seemed to be a given. The kid in the booth even said jokingly to me, regarding the playing of the Anthem, "What do you think this is, China?"
Well kid, I'm beginning to have my doubts.
What with the Olympics just behind us, and it being the year of Michael Phelps and all, how can we miss such a basic observance of national pride? And let's not forget that, oh yeah, it's September 11th, Patriot Day. I am ashamed for the school and the officials who didn't have to foresight or respect to see this coming. I'm embarrassed that we missed this important moment in front of a visiting team. I'm angry that my inquiry was ignored. I'm saddened by the apparent lack of what I consider to be a basic quality of character, especially in our community where so many have so much. And I'm appalled that patriotism is only in fashion during times of crisis, or posturing, or opining about our favorite candidates.
So I've sent a letter to the Superintendent, again. And the principal, and the Athletic Director. And we'll see what happens from there. Hopefully, it's enough to ensure that this heinous lapse of judgment isn't repeated again, on September 11th, 2009.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Dad
I think my dad just came to see me.
I was dreaming. I'd just finished up some subconscious sequence and was standing around (with my coworkers, go figure) talking about it, and he ambled up to the door of whatever building I happened to be inside. Naturally, I know he's gone, awake and asleep, so I rushed outside to see him, confused but ecstatic.
He was led by my son, Brendan, hand in hand. Dad said nothing, but smiled and hugged me, and seemed older than I knew. The feel of his glasses and whiskers on my face was familiar. Then I hugged Brendan, and he said to me, "Daddy, when I'm older, and I ask you [something about visiting Grampa]..." and the rest that followed is lost to memory, but it was his words--the words of this child, my child--that clued me in:
Dad was just stopping by to say hello, to check up on me, and let me know that....everything is okay. That he loves me still, and knows I still love him. That he is at peace, and he is here with us. That all the pain of all those years is no longer a burden; it has been lifted. That the corporeal filters of experience and desire, of unmet needs and deep emotional deficit, are gone.
I love my dad, and I miss him so much. And as awful as I must have sounded to my wife when I woke, wailing like a child for as long as I did, I hope he finds moments, many more moments, like this one throughout my life to stop by again. I know I can never have him back, but if I thought I had even one more such visit to look forward to again, it would be a world of comfort.
SCW
I was dreaming. I'd just finished up some subconscious sequence and was standing around (with my coworkers, go figure) talking about it, and he ambled up to the door of whatever building I happened to be inside. Naturally, I know he's gone, awake and asleep, so I rushed outside to see him, confused but ecstatic.
He was led by my son, Brendan, hand in hand. Dad said nothing, but smiled and hugged me, and seemed older than I knew. The feel of his glasses and whiskers on my face was familiar. Then I hugged Brendan, and he said to me, "Daddy, when I'm older, and I ask you [something about visiting Grampa]..." and the rest that followed is lost to memory, but it was his words--the words of this child, my child--that clued me in:
Dad was just stopping by to say hello, to check up on me, and let me know that....everything is okay. That he loves me still, and knows I still love him. That he is at peace, and he is here with us. That all the pain of all those years is no longer a burden; it has been lifted. That the corporeal filters of experience and desire, of unmet needs and deep emotional deficit, are gone.
I love my dad, and I miss him so much. And as awful as I must have sounded to my wife when I woke, wailing like a child for as long as I did, I hope he finds moments, many more moments, like this one throughout my life to stop by again. I know I can never have him back, but if I thought I had even one more such visit to look forward to again, it would be a world of comfort.
SCW
Thursday, July 24, 2008
75 Things
Below is an article that struck me, not just as trendy journalism or a cool list (I'm a big fan of lists), but as something that rings true in so many ways. Not to let this guy speak for every man, but I think, in general, he's got the right idea--one that's so right most men can relate. It isn't very often that a man's caveman side is brought out in any way other than to make fun of it, but here Mr. Chiarella shows some of the more elegant aspects of our primordial past, and blends it with other, not-so-well-known subtleties and charms that are important in being a Man. Not all items will fit every man, but the effort is well made.
This article was reprinted with permission from Esquire by MSN (here; other cool lists there as well), and then by me...ahem...without permission. [I live in fear of link-rot. I consider it a testament to the things I choose to provide links to that I wish, should they ever disappear from their original locations, to have them remain in some place, even if that place is solely to provide that link in a personal context.] For what it's worth, I tallied these things into three categories: Yes, Probably, and No Way. Without telling you which items went where, I was 51-11-13. Not too shabby.
As a side note (or maybe the main note?), Tom Chiarella is worth looking up, and probably giving some of your money to via the local bookstore (or Amazon.com, if you must). Here's a good start: Google results.
* * * * *
The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master
A man can be expert in nothing, but he must be practiced in many things. Skills. You don't have to master them all at once. You simply have to collect and develop a certain number of skills as the years tick by. People count on you to come through. That's why you need these, to start.
