“It feels so natural!” a friend exalted in a recent email. The occasion was that he had just master hand-rolling his kayak. I will digress a moment, for the sake of the uninitiated.
If you capsize your kayak, the fastest and safest way to self-rescue is to roll it 180 degrees to the right-side-up position you were in, prior to your lapse in attention or technique. Most utilize the paddle for this, to some extent, but it can be done without it.
I was exhilarated when I pulled it off, sans paddle, but I don’t recall equating it to a natural experience. Flailing around, inverted in an oxygen-free environment, just doesn’t bring that to mind for me.
Or, does it? Humans have dreamt for eons of flying like a bird. That’s why you see these people of questionable judgment plummeting off cliffs with only the benefit of a wingsuit preventing them from becoming a grease spot on a boulder below. Fine for them, but I’ve never warmed up to any activity that involves “plummeting.”
But, the more I think about it… My favorite swimming stroke is the butterfly. When I’ve pondered that, I’ve attributed the preference to it being the most challenging. Revisiting that, I wonder if it’s because the motion most replicates that of a fish. The legs are together and move in unison, like a tail, an extension of the body movement. The natural fact is that fish lack legs (if you are served one otherwise configured, you would be well-advised to send it back). So, maybe the allure is swimming like a fish, au naturel.
I can see it in that vein, but not in hand-rolling a kayak with just my “fins.” Kayaks are another thing that fish seem to lack.
If we covet the natural abilities of animals, is the reverse true? (I need to cut back on the coffee.) I’m pretty sure my cat envies my capacity for opening cans.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
You are what you meet
I received an email from friends in Florida, poking me to wrap up whatever I was doing and shag my butt down there. “It must be a downer with all that dirty melting snow.”
I’m feeling just the opposite. Actually, I’m practically quivering with positive energy right about now.
It began with a lunch on Friday. A half dozen entrepreneurs who have been meeting for a month or so, talking about putting together something. We’ve all done it before and everyone is the type of person who makes things happen.
I don’t know if anything will come out of it, or even that I want to be part of it in the end. But the air fairly crackles with the creativity and positive vibes with this group. I’m enjoying the process. And, am not alone. A few dozen excited emails have flown back and forth since the meeting. That what you draw from a group like this.
That evening, we went to a Cincypaddlers.org party, celebrating exceeding the 1,500 members mark. Yeah, that’s huge for local paddling groups, but the high rubs off from being around the type of people who make that happen. Absolutely fantastic evening.
More than that, it took place at a banquet hall I’ve used for over twenty years. I know the owner and all his people. I know the latter because most of them have been there since the start, a rarity in the catering business. They have a team spirit that could power a good-sized city. It’s contagious. I always enjoy working with them.
Last night, we attended a community theater performance. The nature of the beast is that the troupe does this for the love of the art. And, it shows. You cannot help but be buoyed by their elation.
Last, but not least, I was with someone there who catalyzes everyone around her with positive energy. Someone recently pointed out that our eyes are often closed in photographs. We’re not squinting, we’re laughing. She’s uplifting and makes people glad to be with her.
Tonight I’ll be back with the paddlers for indoor pool practice and look to continue the skein. It’s less a practice than the opportunity to congregate with fun people, especially amid the “dirty melting snow.”
Your attitude determines your altitude, and it’s got little to do with weather conditions. You are what you meet.
I’m feeling just the opposite. Actually, I’m practically quivering with positive energy right about now.
It began with a lunch on Friday. A half dozen entrepreneurs who have been meeting for a month or so, talking about putting together something. We’ve all done it before and everyone is the type of person who makes things happen.
I don’t know if anything will come out of it, or even that I want to be part of it in the end. But the air fairly crackles with the creativity and positive vibes with this group. I’m enjoying the process. And, am not alone. A few dozen excited emails have flown back and forth since the meeting. That what you draw from a group like this.
That evening, we went to a Cincypaddlers.org party, celebrating exceeding the 1,500 members mark. Yeah, that’s huge for local paddling groups, but the high rubs off from being around the type of people who make that happen. Absolutely fantastic evening.
More than that, it took place at a banquet hall I’ve used for over twenty years. I know the owner and all his people. I know the latter because most of them have been there since the start, a rarity in the catering business. They have a team spirit that could power a good-sized city. It’s contagious. I always enjoy working with them.
Last night, we attended a community theater performance. The nature of the beast is that the troupe does this for the love of the art. And, it shows. You cannot help but be buoyed by their elation.
Last, but not least, I was with someone there who catalyzes everyone around her with positive energy. Someone recently pointed out that our eyes are often closed in photographs. We’re not squinting, we’re laughing. She’s uplifting and makes people glad to be with her.
Tonight I’ll be back with the paddlers for indoor pool practice and look to continue the skein. It’s less a practice than the opportunity to congregate with fun people, especially amid the “dirty melting snow.”
