The circle of life

Last night, I attended a dinner party in honor of my birthday. At one point, some stroganoff dribbled down my chin and found my shirt. Not a rare occurrence. I never mastered the Philly Lean (the way you angle to avoid cheesesteak grease or pizza sauce from dripping on you).

While this is a somewhat common occurrence with me, in this instance, my companion leaned over and gently dabbed at the offending substance. No one’s done that in decades. It reminded me of the Seinfeld bit about the circle of life. When you go to a movie theater, the ushers are either acne-plagued adolescents or doddering seniors. You begin life at the velvet rope and return to it at the end. I’m back to having my chin wiped. A milestone birthday?

Last year should’ve been the milestone (60), but didn’t seem like it because nothing changed. This year had a different feel. For one thing, I received a lot more birthday greetings. I attribute that to joining Facebook last year, and everyone can see your birth date. So, that produced a couple dozen more well wishers.

And, enough to generate a possibly statistically significant sample from which to draw trends. Twelve greetings, or about 25% from all sources, incorporated the phrase “and many more,” or some variation on that theme. At this point, was the question raised that there would be?

I posed that at the dinner table. Talk about a buzz kill. But, a lively conversation ensued. I concluded that one should live their life exuberantly and carefree today, because tomorrow is never assured. But, that wasn’t the conclusion because my companion added, “Like you haven’t been?”

Point taken.

A Tempest in a pee pot

I had performed all my duties and was rewarded with an excellent dinner. My companion told me I could watch television until she was done with the dishes.

I plopped down on the sofa and grabbed the remote. In a few minutes, I heard her behind me, letting out a groan. Her worst fears were realized. I was watching Mecum’s Auto Auction. We began the negotiation of how many car sales we would watch.

The fare is mostly muscle cars of the 60s, but there are a smattering of unique gems from other eras. I enjoy the blood lust for them as they roll onto the carpet, but I strive to keep it vicarious. I am not cut out for collecting.

For one thing, maintaining the pristine condition requires no small amount of effort. And, to preserve the specimen means that it doesn’t see much road. I’m long on enjoying and short on maintenance. If I’m spending that kind of money on a car, I’m driving it.

For example, an ’87 Vette convertible popped up on the block. It had 18,000 miles on it. I had bought one new. When I sold it many years ago, it carried 160,000 more miles than this one and was well into its second motor.

We arrived at a settlement of 15 cars. While I ponder if I would bid that much or not on each, I don’t get too emotionally involved. The gavel dropped on the fifteenth car and I reached for the remote. But then, I felt the hair prickle on my neck and froze.

“That was your 15,” said my companion. I shushed her, which reflects how far my mind was away from the rational.

A ’63 Pontiac Tempest had rolled onto the carpet, and the festivities commenced. “Don’t bid!” I heard myself yell aloud.

I’ve probably owned upwards of a couple dozen vehicles, including a ’63 Tempest. They all had their plusses and minuses, but the Tempest stands out from the pack. It was, without a doubt, the worst car I ever had. A nightmare.

When I left for college, I had sold my car for tuition money. It was the second I had owned, and both had been carefully crafted for drag racing. I worked in an auto store, so parts, tools and expertise were readily available. They ran like champs.

In college, I worked my way through as a store detective for a department store chain. I could take the bus to work. For my first year-and-a-half, my wages and savings barely covered tuition and living expenses. But then, my co-op job kicked in, which was part of my strategy.

I would need a car for the job, but the added income would cover that and a little more. I began looking as soon as I had secured the job, but had connections back home (Philadelphia) who had access to cheap iron. A relative told me he located the perfect steed.

It sounded incredible. The ’63 Tempest had sleek lines and this one sported a very hot color combo: silver body and black interior and vinyl top. How could it be that cheap? I would learn a lesson in that vein.

So, I flew standby to Philly to pick it up. Love at first sight. That wouldn’t last long.

I waited until late evening. Back then, radar patrol was sparse and almost nonexistent on weekday evenings. I could bury the pedal and burn straight through.

The only thing I had been apprehensive about was that this car was a four cylinder, a rarity in American cars at the time. My source assured me that it was no problem in this mid-sized car. But, I was finding it a little reluctant on the grades of the western Pennsylvania foothills.