By Tom Chiarella
A Man Should Be Able To:
1. Give advice that matters in one sentence. I got run out of a job I liked once, and while it was happening, a guy stopped me in the hall. Smart guy, but prone to saying too much. I braced myself. I didn't want to hear it. I needed a white knight, and I knew it wasn't him. He just sighed and said: When nobody has your back, you gotta move your back. Then he walked away. Best advice I ever got. One sentence.
2. Tell if someone is lying. Everyone has his theory. Pick one, test it. Choose the tells that work for you. I like these: Liars change the subject quickly. Liars look up and to their right when they speak. Liars use fewer contractions. Liars will sometimes stare straight at you and employ a dead face. Liars never touch their chest or heart except self-consciously. Liars place objects between themselves and you during a conversation.
3. Take a photo. Fill the frame.
4. Score a baseball game. Scoring a game is an exercise in ciphering, creating a shorthand of your very own. In this way, it's a private language as much as a record of the game. The only given is the numbering of the positions and the use of the diamond to express each batter's progress around the bases. I black out the diamond when a run scores. I mark an RBI with a tally mark in the upper-right-hand corner. Each time you score a game, you pick up on new elements to track: pitch count, balls and strikes, foul balls. It doesn't matter that this information is available on the Internet in real time. Scoring a game is about bearing witness, expanding your own ability to observe.
5. Name a book that matters. The Catcher in the Rye does not matter. Not really. You gotta read.
6. Know at least one musical group as well as is possible. One guy at your table knows where Cobain was born and who his high school English teacher was. Another guy can argue the elegant extended trope of Liquid Swords with GZA himself. This is how it should be. Music does not demand agreement. Rilo Kiley. Nina Simone. Whitesnake. Fugazi. Otis Redding. Whatever. Choose. Nobody likes a know-it-all, because 1) you can't know it all and 2) music offers distinct and private lessons. So pick one. Except Rilo Kiley. I heard they broke up.
7. Cook meat somewhere other than the grill. Buy The Way to Cook, by Julia Child. Try roasting. Braising. Broiling. Slow-cooking. Pan searing. Think ragouts, fricassees, stews. All of this will force you to understand the functionality of different cuts. In the end, grilling will be a choice rather than a chore, and your Weber will become a tool rather than a piece of weekend entertainment.
8. Not monopolize the conversation.
9. Write a letter. So easy. So easily forgotten. A five-paragraph structure works pretty well: Tell why you're writing. Offer details. Ask questions. Give news. Add a specific memory or two. If your handwriting is terrible, type. Always close formally.
10. Buy a suit. Avoid bargains. Know your likes, your dislikes, and what you need it for (work, funerals, court). Squeeze the fabric — if it bounces back with little or no sign of wrinkling, that means it's good, sturdy material. And tug the buttons gently. If they feel loose or wobbly, that means they're probably coming off sooner rather than later. The jacket's shoulder pads are supposed to square with your shoulders; if they droop off or leave dents in the cloth, the jacket's too big. The jacket sleeves should never meet the wrist any lower than the base of the thumb — if they do, ask to go down a size. Always get fitted.
11. Swim three different strokes. Doggie paddle doesn't count.
12. Show respect without being a suck-up. Respect the following, in this order: age, experience, record, reputation. Don't mention any of it.
13. Throw a punch. Close enough, but not too close. Swing with your shoulders, not your arm. Long punches rarely land squarely. So forget the roundhouse. You don't have a haymaker. Follow through; don't pop and pull back. The length you give the punch should come in the form of extension after the point of contact. Just remember, the bones in your hand are small and easy to break. You're better off striking hard with the heel of your palm. Or you could buy the guy a beer and talk it out.
14. Chop down a tree. Know your escape path. When the tree starts to fall, use it.
15. Calculate square footage. Width times length.
16. Tie a bow tie.
17. Make one drink, in large batches, very well. When I interviewed for my first job, one of the senior guys had me to his house for a reception. He offered me a cigarette and pointed me to a bowl of whiskey sours, like I was Darrin Stephens and he was Larry Tate. I can still remember that first tight little swallow and my gratitude that I could go back for a refill without looking like a drunk. I came to admire the host over the next decade, but he never gave me the recipe. So I use this:
• For every 750-ml bottle of whiskey (use a decent bourbon or rye), add:
• 6 oz fresh-squeezed, strained lemon juice
• 6 oz simple syrup(mix superfine sugar and water in equal quantities)
To serve: Shake 3 oz per person with ice and strain into chilled cocktail glasses. Garnish with a cherry and an orange slice or, if you're really slick, a float of red wine. (Pour about ½ oz slowly into each glass over the back of a spoon; this is called a New York sour, and it's great.)