Your attitude determines your altitude, and it’s got little to do with weather conditions. You are what you meet.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Meet Bob Roberts
Early in my business career, I went to work for a company owned by Don, who was probably the father of downsizing before anyone knew the term. Don was cheap in the sense that a diamond is hard.
He had rules like you couldn’t requisition a pencil from office supply without turning in the stub of the one you had been using. And, if you wanted to send a letter of less than 5o words, you were required to use a postcard. It saved an envelope and a couple cents in postage.
We were staffed under that philosophy, which meant we worked our tails off. But, we played just as hard. It was a fun industry and a gaggle of creative, young employees.
A subset of merry pranksters met regularly at a nearby tavern after long days. Fueled by a heady mixture of fatigue and martinis, many a plot was hatched there.
One night, we were joking about how Don couldn’t remember the names of many employees. He was a tad the plantation owner.
And yet, he was adept at overriding you in meetings by citing opinions or data from another to verify that his idea was better. Actually, they were all his opinions since none of the cited sources ever remembered supplying the information. Don just attributed to suit his position.
This gave birth to Bob Roberts at one of our tavern sessions. If Don wanted an irrefutable source, we would provide one.
We began subtly by having him paged over the office PA system. “Bob Roberts. Bob Roberts, please pick up line three.”
Then, we authored and circulated memos emanating from him and cited them in meetings. We saw to it that Bob was congratulated in the company newsletter for getting engaged.
It didn’t take long for Don to started attributing to Bob, supporting his own position. In one meeting, Don became frustrated with us and demanded we call Bob into the meeting. We were prepared for that and told him that Bob was in New York on sales calls.
This repeated several times with variations and we knew that we could play that card only so many times. At a tavern caucus, we decided to get rid of Bob before he blew up in our faces.
At the next meeting where Don requested Bob’s presence, we assumed rehearsed expressions of puzzlement. “Don’t you remember, Don? He took a job in California.”
“Oh, yeah. Too bad, he was the best employee we had.”
Damn right, and we created him.
He had rules like you couldn’t requisition a pencil from office supply without turning in the stub of the one you had been using. And, if you wanted to send a letter of less than 5o words, you were required to use a postcard. It saved an envelope and a couple cents in postage.
We were staffed under that philosophy, which meant we worked our tails off. But, we played just as hard. It was a fun industry and a gaggle of creative, young employees.
A subset of merry pranksters met regularly at a nearby tavern after long days. Fueled by a heady mixture of fatigue and martinis, many a plot was hatched there.
One night, we were joking about how Don couldn’t remember the names of many employees. He was a tad the plantation owner.
And yet, he was adept at overriding you in meetings by citing opinions or data from another to verify that his idea was better. Actually, they were all his opinions since none of the cited sources ever remembered supplying the information. Don just attributed to suit his position.
This gave birth to Bob Roberts at one of our tavern sessions. If Don wanted an irrefutable source, we would provide one.
We began subtly by having him paged over the office PA system. “Bob Roberts. Bob Roberts, please pick up line three.”
Then, we authored and circulated memos emanating from him and cited them in meetings. We saw to it that Bob was congratulated in the company newsletter for getting engaged.
It didn’t take long for Don to started attributing to Bob, supporting his own position. In one meeting, Don became frustrated with us and demanded we call Bob into the meeting. We were prepared for that and told him that Bob was in New York on sales calls.
This repeated several times with variations and we knew that we could play that card only so many times. At a tavern caucus, we decided to get rid of Bob before he blew up in our faces.
At the next meeting where Don requested Bob’s presence, we assumed rehearsed expressions of puzzlement. “Don’t you remember, Don? He took a job in California.”
“Oh, yeah. Too bad, he was the best employee we had.”
Damn right, and we created him.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Is that week or weak?
I received a direct mail piece promoting a magazine in the format of the magazine. That is, it appears to be the actual magazine, but it’s just a dozen pages of teaser copy with a subscription card or two.
The publication is called “The Week” (want to guess its issue frequency?) and above the nameplate is the positioning statement, “All You Need To Know About Everything That Matters.” I am already amazed that I’ve been able to come this far without it. Let’s go to the sample cover lines and find out how I’ve survived.
“How to buy land on the moon.” I’d be more impressed if they knew how to get the financing.
“When fish is actually dangerous for your heart.” See “shark.”
“Which men are least likely to cheat?” Easy. Dead ones.
“What happened to RAISES? U.S. wages aren’t keeping up with economic gains.” Gains? There are gains?
“Astonishing weight loss news.” What would a magazine of this ilk be without an easy weight-loss article? It’s bound to have a get-more sex-item, as well. I check and there are several.
“Coffee wards off Alzheimer’s.” Good thing I drank some today. Or did I?