I persevered and burned through the route. Also, one of the pistons. It blew around Columbus, Ohio. That was an ordeal, but I was fortunate to have it happen so close to a place with the necessary resources.

I lived at the top of Straight Street. I assumed it was so named because it went straight up. My silver bullet could barely chug up the incline and I lived in fear of blowing another expensive component. I thought of alternative routes, but the only way to reach the top of a hill is up.

Then, I was out on a date and the car wouldn’t start after a movie. I popped the hood and it was a mess. Someone had tried to steal the carburetor and/or other parts and had just given up. True, it had nothing to do with the design or quality, but the car was beginning to look snakebit.

A few weeks later, a growing puddle began to appear under the rear axle. What the heck was this?

What this was was the brainchild of John Delorean, sire of the GTO, Delorean and other automotive milestones. Most cars were front-heavy, with the motor and transmission located by the front wheels. His idea with this car was to mount the transmission on the rear axle, creating a more balanced weight distribution. Interesting theory, poor execution.

The transmissions leaked and were not easily accessible. To check fluid level or add it was a giant pain in the butt. You opened the trunk, removed the spare, rolled back the liner and removed the bolts of a cover plate. Then, you crawled in to access the filler tube. After you had checked and added the fluid, you reversed the steps. Do this enough and you omit some of them.

Another option was to repair or replace the transmission. But, it was such an oddball, the cost was prohibitive and I already had too much sunk into this money pit.

An apparent solution emerged. I was home for a holiday and that always entailed at least one night out with my old rowdy friends. It was posited that we spend it at some of the seedier bars over in New Jersey. But, everyone was apprehensive to drive because things have a habit of disappearing or getting damaged in Jersey. People, too.

Serendipity. I volunteered to supply the cartage. It’s not that I really expected the car to get snatched, but wouldn't be all that broken up if it happened.

Sure enough, we came out of the third stop of the night and there was nothing but empty space (and a puddle of transmission fluid) where my heap had been parked. I gazed heavenward in thanks.

The next morning, I dutifully filed the paperwork with the authorities. The officer took the information as though this was completely routine, which it was. I asked how long it usually took to recover a stolen vehicle and what the chances were. He just looked at me like I had recently debarked at Ellis Island.

The following day, I was checking flights to plan my standby return to Cincinnati. The phone rang just as I hung it up. It was a police officer informing me that they had found my car. He sounded almost surprised. I wasn’t. It had been abandoned, not even worthy of a thief or chop shop. The ultimate testimony to its pitiful traits.

I picked up the Tempest and a few cans of transmission fluid, in preparation for the return trip. I had plenty of driving time to contemplate my next move. I had always felt a reluctance to dump the problem on someone else.

A few months later, I was at one of those restaurants with parking lot service. This one was fun to hang out at. My friends were giving me grief about the car. An elderly gentleman in the adjoining parking place came over and asked if I cared to sell it. I said I would, but warned him of its drawbacks. He said that was fine with him, as he fixed everything from trucks to tractors on his farm. The deal was done.

So now, I’m watching the bidding on a similar machine and wondering if the aspirants knew what they were getting into. But, creeping into my consciousness were the memories of the good times. It was, after all, part of the wild college days.

The gavel fell once again and I wished good luck and good times to the new owner.

For my next invention...

I have an idea for a new voice-activated device. I have several now. The fact that I haven’t bothered to figure out the voice feature is irrelevant. I would use this one.

You wouldn’t even have to buy it. Grocery stores would have them mounted at the end of each aisle. You state what you want and it tells you what section it’s in. Okay, so it’s a guy thing.

As is the case with many inventions, this one was spawned in pain. I was asked to “pick up a few items on the way over.” That phrase ranks right up there with “some assembly required," because I know it’s going to take longer and be more arduous than it’s made out to be.

In this case, I’m looking for sparkling (carbonated) juice. I’m up and down the juice and dairy aisles several times before I relent and ask.

The employee smiles at me benevolently, as though assisting a small child. “It’s in the wine section.”

“The wine section? It’s juice.”

“Yes, but it’s made by wineries. It’s like wine without alcohol.” Let’s see, wine without alcohol. That would be what, juice? “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Well, I need sun dried tomatoes, but I guess they’re in produce or canned vegetables.”

She shook her head sadly. “No, aisle E.”