18. Speak a foreign language. Pas beaucoup. Mais faites un effort.
19. Approach a woman out of his league. Ever have a shoeshine from a guy you really admire? He works hard enough that he doesn't have to tell stupid jokes; he doesn't stare at your legs; he knows things you don't, but he doesn't talk about them every minute; he doesn't scrape or apologize for his status or his job or the way he is dressed; he does his job confidently and with a quiet relish. That stuff is wildly inviting. Act like that guy.
20. Sew a button.
21. Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer. Once, in our lifetime, much of Europe was approaching cultural and political irrelevance. Then they made like us and banded together into a union of confederated states. So you can always assume that they were simply copying the United States as they now push us to the verge of cultural and political irrelevance.
22. Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn't have to ask after it. Otherwise, ask after it.
23. Be loyal. You will fail at it. You have already. A man who does not know loyalty, from both ends, does not know men. Loyalty is not a matter of give-and-take: He did me a favor, therefore I owe him one. No. No. No. It is the recognition of a bond, the honoring of a shared history, the reemergence of the vows we make in the tight times. It doesn't mean complete agreement or invisible blood ties. It is a currency of selflessness, given without expectation and capable of the most stellar return.
24. Know his poison, without standing there, pondering like a dope. Brand, amount, style, fast, like so: Booker's, double, neat.
25. Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it. Use a contractor's hammer. Swing hard and loose, like a tennis serve.
26. Cast a fishing rod without shrieking or sighing or otherwise admitting defeat.
27. Play gin with an old guy. Old men will try to crush you. They'll drown you in meaningless chatter, tell stories about when they were kids this or in Korea that. Or they'll retreat into a taciturn posture designed to get you to do the talking. They'll note your strategies without mentioning them, keep the stakes at a level they can control, and change up their pace of play just to get you stumbling. You have to do this — play their game, be it dominoes or cribbage or chess. They may have been playing for decades. You take a beating as a means of absorbing the lessons they've learned without taking a lesson. But don't be afraid to take them down. They can handle it.
28. Play go fish with a kid. You don't crush kids. You talk their ear off, make an event out of it, tell them stories about when you were a kid this or in Vegas that. You have to play their game, too, even though they may have been playing only for weeks. Observe. Teach them without once offering a lesson. And don't be afraid to win. They can handle it.
29. Understand quantum physics well enough that he can accept that a quarter might, at some point, pass straight through the table when dropped. Sometimes the laws of physics aren't laws at all. Read The Quantum World: Quantum Physics for Everyone, by Kenneth W. Ford.
30. Feign interest. Good place to start: quantum physics.
31. Make a bed.
32. Describe a glass of wine in one sentence without using the terms nutty, fruity, oaky, finish, or kick. I once stood in a wine store in West Hollywood where the owner described a pinot noir he favored as "a night walk through a wet garden." I bought it. I went to my hotel and drank it by myself, looking at the flickering city with my feet on the windowsill. I don't know which was more right, the wine or the vision that he placed in my head. Point is, it was right.
33. Hit a jump shot in pool. It's not something you use a lot, but when you hit a jump shot, it marks you as a player and briefly impresses women. Make the angle of your cue steeper, aim for the bottommost fraction of the ball, and drive the cue smoothly six inches past the contact point, making steady, downward contact with the felt.
34. Dress a wound. First, stop the bleeding. Apply pressure using a gauze pad. Stay with the pressure. If you can't stop the bleeding, forget the next step, just get to a hospital. Once the bleeding stops, clean the wound. Use water or saline solution; a little soap is good, too. If you can't get the wound clean, then forget the next step, just get to a hospital. Finally, dress the wound. For a laceration, push the edges together and apply a butterfly bandage. For avulsions, where the skin is punctured and pulled back like a trapdoor, push the skin back and use a butterfly. Slather the area in antibacterial ointment. Cover the wound with a gauze pad taped into place. Change that dressing every 12 hours, checking carefully for signs of infection. Better yet, get to a hospital.
35. Jump-start a car (without any drama). Change a flat tire (safely). Change the oil (once).
36. Make three different bets at a craps table. Play the smallest and most poorly labeled areas, the bets where it's visually evident the casino doesn't want you to go. Simply play the pass line; once the point is set, play full odds (this is the only really good bet on the table); and when you want a little more action, tell the crew you want to lay the 4 and the 10 for the minimum bet.
37. Shuffle a deck of cards. I play cards with guys who can't shuffle, and they lose. Always.
38. Tell a joke. Here's one:
Two guys are walking down a dark alley when a mugger approaches them and demands their money. They both grudgingly pull out their wallets and begin taking out their cash. Just then, one guy turns to the other, hands him a bill, and says, "Hey, here's that $20 I owe you."
39. Know when to split his cards in blackjack. Aces. Eights. Always.
40. Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear. Use his first name. Don't use baby talk. Don't crank up your energy to match his. Ask questions and wait for answers. Follow up. Don't pretend to be interested in Webkinz or Power Rangers or whatever. He's as bored with that sh** as you are. Concentrate instead on seeing the child as a person of his own.