“Slash your blood pressure in half!” Uh, you might want to check with your doctor before you do that.
Here are two that make me scratch my head. “Are we alone in the universe? New top-secret report says no.” “Twin solar system discovered. The chances we’re alone out here have just shrunk.” Well, which is it? We’re not alone or that we may not be?
“Should first cousins marry?” It would probably increase this magazine’s circulation.
“Does execution hurt?” You know, if you find yourself in that situation, pain might not be your biggest problem.
“Secret way to find out how violent a man is: Administer this test on his hands.” Bend his finger back?
“The ONE thing Cameron Diaz says she would never do to a man.” Somehow, I don’t see that becoming a concern of mine.
“What do you have in common with bin Laden’s followers?” I’m guessing it’s they don’t read this crap, either.
“Bras: the Hidden dangers: Undressing can be risky business.” Quick, someone pull this from the newsstand!
“Be a better investor than Buffet.” Yeah, you cracked that code, and yet, you’re still working in a publishing sweatshop.
“Live to 150: I’d be shocked if it didn’t work says this MIT expert.” Get ready to be shocked, although I’m not sure you’ll be aware of your error at the time.
Not content to judge them on what they consider the cream of their crop, I go to the web site to see what’s current and typical:
“Is Obama greater than Jesus? Taken from a Danish newspaper editorial.” What is it with that Scandinavian air, anyway? The Nobel Prize for not having accomplished anything wasn’t enough? Now, they’re deifying him?
“Al Qaeda’s breast implant bombers.” Back to the bra thing?
I am open enough to allow that mine is but one viewpoint. So, I turn to the testimonials to see what wiser heads have to say:
“The Week has replaced The Economist as my number one read.” – Hugh Downs. Would that be the same Hugh Downs who turned from journalism to fronting for the infomercial pills that clear arteries, cure arthritis, dispense with any pain or fatigue, send cancer into remission and pick Superbowl winners (or whatever)?
“The best quick summary I know of each week’s events – hard to put down.” – Sen. Edward M. Kennedy. They capitalized on his brain tumor?
“The Week lets you fool people into thinking that you know absolutely everything.” – Bill Maher. Really? How’s that working out for you, Bill?
With all due respect, I’ll stick with my program and try to limp by without it.
The publication is called “The Week” (want to guess its issue frequency?) and above the nameplate is the positioning statement, “All You Need To Know About Everything That Matters.” I am already amazed that I’ve been able to come this far without it. Let’s go to the sample cover lines and find out how I’ve survived.
“How to buy land on the moon.” I’d be more impressed if they knew how to get the financing.
“When fish is actually dangerous for your heart.” See “shark.”
“Which men are least likely to cheat?” Easy. Dead ones.
“What happened to RAISES? U.S. wages aren’t keeping up with economic gains.” Gains? There are gains?
“Astonishing weight loss news.” What would a magazine of this ilk be without an easy weight-loss article? It’s bound to have a get-more sex-item, as well. I check and there are several.
“Coffee wards off Alzheimer’s.” Good thing I drank some today. Or did I?
“Slash your blood pressure in half!” Uh, you might want to check with your doctor before you do that.
Here are two that make me scratch my head. “Are we alone in the universe? New top-secret report says no.” “Twin solar system discovered. The chances we’re alone out here have just shrunk.” Well, which is it? We’re not alone or that we may not be?
“Should first cousins marry?” It would probably increase this magazine’s circulation.
“Does execution hurt?” You know, if you find yourself in that situation, pain might not be your biggest problem.
“Secret way to find out how violent a man is: Administer this test on his hands.” Bend his finger back?
“The ONE thing Cameron Diaz says she would never do to a man.” Somehow, I don’t see that becoming a concern of mine.
“What do you have in common with bin Laden’s followers?” I’m guessing it’s they don’t read this crap, either.
“Bras: the Hidden dangers: Undressing can be risky business.” Quick, someone pull this from the newsstand!
“Be a better investor than Buffet.” Yeah, you cracked that code, and yet, you’re still working in a publishing sweatshop.
“Live to 150: I’d be shocked if it didn’t work says this MIT expert.” Get ready to be shocked, although I’m not sure you’ll be aware of your error at the time.
Not content to judge them on what they consider the cream of their crop, I go to the web site to see what’s current and typical:
“Is Obama greater than Jesus? Taken from a Danish newspaper editorial.” What is it with that Scandinavian air, anyway? The Nobel Prize for not having accomplished anything wasn’t enough? Now, they’re deifying him?
“Al Qaeda’s breast implant bombers.” Back to the bra thing?
I am open enough to allow that mine is but one viewpoint. So, I turn to the testimonials to see what wiser heads have to say:
“The Week has replaced The Economist as my number one read.” – Hugh Downs. Would that be the same Hugh Downs who turned from journalism to fronting for the infomercial pills that clear arteries, cure arthritis, dispense with any pain or fatigue, send cancer into remission and pick Superbowl winners (or whatever)?