And, the cereal bars weren’t with the cereals. That’s why we need the voice-activated devices, so we can avoid the humiliation of not being versed in grocery store taxonomy. Either that or a section called “Things Men Don’t Know How to Find.”

Death by Cell Phone

We were having dinner with some old canoeing friends of mine when a cell phone blared a ringtone. The owner apologized, but that led to a discussion of ringtones. I don’t do them, partly for reasons that emerged in the conversation.

In the course of that, my companion asked him if he had a ringtone song for me. “’Sixteen Tons.’”

“’Sixteen Tons?’”

I jumped in and explained I used to sing that when we’d paddle through a gorge or other area that had some resonance. Not because it had any meaning.

“Oh, it’s kind of you,” he added, trying to be helpful. “I used to have ‘The Wander’ for him,” he added, being even more helpful in the same way. If he helped me much more, I wouldn't live to see dessert.

She looked at me. “Because I’m a Dion fan.” I’m not sure she bought that.

“And what song would you use for me?,” she inquired.

“There are so many, I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Actually, one I had briefly considered was “You Shook Me All Night Long,” because the lyrics are a close fit, but I wasn’t sure she’d take it in a positive way. How people interpret things differently is reason enough for me to stick with chimes.

My friend’s wife turned to him. “And what song do you have assigned to me these days?”

He thought a second and a look or terror spread across his face. Obviously, he had never anticipated that she would be present when she called, or that the subject would come up. “Uh, I think it’s still ‘Simply Irresistible.’”

She smiled and patted his arm. But, I didn’t think he was out of the woods. “Turn your phone off,” I thought, trying to beam him a psychic message.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes before she snaked her hand down to her purse and fingered a speed dial button. Broadcasting from his jacket came “’She’s so cold.’”

Not a lot of different ways to interpret that one. If he thought she was frosty before that…

Great dinner parties

If you like to entertain, you might glean a couple ideas here from the Barrengers, some friends of mine. I prefer to be entertained. The Barrengers throw the best dinner parties I’ve ever been to, but that is colored by my idea what is fun.

The first one we were invited to had a Chinese food theme. There were sixteen guests. The hosts divided us into five teams, with no couple being on the same team. When you were “up,” your team adjourned to the kitchen to make that course. The ingredients were arrayed on the counters and recipes taped to the faces of the cabinets. The idea was to come up with the best preparation and presentation.

It was not intended to be an intense competition, but that was part of the fun. Our team went fourth. Once the raw ingredients were cooking, two of us snuck upstairs to see what we could ferret out for a dramatic presentation.

When the food was done, we turned out the lights in the dining room. We were now clad in robes with towels draped over our heads, to resemble monks. One of us carried the tray of food, another a portable boombox. Two of us bore lit candles. Before we entered, the music was turned on (“You can’t always get what you want” by the Stones). Then, we entered in a slow, in-step processional.

We received a standing ovation and the prizes. But, it would’ve been great fun in any event.

My favorite of theirs was the “puzzle dinner,” for lack of a better description. There were four courses, appetizer, soup & salad, entrée and dessert.

Before sitting down, you received a check-off “menu” to select the food, beverage and utensils you wanted for each course. Actually, what you got was a list of clues that you allocated between the four courses.

Those clues included: precedes pray (lettuce), San Francisco/Denver/Philadelphia (mints), Jiminy’s cousin with a Greek letter (grasshopper pie), Jack’s ladder (beans), where Popeye dances (spinach balls), kind of bill (spoon), valuable weights (carrots), mount n’ groan (coffee), comes from a tempo or hooked stick (sugar), split road (fork), etc.

Almost no one gets it all right and that’s where the fun comes in. Someone receives soup and the wrong or no utensil. Another gets his pie with a side of sauerkraut for an entrée.

Some may enjoy their parties straight up with a perfectly done prime rib. I prefer mine with a twist.

You Say You Want a Resolution

The first weeks of the year at the gym aren’t the most enjoyable for me. Some of the “regulars” are grousing about the influx of the New Years resolution people clogging up the facilities, and hoping that their numbers wane in the near future.

I’m in another camp. I’m glad to see the people take positive steps toward a better life and wish them well in the quest. I enjoy being around people who face their problems and take action to solve them.