41. Speak to a waiter so he will hear. You don't own the restaurant, so don't act like it. You own the transaction. So don't speak into the menu. Lift your chin. Make eye contact. All restaurants have secrets — let it be known that you expect to see some of them.
42. Talk to a dog so it will hear. Go ahead, use baby talk.
43. Install: a disposal, an electronic thermostat, or a lighting fixture without asking for help. Just turn off the damned main.
44. Ask for help. Guys who refuse to ask for help are the most cursed men of all. The stubborn, the self-possessed, and the distant. The hell with them.
45. Break another man's grip on his wrist. Rotate your arm rapidly in the grip, toward the other guy's thumb.
46. Tell a woman's dress size.
47. Recite one poem from memory. Here you go:
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
—William Butler Yeats
48. Remove a stain. Blot. Always blot.
49. Say no.
50. Fry an egg sunny-side up. Cook until the white appears solid . . . and no longer.
51. Build a campfire.
There are three components:
* The tinder — bone-dry, snappable twigs, about as long as your hand. You need two complete handfuls. Try birch bark; it burns long and hot.
* The kindling — thick as your thumb, long as your forearm, breakable with two hands. You need two armfuls.
* Fuel wood — anything thick and long enough that it can't be broken by hand. It's okay if it's slightly damp. You need a knee-high stack.
Step 1:Light the tinder, turning the pile gently to get air underneath it.
Step 2: Feed the kindling into the emergent fire with some pace.
Step 3: Lay on the fuel wood. Pyramid, the log cabin, what-ever — the idea is to create some kind of structure so that plenty of air gets to the fire.
52. Step into a job no one wants to do. When I was 13, my dad called me into his office at the large urban mall he ran. He was on the phone. What followed was a fairly banal 15-minute conversation, which involved the collection of rent from a store. On and on, droning about store hours and lighting problems. I kept raising my eyebrows, pretending to stand up, and my dad kept waving me down. I could hear only his end, garrulous and unrelenting. He rolled his eyes as the excuses kept coming. His assertions were simple and to the point, like a drumbeat. He wanted the rent. He wanted the store to stay open when the mall was open. Then suddenly, having given the job the time it deserved, he put it to an end. "So if I see your gate down next Sunday afternoon, I'm going to get a drill and stick a goddamn bolt in it and lock you down for the next week, right?" When he hung up, rent collected, he took a deep breath. "I've been dreading that call," he said. "Once a week you gotta try something you never would do if you had the choice. Otherwise, why are you here?" So he gave me that. And this . . .
53. Sometimes, kick some ass.
54. Break up a fight. Work in pairs if possible. Don't get between people initially. Use the back of the collar, pull and urge the person downward. If you can't get him down, work for distance.
55. Point to the north at any time. If you have a watch, you can point the hour hand at the sun. Then find the point directly between the hour hand and the 12. That's south. The opposite direction is, of course, north.
56. Create a play-list in which ten seemingly random songs provide a secret message to one person.
57. Explain what a light-year is. It's the measure of the distance that light travels over 365.25 days.
58. Avoid boredom. You have enough to eat. You can move. This must be acknowledged as a kind of freedom. You don't always have to buy things, put things in your mouth, or be delighted.
59. Write a thank-you note. Make a habit of it. Follow a simple formula like this one: First line is a thesis statement. The second line is evidentiary. The third is a kind of assertion. Close on an uptick.
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-def television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
60. Be brand loyal to at least one product. It tells a lot about who you are and where you came from. Me? I like Hellman's mayonnaise and Genesee beer, which makes me the fleshy, stubbornly upstate ne'er-do-well that I will always be.
61. Cook bacon. Lay out the bacon on a rack on a baking sheet. Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes.
62. Hold a baby. Newborns should be wrapped tightly and held against the chest. They like tight spaces (consider their previous circumstances) and rhythmic movements, so hold them snug, tuck them in the crook of your elbow or against the skin of your neck. Rock your hips like you're bored, barely listening to the music at the edge of a wedding reception. No one has to notice except the baby. Don't breathe all over them.
63. Deliver a eulogy. Take the job seriously. It matters. Speak first to the family, then to the outside world. Write it down. Avoid similes. Don't read poetry. Be funny.
64. Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. When I was a kid, because I'm Italian and because the Irish guys in my neighborhood were relentless with the beatings on St. Patrick's Day, I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer. Man, I drank the Kool-Aid on that guy. Of course, I later learned that he was a hand-chopping, land-stealing egotist who sold out an entire hemisphere to European avarice. So I left Columbus behind. Your understanding of your heroes must evolve. See Roger Clemens. See Bill Belichick.
65-67. Throw a baseball over-hand with some snap. Throw a football with a tight spiral. Shoot a 12-foot jump shot reliably. If you can't, play more ball.