“The best quick summary I know of each week’s events – hard to put down.” – Sen. Edward M. Kennedy. They capitalized on his brain tumor?
“The Week lets you fool people into thinking that you know absolutely everything.” – Bill Maher. Really? How’s that working out for you, Bill?
With all due respect, I’ll stick with my program and try to limp by without it.
Rapping with Fred
I had a car service appointment this morning and didn’t let a few inches of snow deter me. I’m guessing a number of people did because it was just me and one other gentleman in the waiting area, and he seemed eager to converse. My good luck.
I estimated his age at about 70. But, as his story unfolded, the math put him at 89. I should look that good at his age. Heck, I should look that good at my age.
Fred grew up on a farm outside of Flint, Michigan. He tied that to our visit by relating that you had to know how to fix everything then and there, which he doesn’t find as possible with today’s cars. He did allow that nothing’s ever gone wrong with the car he had in for a recall today. That wasn’t always the case with what he had been used to.
When he was 16, the local Chrysler dealer proffered an offer. The dealer had a lemon that had been returned three times. He also had an associate in Los Angeles who would take it off his hands. He would pay Fred to drive it out there.
Fred talked a friend into going along and they headed west. It would be quite an education for the rural Michigan farm boys.
They made the trip and the exchange. For the return journey, they pooled their funds and bought a Model T Ford from the dealer for $15. Dawdling around LA for a bit, they were running low on money. They finally loaded the Ford with five-gallon cans of gas and one big jug of motor oil before heading home on the fabled Route 66. More great experiences.
He was surprised and grateful to realize that the Ford was a California model. That is, it had been fitted with a second transmission to gear down for the mountains. That came in handy for the Rockies.
There were some long stretches between gas stations, then. Hence, the extra gas cans. A couple times, they ran low on fuel in the mountains, which created a situation I wouldn’t have thought of.
The Model T was gravity-fed. That is, there was no fuel pump. So, when you were going up a steep grade with less than a near-full tank, the engine starved. They solved this by going up those mountains in reverse. That would be a little hairy, given the state of the twisty mountain roads, then.
The car had several problems, but its simplicity and Fred’s skills got them through. The reverse gear of the extra transmission burned up as they were halfway through the Rockies. He crawled under and noticed that one of the two forward gears looked a lot like the reverse and switched them. It worked.
The engine was sounding “loose” as they approached St. Louis. A simple wrench job for him. He dropped the oil pan and torqued the bolts on the connection rods. Unfortunately, they weren’t up to today’s standards and two broke off. No problem. He found what he needed at a hardware store.
When they blew a tire, that couldn’t be jury rigged, so they had to buy a new one. When they reached Michigan, that helped solve the problem of liquidating their joint investment. Fred’s friend got the car and he got the new tire. Fred had a Model A at home he could use it on.
He had more stories than the transcontinental adventure, and they were all laced with the lessons he had learned along the way. Sometimes you strike an unexpected vein of wisdom in the most unlikely place.
I estimated his age at about 70. But, as his story unfolded, the math put him at 89. I should look that good at his age. Heck, I should look that good at my age.
Fred grew up on a farm outside of Flint, Michigan. He tied that to our visit by relating that you had to know how to fix everything then and there, which he doesn’t find as possible with today’s cars. He did allow that nothing’s ever gone wrong with the car he had in for a recall today. That wasn’t always the case with what he had been used to.
When he was 16, the local Chrysler dealer proffered an offer. The dealer had a lemon that had been returned three times. He also had an associate in Los Angeles who would take it off his hands. He would pay Fred to drive it out there.
Fred talked a friend into going along and they headed west. It would be quite an education for the rural Michigan farm boys.
They made the trip and the exchange. For the return journey, they pooled their funds and bought a Model T Ford from the dealer for $15. Dawdling around LA for a bit, they were running low on money. They finally loaded the Ford with five-gallon cans of gas and one big jug of motor oil before heading home on the fabled Route 66. More great experiences.
He was surprised and grateful to realize that the Ford was a California model. That is, it had been fitted with a second transmission to gear down for the mountains. That came in handy for the Rockies.
There were some long stretches between gas stations, then. Hence, the extra gas cans. A couple times, they ran low on fuel in the mountains, which created a situation I wouldn’t have thought of.
The Model T was gravity-fed. That is, there was no fuel pump. So, when you were going up a steep grade with less than a near-full tank, the engine starved. They solved this by going up those mountains in reverse. That would be a little hairy, given the state of the twisty mountain roads, then.
The car had several problems, but its simplicity and Fred’s skills got them through. The reverse gear of the extra transmission burned up as they were halfway through the Rockies. He crawled under and noticed that one of the two forward gears looked a lot like the reverse and switched them. It worked.