This year’s edition of the grumbling piqued my interest about the resolutions. The action I took was to do some research.

The tradition is attributed by some to the early Babylonians, who held the belief that what they did the first day of the year plotted their courses for the rest of it. Not real encouraging since many people I know spend that day either nursing hangovers or vegging on the couch in front of a television.

The results of studies vary, but about half of American adults make New Years resolutions. The most common are weight loss, exercise, cessation of smoking and improved financial position.

Most studies agree that about half will fail within six months. That climbs to 90-97% by the end of the year. To quote Oscar Wilde, “A New Years resolution is something that goes in one year and out the other.”

This does not surprise me. I’ve spent too much time in the mental health/drug & alcohol treatment field and consulting underperforming companies to be unaware of resistance to change. Why is that when change can bring positive outcomes?

The biggest obstacle is the baggage some carry from their childhood including low self-esteem, perfectionism, fear of failure, need for control, anger and the need to please. This baggage makes them think and behave as who they were as children as opposed to an adult.

Dr. Jim Martin of the University of San Francisco says it best:

“Deeply ingrained habits in the way we think, experience emotions, and behave arise out this baggage. We react to the world in certain ways because that's the way we always have; these habits produce knee-jerk reactions that are no longer healthy or adaptive.

We don't make an effort to change because of negative emotions that we are experiencing, such as fear, anger, sadness, or frustration. For example, many people don't change out of the fear of failure. They might think, "If I can't change, then I'll prove myself to be even more of a loser than I am now.

We also create an environment that helps us best manage our baggage, habits, and emotions. The people we surround ourselves with and the activities we participate in give us a sense of comfort and security that we may be reluctant to give up no matter how much we may want to change.”

My observations verify his analysis. I have seen many dysfunctional companies reluctant to commit to significant goals out of fear of failure. They would rather set low or nebulous benchmarks to avoid being “a loser” yet one more time. Fear of failure perpetuates failure.

And, in mental health treatment, we often see sick patients surround themselves with like minds so they feel somewhat normal, as opposed to addressing their problems and recognizing the nature of their enablers. They perpetuate the malfunctioning mentality and behavior amongst themselves.

So, how do we succeed with resolutions or, for that matter, life? People schooled in behavior prescribe swimming against the root causes of failure.

1. Fuel yourself with positive emotions. Mature and controlled emotions and behavior lead to growth, accomplishment and happiness.

2. Courage is key. As behaviorists point out, to succeed, we must be willing to confront the aspects of ourselves that we deny, don’t know about or abhor to overcome them.

3. Meaningful and specific goals are essential. They commit us to taking significant and effective action.

4. We must accept the possibility of setbacks and resolve to overcome them. They are bumps in the road, not barriers. Persevere.

5. Just do it. Action delayed is action denied. Don’t wait until the beginning of next year. Do it today.

As for the gym, give me your tired, your portly, your humongous masses yearning to be fit. The wretched refuse of your teeming fast food counters. For it is they confronting their issues who give me hope for the human condition.

Team Spirit

I received an email from a former employee in reference to a previous blog about the satisfaction of achieving something as a team. He had fond memories of when we had done that.

I published a local weekly newspaper. We grew it to the 5th largest of its kind in spite of being in the 29th ranked media market. But, he had something more specific in mind. And yes, it was a very good memory.

Thursdays were hectic. It was still in the days of cut & paste print production and we had to have the issue done by 7:00 pm to make the courier to Louisville, where the newspaper was printed. It went into the mail on Friday for Monday delivery. Subscribers expected it on their desks Monday, without fail.

We had a meeting scheduled for after lunch, although most ate in on Thursdays. Dana had gone out and was late for the meeting. He was a bit of a wild card, but extremely good at what he did.

Dana casually plopped down in his seat and eyes turned to him in expectation of an explanation. “The building’s on fire. They have the elevators turned off.” Eyes widened. That was a heck of an excuse, even for Dana.

As though on cue, my phone rang. It was the building management office informing me that the building was on fire and it would be a good idea to evacuate. Hard to argue with that.

I asked why we hadn’t heard an alarm. She said she had 45 floors of companies to call and didn’t have time to explain. If it was much of a fire, I imagine the last half of the list would probably know before she called.

The explanation I later received was that older buildings had been grandfathered around some of the codes. Why invest in fire safety when you have insurance? I’m guessing there were about a thousand dissenting opinions in the building.