68. Find his way out of the woods if lost. Note your landmarks — mountains, power lines, the sound of a highway. Look for the sun: It sits in the south; it moves west. Gauge your direction every few minutes. If you're completely stuck, look for a small creek and follow it downstream. Water flows toward larger bodies of water, where people live.
69. Tie a knot. Square knot: left rope over right rope, turn under. Then right rope over left rope. Tuck under. Pull. Or as my pack leader, Dave Kenyon, told me in a Boy Scouts meeting: "Left over right, right over left. What's so f***ing hard about that?"
70. Shake hands. Steady, firm, pump, let go. Use the time to make eye contact, since that's where the social contract begins.
71. Iron a shirt. My uncle Tony the tailor once told me of ironing: Start rough, end gently.
72. Stock an emergency bag for the car. Blanket. Heavy flashlight. Hand warmers. Six bottles of water. Six packs of beef jerky. Atlas. Reflectors. Gloves. Socks. Bandages. Neosporin. Inhaler. Benadryl. Motrin. Hard candy. Telescoping magnet. Screwdriver. Channel-locks. Crescent wrench. Ski hat. Bandanna.
73. Caress a woman's neck. Back of your fingers, in a slow fan.
74. Know some birds. If you can't pay attention to a bird, then you can't learn from detail, you aren't likely to appreciate the beauty of evolution, and you don't have a clue how birdlike your own habits may be. You've been looking at them blindly for years now. Get a guide.
75. Negotiate a better price. Be informed. Know the price of competitors. In a big store, look for a manager. Don't be an a-hole. Use one phrase as your mantra, like "I need a little help with this one." Repeat it, as an invitation to him. Don't beg. Ever. Offer something: your loyalty, your next purchase, even your friendship, and, with the deal done, your gratitude.
This article was reprinted with permission from Esquire by MSN (here; other cool lists there as well), and then by me...ahem...without permission. [I live in fear of link-rot. I consider it a testament to the things I choose to provide links to that I wish, should they ever disappear from their original locations, to have them remain in some place, even if that place is solely to provide that link in a personal context.] For what it's worth, I tallied these things into three categories: Yes, Probably, and No Way. Without telling you which items went where, I was 51-11-13. Not too shabby.
As a side note (or maybe the main note?), Tom Chiarella is worth looking up, and probably giving some of your money to via the local bookstore (or Amazon.com, if you must). Here's a good start: Google results.
* * * * *
The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master
A man can be expert in nothing, but he must be practiced in many things. Skills. You don't have to master them all at once. You simply have to collect and develop a certain number of skills as the years tick by. People count on you to come through. That's why you need these, to start.
By Tom Chiarella
A Man Should Be Able To:
1. Give advice that matters in one sentence. I got run out of a job I liked once, and while it was happening, a guy stopped me in the hall. Smart guy, but prone to saying too much. I braced myself. I didn't want to hear it. I needed a white knight, and I knew it wasn't him. He just sighed and said: When nobody has your back, you gotta move your back. Then he walked away. Best advice I ever got. One sentence.
2. Tell if someone is lying. Everyone has his theory. Pick one, test it. Choose the tells that work for you. I like these: Liars change the subject quickly. Liars look up and to their right when they speak. Liars use fewer contractions. Liars will sometimes stare straight at you and employ a dead face. Liars never touch their chest or heart except self-consciously. Liars place objects between themselves and you during a conversation.
3. Take a photo. Fill the frame.
4. Score a baseball game. Scoring a game is an exercise in ciphering, creating a shorthand of your very own. In this way, it's a private language as much as a record of the game. The only given is the numbering of the positions and the use of the diamond to express each batter's progress around the bases. I black out the diamond when a run scores. I mark an RBI with a tally mark in the upper-right-hand corner. Each time you score a game, you pick up on new elements to track: pitch count, balls and strikes, foul balls. It doesn't matter that this information is available on the Internet in real time. Scoring a game is about bearing witness, expanding your own ability to observe.
5. Name a book that matters. The Catcher in the Rye does not matter. Not really. You gotta read.
6. Know at least one musical group as well as is possible. One guy at your table knows where Cobain was born and who his high school English teacher was. Another guy can argue the elegant extended trope of Liquid Swords with GZA himself. This is how it should be. Music does not demand agreement. Rilo Kiley. Nina Simone. Whitesnake. Fugazi. Otis Redding. Whatever. Choose. Nobody likes a know-it-all, because 1) you can't know it all and 2) music offers distinct and private lessons. So pick one. Except Rilo Kiley. I heard they broke up.
7. Cook meat somewhere other than the grill. Buy The Way to Cook, by Julia Child. Try roasting. Braising. Broiling. Slow-cooking. Pan searing. Think ragouts, fricassees, stews. All of this will force you to understand the functionality of different cuts. In the end, grilling will be a choice rather than a chore, and your Weber will become a tool rather than a piece of weekend entertainment.