The engine was sounding “loose” as they approached St. Louis. A simple wrench job for him. He dropped the oil pan and torqued the bolts on the connection rods. Unfortunately, they weren’t up to today’s standards and two broke off. No problem. He found what he needed at a hardware store.
When they blew a tire, that couldn’t be jury rigged, so they had to buy a new one. When they reached Michigan, that helped solve the problem of liquidating their joint investment. Fred’s friend got the car and he got the new tire. Fred had a Model A at home he could use it on.
He had more stories than the transcontinental adventure, and they were all laced with the lessons he had learned along the way. Sometimes you strike an unexpected vein of wisdom in the most unlikely place.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Not just a matter of common cents
The discussion in the locker room was about when to take your social security. Eyes turned to me because I’m always calculating esoteric ratios regarding our workouts, which are usually met with expressions ranging from eye rolling to that of a dog just shown a card trick.
I had already seen the tables and done the math, and didn’t have to noodle it out anymore. The curves intersect in your mid-70s. That is, you get more of your money back if you elect the earlier option and your benefits cease before then (nice way of saying that you croak).
Heads nodded. “But, it’s not that simple.” Groans.
A dollar is worth more today than it will be then, so getting the cash up front is best. True, there have been inflation adjustments, but…
You also should factor in your other income and potential earnings, whether fully retired or not. And, consider how your decision affects your spouse’s benefits. Brows furrowed. Everyone wants the simple, definitive answer.
Mine would be that it’s largely not a dollars and cents issue. In the four or five years of freedom you gain with the early retirement, what experiences do you generate that enhance the quality of your life? That could be 7% or so of your total years on earth. And, years that you have far more energy, mobility, etc. to enjoy things than if you defer to get the higher level of payout. Besides, you could get run over by the proverbial bus tomorrow (or, more likely, some adolescent at the wheel texting, eating and half blinded by a hoodie). Enjoy your one and only life today, while you can. In the end, all you have are your memories.
At last, the looks of bewilderment are replaced with contemplation. I stuff some damp clothing into my gym bag. That evokes another thought in a similar vein.
About every six months , I’ll be carrying the bag and run into some wag who feels compelled to inform me that he doesn’t exercise because you’re wasting part of your life on it that you could be enjoying. He’ll have a few more years than I of real living this way. Good. As long as you’re happy.
But, how are you spending those “extra” years? Propped up on the couch watching “American Idol?” I’d rather be in shape to enjoy an actual life.
It’s more than that. People who are in shape enjoy higher self-esteem, heightened libido, less medical problems and expense and a host of other benefits.
Commons sense says that these decisions aren’t just a matter of common cents.
I had already seen the tables and done the math, and didn’t have to noodle it out anymore. The curves intersect in your mid-70s. That is, you get more of your money back if you elect the earlier option and your benefits cease before then (nice way of saying that you croak).
Heads nodded. “But, it’s not that simple.” Groans.
A dollar is worth more today than it will be then, so getting the cash up front is best. True, there have been inflation adjustments, but…
You also should factor in your other income and potential earnings, whether fully retired or not. And, consider how your decision affects your spouse’s benefits. Brows furrowed. Everyone wants the simple, definitive answer.
Mine would be that it’s largely not a dollars and cents issue. In the four or five years of freedom you gain with the early retirement, what experiences do you generate that enhance the quality of your life? That could be 7% or so of your total years on earth. And, years that you have far more energy, mobility, etc. to enjoy things than if you defer to get the higher level of payout. Besides, you could get run over by the proverbial bus tomorrow (or, more likely, some adolescent at the wheel texting, eating and half blinded by a hoodie). Enjoy your one and only life today, while you can. In the end, all you have are your memories.
At last, the looks of bewilderment are replaced with contemplation. I stuff some damp clothing into my gym bag. That evokes another thought in a similar vein.
About every six months , I’ll be carrying the bag and run into some wag who feels compelled to inform me that he doesn’t exercise because you’re wasting part of your life on it that you could be enjoying. He’ll have a few more years than I of real living this way. Good. As long as you’re happy.
But, how are you spending those “extra” years? Propped up on the couch watching “American Idol?” I’d rather be in shape to enjoy an actual life.
It’s more than that. People who are in shape enjoy higher self-esteem, heightened libido, less medical problems and expense and a host of other benefits.
Commons sense says that these decisions aren’t just a matter of common cents.
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Mystery Guest
As previously noted, I belong to a small group of men who meet for dinner monthly. We take turns researching and presenting on controversial topics. A spirited and witty debate follows the presentation.
The exception to the rule is that when it’s your month to present, you can bring a substitute speaker. This is seldom exercised, but when it has been, it’s been used effectively. Guest presenters have included a governor and a head of a questionable religion.