I had three thoughts. Get everyone out, grab every scrap of editorial and ad content of this issue and put the phones on the answering machine mode.

We filed down eleven floors of stairway and stood out in the street amid the fire engines with boxes of rough drafts, typeset copy and photos. Now what?

We walked across the street to a hotel lobby and I called the general manager of our printer. Many wouldn’t expect a woman to hold that position then, and Patty certainly wasn’t what you would picture for running a large printing plant. She appeared to be a delicate southern belle, but there was a hard core under that sweet facade. And, she could flat out get things done.

I was not optimistic. Time on the big presses was tightly scheduled and if we missed our window…

Patty said to c’mon down and they’d be ready for us. And, ready they were. Two hours later, she was leading us into their warehouse where they had set up tables stocked with the equipment and supplies we’d need to lay out the issue. It took a while to sort out the hastily packed materials, but we had the boards put together by midnight. Patty had juggled the schedule so we could still get on the press. We had pulled it off.

I gave my staff the option of hotel rooms there or driving home. We drove home.

I went in the next day at my usual time, even though I had told the staff to sleep in. It came as some surprise that the office was filled with excited and jabbering people, exchanging stories of how they had improvised this or that to get the job done in the face of setbacks. They were on a high of accomplishing something above and beyond.

I decided that this Friday was not a day to have them work. This was a day to throw them a party. So, I did.

And that’s what Dana emailed me about. I’m glad he did.

Gliding

I was watching an interview of one of the rock stars in the counterculture movement of the sixties. She was asked about the difficulty of breaking in. She said that her first album was the hardest to get produced, but the easiest to write.

All the pain and anguish of being a poor, struggling artist fueled her creative drive and empathy with the downtrodden. After the first albums, and with a couple million in the bank, she had a hard time getting motivated.

A football coach with his division locked up was asked about his playoff concerns. He said his biggest challenge was keeping the fire going in the belly of his players.

I’m thinking about this because I received an email of congratulations because our paddling club hit a milestone in members that’s, as far as we know, about 50% larger than the second largest in the country. It ended with, “I guess you can relax.”

I don’t have the same problem as the aforementioned. We’ve been able to bring a lot of enjoyment and excitement to people, and have taken great pleasure in building something together that is eminently successful. How could anything be better than that? The only way it gets better is that we get even better.

Bill Wrigley was asked why he did so much advertising when he already had the dominant chewing gum company in the world. He said that when his pilot gets his plane off the ground, he doesn’t tell him to turn off the engines.

Wrigley didn’t believe in gliding and neither do it.

A sweet deal

As I was working one of the machines at the gym today, my eyes drifted up to one of the television screens. Since they have about a dozen, the sound is turned off and you have to read the scrolled copy at the bottom.

I just caught the end of one news broadcast and thought I saw that the American Beverage Association spent $8 million in lobbying last year. Eight million bucks in lobbying? I couldn’t have heard that right.

So, I just looked it up and it was $7.3 million in the article I found. But, not for 2009. Just the third quarter.

In addition to that, they funneled about a quarter million through some other lobbying outlets. One of the big issues was a contemplated “sin” tax on sugared beverages, seeing how they fatten people up and make them unhealthy. It had been discussed, not written or proposed.

Hypothetically, let’s call it $7.5 million and annualize it to $30 million. What do you spend $30 million on to lobby?

The senators and representatives have offices in the same place, so let’s say a lobbyist could make five individual contacts a day to be conservative. That’s 25/week or 1,300 a year. One person could cover every senator and representative almost three times in a year. Let’s err on the side of caution and say you need three lobbyists at $150,000, each.

Now let’s suppose you incur some semi-ethical entertainment expense. You take every representative and senator to lunch or dinner twice during the year at a cost of $200 a pop. They aren’t drinking sugared beverages. That’s $214,000.

You’re going to do some direct mail, position papers, etc., but the distribution list totals only 535. We’ll call it $50,000.

We’re up to $714,000. I’ll throw in $286,000 for incidentals and to make it an even mill. Okay, where did the other $29 million go? Or, to whom?

Yes, I’ve made some uneducated guesses and I know how the game works. But, it’s fun to ponder.