8. Not monopolize the conversation.
9. Write a letter. So easy. So easily forgotten. A five-paragraph structure works pretty well: Tell why you're writing. Offer details. Ask questions. Give news. Add a specific memory or two. If your handwriting is terrible, type. Always close formally.
10. Buy a suit. Avoid bargains. Know your likes, your dislikes, and what you need it for (work, funerals, court). Squeeze the fabric — if it bounces back with little or no sign of wrinkling, that means it's good, sturdy material. And tug the buttons gently. If they feel loose or wobbly, that means they're probably coming off sooner rather than later. The jacket's shoulder pads are supposed to square with your shoulders; if they droop off or leave dents in the cloth, the jacket's too big. The jacket sleeves should never meet the wrist any lower than the base of the thumb — if they do, ask to go down a size. Always get fitted.
11. Swim three different strokes. Doggie paddle doesn't count.
12. Show respect without being a suck-up. Respect the following, in this order: age, experience, record, reputation. Don't mention any of it.
13. Throw a punch. Close enough, but not too close. Swing with your shoulders, not your arm. Long punches rarely land squarely. So forget the roundhouse. You don't have a haymaker. Follow through; don't pop and pull back. The length you give the punch should come in the form of extension after the point of contact. Just remember, the bones in your hand are small and easy to break. You're better off striking hard with the heel of your palm. Or you could buy the guy a beer and talk it out.
14. Chop down a tree. Know your escape path. When the tree starts to fall, use it.
15. Calculate square footage. Width times length.
16. Tie a bow tie.
17. Make one drink, in large batches, very well. When I interviewed for my first job, one of the senior guys had me to his house for a reception. He offered me a cigarette and pointed me to a bowl of whiskey sours, like I was Darrin Stephens and he was Larry Tate. I can still remember that first tight little swallow and my gratitude that I could go back for a refill without looking like a drunk. I came to admire the host over the next decade, but he never gave me the recipe. So I use this:
• For every 750-ml bottle of whiskey (use a decent bourbon or rye), add:
• 6 oz fresh-squeezed, strained lemon juice
• 6 oz simple syrup(mix superfine sugar and water in equal quantities)
To serve: Shake 3 oz per person with ice and strain into chilled cocktail glasses. Garnish with a cherry and an orange slice or, if you're really slick, a float of red wine. (Pour about ½ oz slowly into each glass over the back of a spoon; this is called a New York sour, and it's great.)
18. Speak a foreign language. Pas beaucoup. Mais faites un effort.
19. Approach a woman out of his league. Ever have a shoeshine from a guy you really admire? He works hard enough that he doesn't have to tell stupid jokes; he doesn't stare at your legs; he knows things you don't, but he doesn't talk about them every minute; he doesn't scrape or apologize for his status or his job or the way he is dressed; he does his job confidently and with a quiet relish. That stuff is wildly inviting. Act like that guy.
20. Sew a button.
21. Argue with a European without getting xenophobic or insulting soccer. Once, in our lifetime, much of Europe was approaching cultural and political irrelevance. Then they made like us and banded together into a union of confederated states. So you can always assume that they were simply copying the United States as they now push us to the verge of cultural and political irrelevance.
22. Give a woman an orgasm so that he doesn't have to ask after it. Otherwise, ask after it.
23. Be loyal. You will fail at it. You have already. A man who does not know loyalty, from both ends, does not know men. Loyalty is not a matter of give-and-take: He did me a favor, therefore I owe him one. No. No. No. It is the recognition of a bond, the honoring of a shared history, the reemergence of the vows we make in the tight times. It doesn't mean complete agreement or invisible blood ties. It is a currency of selflessness, given without expectation and capable of the most stellar return.
24. Know his poison, without standing there, pondering like a dope. Brand, amount, style, fast, like so: Booker's, double, neat.
25. Drive an eightpenny nail into a treated two-by-four without thinking about it. Use a contractor's hammer. Swing hard and loose, like a tennis serve.
26. Cast a fishing rod without shrieking or sighing or otherwise admitting defeat.
27. Play gin with an old guy. Old men will try to crush you. They'll drown you in meaningless chatter, tell stories about when they were kids this or in Korea that. Or they'll retreat into a taciturn posture designed to get you to do the talking. They'll note your strategies without mentioning them, keep the stakes at a level they can control, and change up their pace of play just to get you stumbling. You have to do this — play their game, be it dominoes or cribbage or chess. They may have been playing for decades. You take a beating as a means of absorbing the lessons they've learned without taking a lesson. But don't be afraid to take them down. They can handle it.
28. Play go fish with a kid. You don't crush kids. You talk their ear off, make an event out of it, tell them stories about when you were a kid this or in Vegas that. You have to play their game, too, even though they may have been playing only for weeks. Observe. Teach them without once offering a lesson. And don't be afraid to win. They can handle it.