Last night, it was Scott’s turn to present, but he brought a guest, Eric. During the cocktail hour that precedes the dinner, it’s customary to introduce the guest around. In this case, they wouldn’t share anything other than his first name. That was enough to pique the curiosity.
Eric is about 40 and shaves his head. The first thing I noticed is that he is in extremely good shape. Not, just built well, but training-hard shape. He’s 5’8” or under, which limits the options, as does his age. Maybe a gymnastics or wrestling coach who has kept up his own regimen.
During dinner, he’s given a hard time, as much to test him for what will follow as to make him feel part of the group. As dessert is being polished off, he rises and introduces himself. “My name is Eric Knapp. Father Eric Knapp.” My mind immediately shifts into a hard drive search, trying to recall what I said to him during the meal. Ah, he’s heard worse during confessions. Presumably.
Eric is a marathon runner and his topic is the link between sports and religion, and how that manifests itself in society. It was pithy and fascinating, and not at all preachy.
He traced that back thousands of years and brought us back to the present where we deify sports stars, almost regardless of their other attributes. He’s right, but you could say the same thing of rock stars and actors.
Sports, like life, is about winning and losing. We tried to eliminate that with no-loser youth leagues, where scores aren’t kept. He said that he’s talked with the kids and everyone knew what the score was anyway, and if they won or lost. Good. Not knowing how to deal with a loss is poor preparation for life.
In connecting his dots, Eric said that a survey showed that 70% of high school football teams prayed before games. Maybe, I thought, but only half the prayers are going to be answered.
Fans like to root for winning teams and athletes, drawing some validation from the successes. I was thinking that wouldn’t explain Sox or Indians fans. I had researched fan psychology before. At one time, it was widely held that losers attached themselves to winning teams, feeling that the winners’ victories somehow reflected on them when, in fact, they had not nothing to do with it.
Thoughts on this mentality have changed over the years. But, I would still opine that if your day hinges upon how well some team or player you have little to do with does, you might want to re-evaluate your life plan.
Eric said that everyone loves winners. I take issue with that. Many stars have haters who can’t wait for them to stumble (e.g. Tiger Woods) and delight in their problems. The hater mentality is that someone else’s success underscores their failures. They enjoy shows like “Jerry Springer” and “Cops” that feature failing as much, if not more, than themselves, so it’s not limited to sports.
There’s a successful novelist who complained on his blog about the cheap shots that appear on the web about him and his work. If I were to talk with him (in effect, I may be since he reads this blog on occasion), I would ask him why he cared at all what they said. Their issues aren’t his work. What their real compliant is is that he’s successful and they’re not. That’s their problem, not his, so why pay any attention?
The discussion led to how sports imprints itself upon business, politics, education, etc. There are the fingerprints. But, in sports, you play the best person in each position, regardless of age, gender or race. Same with a symphony orchestra or similar organization. I have no argument about the impact of sports on education. When our highest legislative body has nothing better to do than concern itself with college football bowl seedings (that is, when they’re not holding hearings on profession football pensions or steroid use in MLB), you know where our priorities are. Eric linked this with the oft-cited disparity between sports salaries and those of teachers, social workers, etc.
Sports teaches us that you have to put in extraordinary efforts and preparation to enjoy extraordinary results. Winners learn from their mistakes and get better. Losers blame others for their failings and never learn from them.
Eric told the story that he found out he was in a marathon with Frank Shorter, one of his idols. Shorter was well past his prime, but Eric ran extra hard for the thrill of beating him anyway. I can relate to that but don’t ever see myself in a position to tackle Jim Brown or knock out Muhammad Ali.
I wish we would’ve had more time with Eric and will watch for his future speaking engagements. I recommend that you do, too.
The exception to the rule is that when it’s your month to present, you can bring a substitute speaker. This is seldom exercised, but when it has been, it’s been used effectively. Guest presenters have included a governor and a head of a questionable religion.
Last night, it was Scott’s turn to present, but he brought a guest, Eric. During the cocktail hour that precedes the dinner, it’s customary to introduce the guest around. In this case, they wouldn’t share anything other than his first name. That was enough to pique the curiosity.
Eric is about 40 and shaves his head. The first thing I noticed is that he is in extremely good shape. Not, just built well, but training-hard shape. He’s 5’8” or under, which limits the options, as does his age. Maybe a gymnastics or wrestling coach who has kept up his own regimen.
During dinner, he’s given a hard time, as much to test him for what will follow as to make him feel part of the group. As dessert is being polished off, he rises and introduces himself. “My name is Eric Knapp. Father Eric Knapp.” My mind immediately shifts into a hard drive search, trying to recall what I said to him during the meal. Ah, he’s heard worse during confessions. Presumably.