The fact that most people don’t is why elected officials, legislation and subsidies are bought and sold every day.

Entertainment is where you find it.

My newspaper didn’t arrive this morning. Okay, stuff happens. But, I do like to have my puzzles at hand when I sit down for the evening.

The customer service is a toll-free number, which might indicate that they sub out that function. Good news if that means I’ll get better service from a pro. Bad if I can’t understand the accent.

The answering function is automated and I navigate through the options to arrive at delivery problems. I am greeted by a computer generated voice and she asks me to speak or keystroke my phone number and address so she can call up my account. At least, it sounds like a she. I can’t see the computer’s components to make a definitive assessment.

Here’s where it gets humorous. She thanks me for the information and says she can now call up my account to help me. The sound of simulated keystroking comes over the line. Say what? It’s obvious you’re a computer. Are the sound effects supposed to make me feel I’m getting personal service?

After the audio show, my friend asks me to wait a moment while she connects me with person to help me with my problem. What am I missing here? They go to the trouble of the keystroking soundtrack to portray a person and then tell me I will be connected to a person. Any company can hire people to deliver inanity. It takes real vision to automate it. This is good stuff.

The person comes on. There is no doubt she is a person or that I am her twentieth problem this morning. Or, maybe even in the past hour. She demands my phone number and address so she can call up my account.

Didn’t we just go through this? Do you think it would be a good idea to link the functions and save yourself time and staffing?

I provide the information. She tells me I didn’t receive a newspaper because I subscribed only for weekend delivery. I say that’s not so and she tells me I’m mistaken. I respond that I have been getting it on weekdays until now and she says that’s not possible.

I eye the pile of newspapers awaiting a trip to the garbage can but do not press the point. I deal with patients who fabricate their own realities on a daily basis and facts just inflame them. I ask if we can change the delivery schedule.

I thank her. The call was worth it to fix the problem, if not for the entertainment value.

Polar Bears

The morning of January 1, 2010. Hard by the banks of the Little Miami River. The air temperature has barely cracked 20F and the wind chill factor makes it feel like 7F, according to a local meteorologist. Happy New Year. If it feels like seven, it’s seven as far as I’m concerned.

A couple dozen kayakers are on the steep banks preparing to slide into the gelid waters. The splashes generated by the first plungers instantaneously create icicles on their helmets and paddle shafts. You might expect the mood to be grim.

But no, it’s joyous. People laughing, exchanging jokes and squealing with delight. What madness is this?

It’s an annual tradition of a group called Cincypaddlers.org. It’s our version of the many polar bear swims you see around the world on the first day of the year. Why? Everything has a reason.

I’m curious about this in the afterglow of the great time we had, so I search the sites of the polar bear groups in search of reasons. Because it’s a way of starting the year off right. Plunging into glacial water? Hard dots to connect.

Because we’re doing something other people don’t. We paddle with alligators, sharks and over waterfalls. I don’t feel a compulsion to get up New Years Day to make that point. Besides, if it’s something other people don’t do, there may be a reason for that.

Why is this special? It’s a stretch of river that some find boring the other 364 days of the year, even under ideal conditions. But today, it’s a blast for all. Maybe it’s a bonding thing.

We paddle the river and then it’s off to a Mexican restaurant to down burritos and margaritas, and some more horsing around. Many had a late New Years Eve and should be crawling home to bed after the paddling. But, they’re partying. Why?

Because it’s a lot of fun. I haven’t figured out why, but who cares? Fun is a gift horse not to be looked in the mouth, I suppose. In the end, all you have is your memories. The more positive they are, the more you’ve made of your one and only life.

We’ve started stockpiling the good stuff for 2010. Hope you are, too.

Role Reversal

Some years back, I was more active in community affairs and would occasionally wind up being interviewed on TV. The kids would sometimes hear about it from their friends and would ask me why I hadn’t told them I was going to be on.

They saw me every day. I didn’t see that it would be a big deal.

Yesterday, before the Sugar Bowl (University of Cincinnati vs. University of Florida), my Blackberry started going crazy. Had I seen my son doing the promo for UC?

No, I hadn’t. A surprise, although he’s a former UC athlete, so that would make sense. My reflex was to call him and ask why he hadn’t given me a heads up. But, he’d probably remind me that I see him all the time.

Okay, now I get it.