29. Understand quantum physics well enough that he can accept that a quarter might, at some point, pass straight through the table when dropped. Sometimes the laws of physics aren't laws at all. Read The Quantum World: Quantum Physics for Everyone, by Kenneth W. Ford.
30. Feign interest. Good place to start: quantum physics.
31. Make a bed.
32. Describe a glass of wine in one sentence without using the terms nutty, fruity, oaky, finish, or kick. I once stood in a wine store in West Hollywood where the owner described a pinot noir he favored as "a night walk through a wet garden." I bought it. I went to my hotel and drank it by myself, looking at the flickering city with my feet on the windowsill. I don't know which was more right, the wine or the vision that he placed in my head. Point is, it was right.
33. Hit a jump shot in pool. It's not something you use a lot, but when you hit a jump shot, it marks you as a player and briefly impresses women. Make the angle of your cue steeper, aim for the bottommost fraction of the ball, and drive the cue smoothly six inches past the contact point, making steady, downward contact with the felt.
34. Dress a wound. First, stop the bleeding. Apply pressure using a gauze pad. Stay with the pressure. If you can't stop the bleeding, forget the next step, just get to a hospital. Once the bleeding stops, clean the wound. Use water or saline solution; a little soap is good, too. If you can't get the wound clean, then forget the next step, just get to a hospital. Finally, dress the wound. For a laceration, push the edges together and apply a butterfly bandage. For avulsions, where the skin is punctured and pulled back like a trapdoor, push the skin back and use a butterfly. Slather the area in antibacterial ointment. Cover the wound with a gauze pad taped into place. Change that dressing every 12 hours, checking carefully for signs of infection. Better yet, get to a hospital.
35. Jump-start a car (without any drama). Change a flat tire (safely). Change the oil (once).
36. Make three different bets at a craps table. Play the smallest and most poorly labeled areas, the bets where it's visually evident the casino doesn't want you to go. Simply play the pass line; once the point is set, play full odds (this is the only really good bet on the table); and when you want a little more action, tell the crew you want to lay the 4 and the 10 for the minimum bet.
37. Shuffle a deck of cards. I play cards with guys who can't shuffle, and they lose. Always.
38. Tell a joke. Here's one:
Two guys are walking down a dark alley when a mugger approaches them and demands their money. They both grudgingly pull out their wallets and begin taking out their cash. Just then, one guy turns to the other, hands him a bill, and says, "Hey, here's that $20 I owe you."
39. Know when to split his cards in blackjack. Aces. Eights. Always.
40. Speak to an eight-year-old so he will hear. Use his first name. Don't use baby talk. Don't crank up your energy to match his. Ask questions and wait for answers. Follow up. Don't pretend to be interested in Webkinz or Power Rangers or whatever. He's as bored with that sh** as you are. Concentrate instead on seeing the child as a person of his own.
41. Speak to a waiter so he will hear. You don't own the restaurant, so don't act like it. You own the transaction. So don't speak into the menu. Lift your chin. Make eye contact. All restaurants have secrets — let it be known that you expect to see some of them.
42. Talk to a dog so it will hear. Go ahead, use baby talk.
43. Install: a disposal, an electronic thermostat, or a lighting fixture without asking for help. Just turn off the damned main.
44. Ask for help. Guys who refuse to ask for help are the most cursed men of all. The stubborn, the self-possessed, and the distant. The hell with them.
45. Break another man's grip on his wrist. Rotate your arm rapidly in the grip, toward the other guy's thumb.
46. Tell a woman's dress size.
47. Recite one poem from memory. Here you go:
WHEN YOU ARE OLD
When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
—William Butler Yeats
48. Remove a stain. Blot. Always blot.
49. Say no.
50. Fry an egg sunny-side up. Cook until the white appears solid . . . and no longer.
51. Build a campfire.
There are three components:
* The tinder — bone-dry, snappable twigs, about as long as your hand. You need two complete handfuls. Try birch bark; it burns long and hot.
* The kindling — thick as your thumb, long as your forearm, breakable with two hands. You need two armfuls.
* Fuel wood — anything thick and long enough that it can't be broken by hand. It's okay if it's slightly damp. You need a knee-high stack.
Step 1:Light the tinder, turning the pile gently to get air underneath it.
Step 2: Feed the kindling into the emergent fire with some pace.
Step 3: Lay on the fuel wood. Pyramid, the log cabin, what-ever — the idea is to create some kind of structure so that plenty of air gets to the fire.
52. Step into a job no one wants to do. When I was 13, my dad called me into his office at the large urban mall he ran. He was on the phone. What followed was a fairly banal 15-minute conversation, which involved the collection of rent from a store. On and on, droning about store hours and lighting problems. I kept raising my eyebrows, pretending to stand up, and my dad kept waving me down. I could hear only his end, garrulous and unrelenting. He rolled his eyes as the excuses kept coming. His assertions were simple and to the point, like a drumbeat. He wanted the rent. He wanted the store to stay open when the mall was open. Then suddenly, having given the job the time it deserved, he put it to an end. "So if I see your gate down next Sunday afternoon, I'm going to get a drill and stick a goddamn bolt in it and lock you down for the next week, right?" When he hung up, rent collected, he took a deep breath. "I've been dreading that call," he said. "Once a week you gotta try something you never would do if you had the choice. Otherwise, why are you here?" So he gave me that. And this . . .