Eric is a marathon runner and his topic is the link between sports and religion, and how that manifests itself in society. It was pithy and fascinating, and not at all preachy.
He traced that back thousands of years and brought us back to the present where we deify sports stars, almost regardless of their other attributes. He’s right, but you could say the same thing of rock stars and actors.
Sports, like life, is about winning and losing. We tried to eliminate that with no-loser youth leagues, where scores aren’t kept. He said that he’s talked with the kids and everyone knew what the score was anyway, and if they won or lost. Good. Not knowing how to deal with a loss is poor preparation for life.
In connecting his dots, Eric said that a survey showed that 70% of high school football teams prayed before games. Maybe, I thought, but only half the prayers are going to be answered.
Fans like to root for winning teams and athletes, drawing some validation from the successes. I was thinking that wouldn’t explain Sox or Indians fans. I had researched fan psychology before. At one time, it was widely held that losers attached themselves to winning teams, feeling that the winners’ victories somehow reflected on them when, in fact, they had not nothing to do with it.
Thoughts on this mentality have changed over the years. But, I would still opine that if your day hinges upon how well some team or player you have little to do with does, you might want to re-evaluate your life plan.
Eric said that everyone loves winners. I take issue with that. Many stars have haters who can’t wait for them to stumble (e.g. Tiger Woods) and delight in their problems. The hater mentality is that someone else’s success underscores their failures. They enjoy shows like “Jerry Springer” and “Cops” that feature failing as much, if not more, than themselves, so it’s not limited to sports.
There’s a successful novelist who complained on his blog about the cheap shots that appear on the web about him and his work. If I were to talk with him (in effect, I may be since he reads this blog on occasion), I would ask him why he cared at all what they said. Their issues aren’t his work. What their real compliant is is that he’s successful and they’re not. That’s their problem, not his, so why pay any attention?
The discussion led to how sports imprints itself upon business, politics, education, etc. There are the fingerprints. But, in sports, you play the best person in each position, regardless of age, gender or race. Same with a symphony orchestra or similar organization. I have no argument about the impact of sports on education. When our highest legislative body has nothing better to do than concern itself with college football bowl seedings (that is, when they’re not holding hearings on profession football pensions or steroid use in MLB), you know where our priorities are. Eric linked this with the oft-cited disparity between sports salaries and those of teachers, social workers, etc.
Sports teaches us that you have to put in extraordinary efforts and preparation to enjoy extraordinary results. Winners learn from their mistakes and get better. Losers blame others for their failings and never learn from them.
Eric told the story that he found out he was in a marathon with Frank Shorter, one of his idols. Shorter was well past his prime, but Eric ran extra hard for the thrill of beating him anyway. I can relate to that but don’t ever see myself in a position to tackle Jim Brown or knock out Muhammad Ali.
I wish we would’ve had more time with Eric and will watch for his future speaking engagements. I recommend that you do, too.
Monday, February 01, 2010
What's in a name?
Disclaimer. I wrote this a couple weeks ago, when someone I knew long ago buoyed the recollection to the surface of my consciousness, and then I spiked it. Upon a second read, it seemed a little too ripe. Then, I saw a related Facebook page. I took that as a sign. I reread this and still thought the best place for it was on the hard drive.
That would’ve been the end of it except, out of the blue, I heard from someone else who had been involved. Now that’s an omen. Just not enough of one to compel me to post the item. But today, another friend from my distant past made reference to it. Who am I to test the fates? Read no further if you’re easily offended.
In a previous blog, I related that my ex brought up an error I committed over thirty years ago, and that there didn’t seem to be a statute of limitations with such things. I would think three decades was about the max, however. I would be wrong.
Recently, I reconnected with a friend from my youth. We exchanged a few excited and warm remembrances, and then she dropped the bomb. She added that she was laughing out loud and just about falling off her chair recalling it. Well, I’m glad at least one of us was enjoying it.
Rather than leap into this without context, I will set the stage. First of all, it was the early sixties. Words that are liberally trumpeted from numerous cable stations now were barely whispered in alleys back then.
To that, I will add that I had no sisters. And, my mother wasn’t one to volunteer information on all things feminine to me. That is, aside from “Watch out for those girls who will do anything to trap a husband, including getting you into bed.” Obediently, I was ever-vigilant for them.
In other words, I was oblivious to most of the practices peculiar to that tribe. This would include the associated nomenclature.
One last thing and something else I mentioned in a previous blog. Where I grew up (Philadelphia), I probably met a few thousand kids in my tenure there. Maybe a handful were known by their given names. For whatever reason, everyone was bestowed a sobriquet. I don’t know why that was. My theory is that it was to help distinguish among the fifteen hundred or so Tonys domiciled within the neighborhood.
Enough of the prologue. The incident was that Linda (“Squeaky”) and I were walking down the street. Rocco went riding by on a bicycle. He wasn’t from the neighborhood and Squeaky didn’t know him. I knew him from sports leagues.
Rocco was a colorful guy, in every sense of the word. For reasons known only to him, he was almost always clad in a loud, voluminous Hawaiian shirt. It could be church, a dance hall or a funeral; didn’t matter. You would spot him in a second.
As he pedaled by, he yelled out a greeting to me. I responded, “Yo, Douche! Seeya at the gym Friday.”
I turned to Squeaky to explain who he was. But, she was looking at me in a peculiar way.
“What?”
“What? What do you mean, what?”
“I mean what, as in, what are you looking at?”
“What did you just call him?”
“Douche. That’s his name.”
“Douche? His name is Douche?”
“Yeah, short for douche bag. That’s what we call him.”
“Because?”
“I dunno, I guess he’s a douche bag. The guy is a character. Why, you gotta problem with that?”
“Do you know what that is?”
“A douche bag?”
“If I wanted to hear that again, I would’ve said it.”
“Like I said, he’s a character. A real dooo…, uh, never mind.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“No, okay, I guess I don’t. What is it?”
She made a couple false starts and then just told me to forget it. “Ask Lips, Stinky or one of those girls the next time you’re with them.”
“But, you’re not going to tell me.”
“Count on that.”
Lips was only too happy to educate me in detail, stopping just short of supplying plumbing blueprints. The subject never again came up between Squeaky and me, although there was a hint of tension in the air the next couple subsequent meetings. However, now she found it a source of hilarity.
About forty-five years later, she’s rubbing it in. There is no statute of limitations.
That would’ve been the end of it except, out of the blue, I heard from someone else who had been involved. Now that’s an omen. Just not enough of one to compel me to post the item. But today, another friend from my distant past made reference to it. Who am I to test the fates? Read no further if you’re easily offended.
In a previous blog, I related that my ex brought up an error I committed over thirty years ago, and that there didn’t seem to be a statute of limitations with such things. I would think three decades was about the max, however. I would be wrong.
Recently, I reconnected with a friend from my youth. We exchanged a few excited and warm remembrances, and then she dropped the bomb. She added that she was laughing out loud and just about falling off her chair recalling it. Well, I’m glad at least one of us was enjoying it.
Rather than leap into this without context, I will set the stage. First of all, it was the early sixties. Words that are liberally trumpeted from numerous cable stations now were barely whispered in alleys back then.
To that, I will add that I had no sisters. And, my mother wasn’t one to volunteer information on all things feminine to me. That is, aside from “Watch out for those girls who will do anything to trap a husband, including getting you into bed.” Obediently, I was ever-vigilant for them.
In other words, I was oblivious to most of the practices peculiar to that tribe. This would include the associated nomenclature.
One last thing and something else I mentioned in a previous blog. Where I grew up (Philadelphia), I probably met a few thousand kids in my tenure there. Maybe a handful were known by their given names. For whatever reason, everyone was bestowed a sobriquet. I don’t know why that was. My theory is that it was to help distinguish among the fifteen hundred or so Tonys domiciled within the neighborhood.
Enough of the prologue. The incident was that Linda (“Squeaky”) and I were walking down the street. Rocco went riding by on a bicycle. He wasn’t from the neighborhood and Squeaky didn’t know him. I knew him from sports leagues.
Rocco was a colorful guy, in every sense of the word. For reasons known only to him, he was almost always clad in a loud, voluminous Hawaiian shirt. It could be church, a dance hall or a funeral; didn’t matter. You would spot him in a second.
As he pedaled by, he yelled out a greeting to me. I responded, “Yo, Douche! Seeya at the gym Friday.”
I turned to Squeaky to explain who he was. But, she was looking at me in a peculiar way.
“What?”
“What? What do you mean, what?”
“I mean what, as in, what are you looking at?”
“What did you just call him?”
“Douche. That’s his name.”
“Douche? His name is Douche?”
“Yeah, short for douche bag. That’s what we call him.”
“Because?”
“I dunno, I guess he’s a douche bag. The guy is a character. Why, you gotta problem with that?”
“Do you know what that is?”
“A douche bag?”
“If I wanted to hear that again, I would’ve said it.”
“Like I said, he’s a character. A real dooo…, uh, never mind.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“No, okay, I guess I don’t. What is it?”
She made a couple false starts and then just told me to forget it. “Ask Lips, Stinky or one of those girls the next time you’re with them.”
“But, you’re not going to tell me.”
“Count on that.”
Lips was only too happy to educate me in detail, stopping just short of supplying plumbing blueprints. The subject never again came up between Squeaky and me, although there was a hint of tension in the air the next couple subsequent meetings. However, now she found it a source of hilarity.
About forty-five years later, she’s rubbing it in. There is no statute of limitations.
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