53. Sometimes, kick some ass.
54. Break up a fight. Work in pairs if possible. Don't get between people initially. Use the back of the collar, pull and urge the person downward. If you can't get him down, work for distance.
55. Point to the north at any time. If you have a watch, you can point the hour hand at the sun. Then find the point directly between the hour hand and the 12. That's south. The opposite direction is, of course, north.
56. Create a play-list in which ten seemingly random songs provide a secret message to one person.
57. Explain what a light-year is. It's the measure of the distance that light travels over 365.25 days.
58. Avoid boredom. You have enough to eat. You can move. This must be acknowledged as a kind of freedom. You don't always have to buy things, put things in your mouth, or be delighted.
59. Write a thank-you note. Make a habit of it. Follow a simple formula like this one: First line is a thesis statement. The second line is evidentiary. The third is a kind of assertion. Close on an uptick.
Thanks for having me over to watch game six. Even though they won, it's clear the Red Sox are a soulless, overmarketed contrivance of Fox TV. Still, I'm awfully happy you have that huge high-def television. Next time, I really will bring beer. Yours,
60. Be brand loyal to at least one product. It tells a lot about who you are and where you came from. Me? I like Hellman's mayonnaise and Genesee beer, which makes me the fleshy, stubbornly upstate ne'er-do-well that I will always be.
61. Cook bacon. Lay out the bacon on a rack on a baking sheet. Bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes.
62. Hold a baby. Newborns should be wrapped tightly and held against the chest. They like tight spaces (consider their previous circumstances) and rhythmic movements, so hold them snug, tuck them in the crook of your elbow or against the skin of your neck. Rock your hips like you're bored, barely listening to the music at the edge of a wedding reception. No one has to notice except the baby. Don't breathe all over them.
63. Deliver a eulogy. Take the job seriously. It matters. Speak first to the family, then to the outside world. Write it down. Avoid similes. Don't read poetry. Be funny.
64. Know that Christopher Columbus was a son of a bitch. When I was a kid, because I'm Italian and because the Irish guys in my neighborhood were relentless with the beatings on St. Patrick's Day, I loved the very idea of Christopher Columbus. I loved the fact that Irish kids worshipped some gnome who drove all the rats out of Ireland or whatever, whereas my hero was an explorer. Man, I drank the Kool-Aid on that guy. Of course, I later learned that he was a hand-chopping, land-stealing egotist who sold out an entire hemisphere to European avarice. So I left Columbus behind. Your understanding of your heroes must evolve. See Roger Clemens. See Bill Belichick.
65-67. Throw a baseball over-hand with some snap. Throw a football with a tight spiral. Shoot a 12-foot jump shot reliably. If you can't, play more ball.
68. Find his way out of the woods if lost. Note your landmarks — mountains, power lines, the sound of a highway. Look for the sun: It sits in the south; it moves west. Gauge your direction every few minutes. If you're completely stuck, look for a small creek and follow it downstream. Water flows toward larger bodies of water, where people live.
69. Tie a knot. Square knot: left rope over right rope, turn under. Then right rope over left rope. Tuck under. Pull. Or as my pack leader, Dave Kenyon, told me in a Boy Scouts meeting: "Left over right, right over left. What's so f***ing hard about that?"
70. Shake hands. Steady, firm, pump, let go. Use the time to make eye contact, since that's where the social contract begins.
71. Iron a shirt. My uncle Tony the tailor once told me of ironing: Start rough, end gently.
72. Stock an emergency bag for the car. Blanket. Heavy flashlight. Hand warmers. Six bottles of water. Six packs of beef jerky. Atlas. Reflectors. Gloves. Socks. Bandages. Neosporin. Inhaler. Benadryl. Motrin. Hard candy. Telescoping magnet. Screwdriver. Channel-locks. Crescent wrench. Ski hat. Bandanna.
73. Caress a woman's neck. Back of your fingers, in a slow fan.
74. Know some birds. If you can't pay attention to a bird, then you can't learn from detail, you aren't likely to appreciate the beauty of evolution, and you don't have a clue how birdlike your own habits may be. You've been looking at them blindly for years now. Get a guide.
75. Negotiate a better price. Be informed. Know the price of competitors. In a big store, look for a manager. Don't be an a-hole. Use one phrase as your mantra, like "I need a little help with this one." Repeat it, as an invitation to him. Don't beg. Ever. Offer something: your loyalty, your next purchase, even your friendship, and, with the deal done, your gratitude.
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